The biggest of those limits being Reynolds herself. As in, she was way off them. Not even for a one-night stand, as Eli recommended out of the blue, claiming it was the best way of getting a woman’s scent out of one’s system. Enticing as the notion was, Cullen did not bed subordinates on principle. There was too much risk of coercion, no matter what it felt like in the moment. Period. Full stop.
Plus, Cullen didn’t like the woman, who was the most infuriating combination of utter competence and just as utter ignorance. If he’d given in to the mind-numbing temptation to kiss her that night, she’d certainly have read the wrong thing into it. And if he’d taken her to bed as his cock was urging him to do with blue-ball intensity? She’d almost certainly think it was something it wasn’t. Something Cullen Hunt simply wasn’t capable of being.
So yes, Cullen had walked away from Reynolds with all the dignity he could muster—and then run for the first freezing shower he could find. And he had been busy this week, busy enough that he didn’t need to add a battle with his own cock to the daily agenda. The plain reality was that Cullen’s body roused to Reynold’s soft scent and taut curves on sheer instinct. It was physiology and nothing more. So unless Cullen intended to gouge his eyes out with a spoon, he needed to accept it and move on.
Cullen’s phone vibrated, the familiar number making him frown. Denton PD. “Hunt,” he barked into the receiver.
“Yes. Um. Mr. Hunt. This is Lacy, from dispatch at Denton PD?” The young woman on the other end of the line sounded like a petrified kitten, her sentence ending with a rising, question-like inflection. “I was told we could use this number. I didn’t realize—”
“Yeah.” Cullen didn’t care how young this Lacy was, if she couldn’t form a sentence, she needed a different job. “Put the desk sergeant on.”
“I’m so sorry to have bothered—”
“Hunt.” A man came on the line, and Lacy disconnected with a sigh of audible relief. “What my rookie was trying to say before she forgot that the Trident gods put their pants on one leg at a time is that I’ve got a call I need help on. Local EMS is tied up, and frankly—”
“Roger.” Cullen was already halfway to the door. Trident Rescue usually handled wilderness rescue unless the main EMS needed some help on the truly bad emergencies, but Cullen had given the PD his number directly as well. Apparently, young Lacy had expected an emergency number would be answered by a damn secretary. Somehow, Cullen didn’t think Reynolds would ever make the same mistake. Hell, Reynolds would sound cock-ball certain no matter what. “Location? Disregard, I see the text.”
“I know it’s not your usual operating area—”
No, Hannigan’s Pub on Third certainly wasn’t. “I’ve yet to meet broken bones that cared much for maps. En route.” Skipping the elevator, Cullen jogged down the stairs. The problem wasn’t so much where Hannigan’s was, but where Trident Rescue wasn’t. Kyan—who was on call tonight—was even farther away. Fortunately, Sky was going to come in anyway to make a dent in the admin. Pushing open the exit door, Cullen stepped into the cool Colorado evening wind just as he tapped another number on the speed dial.
“Tri—”
“Reynolds.” Cullen cut her off. “I need you to bring the medical Suburban to Hannigan’s. Sending you the address now. Meet you on location.”
His thumb was almost on End Call when she squeezed into the line. “Wait. You want me to drive that thing?”
“No, I want you to beam it over.” He hovered over End Call again, the short nervous draw of air on the other end having him raise the phone back up at the last moment. “It’s safer to drive than your Corolla, Reynolds.”
“If you say so.”
His jaw tightened. He was giving her an order, not a goddamn suggestion. “Reynolds.”
“What?”
Fuck. That was fear, not defiance. Cullen sighed. “I love that truck. If I thought you could damage it, I wouldn’t let you near the wheel. Hunt out.” He did hang up that time.
Twenty minutes later—Hannigan’s was way the hell out there, even when speeding—Cullen pulled his truck into the dirt parking lot, getting out just in time to watch Reynolds miscalculate her turn and scrape his Suburban on a corner of the retaining wall. Hiding a wince, Cullen pulled open her door.
Reynolds gripped the wheel with bone-white fingers. “I didn’t run over anyone.”
He stared. She didn’t even know she’d just cut up his truck, did she? Well, he wasn’t about to tell her.
Reaching behind her, Cullen grabbed the go bag and started for the pub. The lights of a police cruiser were only now appearing along the roadway, and the lack of noise as he opened the entrance door sent an uneasy feeling through him.
Inside the darkened pub room, the air hung thick with tension and spilled alcohol. The mirrored wall behind the bar reflected a rainbow assortment of liquor bottles, the cartoonish colors at odds with the anxiety pulsing through the place. The few patrons had cleared out or otherwise given a wide berth to the bar, where a bloodied bartender gripped the back of a stool to hold herself upright. A few feet away from her, a large man with a buzz cut and wild, unfocused eyes brandished a broken-off bottle, swinging his makeshift weapon at ghosts as he grunted.
“That’s Charlie McTierney. He’s one of our regulars.” The owner, Phil Hannigan, appeared by Cullen’s side. “Ileene can usually talk anyone down, but Charlie is having a bad day. He was—”
“In the army’s Delta Force,” Cullen finished the sentence as he caught sight of the tattoo on Charlie’s left arm. Red arrowhead shape with the fighting knife inside and the word “Airborne” along the top.
“Yeah,” said Phil. “You know him?”
Cullen nodded. He hadn’t actually met Charlie McTierney before, but that glazed look in his eyes—he knew that well. Knew how it felt to come home, only to have the nightmares follow you across the ocean, lying in ambush in your mind.
“Charlie.” The bartender, a pretty woman in her late twenties who must be Ileene, spoke calmly despite the blood trickling down her face. Cullen respected her already. “Charlie, look at me. Who am I?—Stay back.”
The last, Cullen realized, was said in his direction. Or, more accurately, in the direction of Skylar Reynolds and a pair of uniforms who were now rushing forward, their timing a tribute to Murphy’s Law.
Putting out his arm, Cullen caught Skylar around the waist and pushed her behind him.
Charlie shuddered. Dressed in jeans and a cut-off shirt exposing his biceps, the man was jacked—both by way of muscle and alcohol. And memories.
“That’s right, Charlie.” Ileene’s calm, steady voice settled like a damp blanket over the tension. The woman was good. “Look at me. Look only at me.”
“Get ready,” one of the two uniforms behind Cullen said softly to his partner. “We take the fucker on three.”
“No sudden movements,” Cullen ordered over his shoulder.
“When I need advice from an ambulance driver, I’ll let you know,” the uniform snapped. “Go. Now.”