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Crimson Point Protectors Series
By Kaylea Cross
Copyright © 2022 Kaylea Cross
Chapter One
“Come on, Groz, let’s go,” Travis called out. “That all you got? Whit and I each did thirty.”
“I did thirty-one,” Whit corrected.
Asher gritted his teeth at his buddies’ trash talk, too tired to deliver a comeback. At six-three and two-thirty, he was taller and heavier than either of them. His size was an advantage in some things, but it made pull-ups a bitch. They were his kryptonite.
His knuckles were white, his biceps and shoulders burning as he levered himself up until his chin cleared the pull-up bar again. Sweat dripped into his eyes, making them sting. Holy Jesus, he was only at twenty-three. He had another seven to go just to tie with Travis, and wasn’t sure he had it in him after the punishing PT they’d already put in.
“He’s slowing down,” Whit commented next to Travis, the two of them standing a few yards away with their combat boots spread shoulder width apart and arms folded across the chests of their sweat-stained tan T-shirts.
Just a few weeks ago they’d stared death in the face together when they’d banded together to save Whit’s girlfriend, Jaia, and wound up in a firefight in the woods. There was no one Asher trusted more to have his back, and they were both just trying to motivate him now.
“Pick it up, Groz,” Whit said.
Asher cursed mentally and struggled through another four, his arms on fire, muscles quivering each time he fought to pull himself up high enough to clear the bar. Their National Guard Pararescue unit was in the midst of yearly evaluations on base in Portland.
This morning they’d re-qualified on their weapons, followed by a mass casualty exercise. Now it was fitness evals. Obstacle course, pushups, situps, pull ups, then a break, followed by a swim and a run.
Outstanding.
He managed to do twenty-nine, then lowered himself and hung from the bar to catch his breath, his arms, shoulders and back screaming at him. Whit and Travis were still watching him, but now a small crowd had gathered around as well, including Grady, another PJ buddy of theirs.
“Quit hangin’ around and get your ass up there,” Grady called out, clapping twice in encouragement.
“Get your ass moving, Groz!” Whit shouted.
He leveled a glare at them as more yells and catcalls from the other guys in the unit rang out from around the gym, while various officers from command stood around recording everything.
Glowering, Asher sucked in more air, tilting his head back to stare up at the bar. Fucker was mocking him, sitting there arms length above his head. The ladies loved his build and it came in handy during his work as a fireman and in the military.
For this one task, it was an impediment.
There was no way he was letting Whit beat him, though. He’d hang here for as long as it took him to rest enough to get him to thirty-one.
Pushing aside the pain and fatigue, he clenched his jaw and kept his gaze pinned on the bar. He needed an extra boost, and there was only one way to get it done.
So he let himself go mentally to a place he never went—behind the steel door he kept padlocked shut at the back of his mind. The place where he kept all the shit he didn’t want to remember or think about sealed up tight. Because as big and badass as he was, some things were better left in the past.
But he let the memories out now. Let them flood his mind, the rush of anger and pain giving him a whole other gear.
His entire body tightened under a rush of adrenaline, ankles locked together as he forced his exhausted muscles to pull his weight up. Flashes of memory assaulted him, a maelstrom of emotions rushing forth. Cruelty. Fear. Violence. Hunger. Pain.
They fueled him now. Drove him to push harder. Beyond his limits.
More shouts erupted around him. Whistles.
He blocked it all out, holding onto the pictures in his head. It was how he’d gotten through Indoc and the rest of the pipeline when things got so hard he started thinking about quitting. That fuel had propelled him to keep going until he had nothing left, and then push through it.
Never quit.
“Thirty!” Travis called out.
Thirty. Thank fuck.
“Come on, Grozinski, only two more!” someone shouted.
Yeah. Only two more.
He unleashed his demons once more and pulled upward, refusing to quit, biceps and delts bulging. Chest aching. Arms trembling. Face contorted.
He thought of the scared, angry little kid he’d been back then. How vulnerable he’d been. And everything he’d survived in spite of it.
“Thirty-one!”
He lowered himself again, fingers clenched around the metal, sucking in air. He could do this. He would do this, no matter what it took. To prove to himself for the millionth time that he wasn’t a failure. That he was worthy.
“One more! Do it, do it, do it...” The guys assembled around the training area were chanting it now, egging him on.
Everyone was watching him. He tipped his head back and stared up at that bar, his palms slick, tendons standing out on the inside of his wrists.
All right, you bastards. Let’s dance.
With the last of his strength he clenched his teeth and heaved upward. Inch by inch he forced himself upward, until the top of his head reached the bottom of the bar.
“Yeah, get some, Groz!”
“Hooyah!”
With a roar he yanked up as hard as he could with the last of his strength. His chin cleared the bar. A raucous cheer exploded around the gym.
He let go of the bar and dropped to the mat, flopping on his back like a dead fish. His shredded arms lay flung out to the sides, but the mental exhaustion was almost as bad as the physical. Thinking about all of that shit was always draining. That’s why he rarely let himself go there anymore.
A towel landed on his face. He managed to drag one arm up to grab it, blinked up at Whit and Travis, who were both grinning down at him. “Damn you’re a beast, Groz,” Travis said with a shake of his head.
He nodded once. “Damn right,” he mumbled, wanting to curl up in a ball and not move for the rest of the day.
“Here.” Grady stepped forward, holding out a bottle of water. “It’s cold.”
He sat up and took it, barely able to get it to his lips, and groaned as it slid down his parched throat.
Whit crouched down next to him to slap him on the back. “Ready for that swim now, big guy?”
Asher glared at him and kept drinking. He couldn’t think about the upcoming swim yet. Couldn’t face the thought of the run coming after that. But at least he’d beaten both Travis and Whit.
Worth it. Even if he would barely be able to reach up to wash his hair for the next week.
He’d get through the rest of the eval. It would suck, but he would finish every task in time. He’d been through a lot worse than this before. They all had, to earn their maroon berets. That darkness he carried in secret had forged him into what he was today. A survivor.
Command gave them an hour break to rest and eat. The swim went as he’d expected, but at least the water mitigated his weight and size. The run wasn’t bad, but by the time they were done all he wanted was to crawl into his bed—alone—and not move for two days.
Unfortunately, that wasn’t going to be an option tonight. And he was already regretting what was coming next for him.
They were all tired but in good spirits when they hit the showers. The hot water and soap helped some. Asher removed the dress shirt and pants from where he’d hung them up in his locker.
“You up for a beer before we head back to the coast?” Travis asked from his left.
“Nah, can’t tonight.” He stepped into the pants.
To his right, Whit stopped in the act of pulling his shoes on to raise an eyebrow at him, taking in the neatly pressed clothes Asher was putting on. Asher hated ironing, so he usually took his dress stuff to a drycleaner. “Another date?”
He didn’t respond, but yeah, he’d set it up almost two weeks ago. He was meeting Rachel for dinner here in Portland before the two-hour drive back to Crimson Point, and his next shift at the fire station started at seven tomorrow morning. He was going to be sore as hell when he got there.
“How do you keep their names straight in your head?” Travis joked.
“Because I’m not an asshole.” He should have canceled tonight. And not just because he was drained and exhausted right now.
The truth was, he wasn’t even looking forward to it anymore.
Whit smirked and shook his head as he reached down to finish lacing his shoes. “Man, I don’t know where you find the strength.”
He grunted and pulled on the shirt, the fabric sticking to the still damp spot between his shoulder blades. For a while now, knowing his best friends went home every night to women they loved and who loved them back made his life seem pretty damn hollow by comparison.
That eye-opener had been a real kick in the ass. He kept hoping he’d snap out of whatever was going on with him, and go back to the way he was before. Back when simple arrangements with no strings had satisfied him. But it wasn’t going to happen.
Rachel was everything he used to want in a woman. Beautiful, unattached, and good with short term. A few weeks ago, that would have been enough. All he’d wanted was to have fun and good sex.
Now the prospect of spending a night in a near stranger’s bed left a hollow feeling in the middle of his chest. Because there was only one woman he wanted—and she’d shut him down hard from the start.
He blocked the image of Mia’s face before it could fully form in his mind. He didn’t want to think about her. She’d taken up too much space in his head lately as it was.
“Well, have fun. Hope you’ve still got some gas left in the tank, for her sake,” Whit said with a smirk as he grabbed his gear and straightened.
Ha.
“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” Travis clapped Asher’s shoulder on the way by. “See you back on the coast, brother.”
“Yeah. See ya.”
Alone, Asher faced the mirror as he ran a comb through his damp hair. He paused to stare at his reflection, acutely aware that he was dreading this date. And that Mia Ramos was the reason why.
*End Excerpt*
