Free Need You for Always (Heroes of St. Helena) by Marina Adair Page A

heart pounding out of his chest.
    He threw the covers off and grabbed for his knee, hoping to catch the cramp before it settled into his entire leg. Too late. His muscles tightened and a thin sheen of sweat covered his entire body.
    Dax looked at the bottle of pills on his nightstand. Completely full, not a single one missing. He could take one now. This was the exact kind of situation the doctor had prescribed them for, to take the edge off the pain. Problem was, it would take the edge off everything—and pain was the only thing keeping him grounded.
    It was also an acceptable alternative to the memories.
    He swung his legs over the bed and sat up, letting the cold air from the open window roll over his body, every sharp gust bringing his heart rate closer to normal. He straightened his left leg, nearly passing out as a shot of bone-gritting heat exploded from behind his kneecap. He rotated it to the right, then holy hell to the left, just like his doctor showed him, and gave the stretch exactly two minutes to overpower the cramp.
    When that didn’t work, he cursed his weakness, kissed the extra two hours of sleep good-bye, and grabbed his running shoes.
    The only thing that was going to help was a fast ride on his bike. Not turning his leg like some ballerina.
    Giving his knee a few minutes to adjust to holding his weight, Dax pulled on a pair of jeans, grabbed a T-shirt from the hamper, and—smelling the pits first—tugged it on while heading toward the front door. One step outside and he knew he’d made the right decision. Sitting idle, being surrounded by walls and memories, was slowly driving him crazy.
    He stepped off the front porch of his rental, a 1920s Craftsman bungalow that sat right off Main Street, and grimaced through the stiffness as he headed down the driveway.
    The early morning dew still covered the ground and glistened off the oak trees lining the road, leaving the air cool and fresh, almost cleansing to his lungs. When Dax had been in the Middle East, roasting in an army-issued bunk, he’d dreamed about mornings like this. When the only people awake were the vineyard workers, and the hot air balloons were slowly rising off the valley floor, and the world seemed at peace.
    Only now that Dax was home, surrounded by what seemed to be a snapshot of one of his favorite memories, he wasn’t sure how to tap into that peace.
    So he’d outrun it.
    His fingers twitching to crank the throttle, Dax got to the curb—and stopped short when he spotted Lola.
    Lola had been Dax’s treat to himself a few years back. His Indian bike was a handcrafted work of innovation. With her sculpted chrome exhaust, polished midnight body, and incredible 119 feet per pound of throttle, she was trouble on wheels. And the exact kind of rush he needed when stateside.
    Only today she was wearing a boot.
    A big-ass, bright orange boot that had ST. HELENA SHERIFF’S DEPARTMENT engraved on the side.
    Unconcerned about the time of day and saving the barrage of oncoming f-bombs for his brother, he fished out his phone.
    “Want to tell me why you’re calling me at five in the morning?” Jonah breathed into the phone. His voice was groggy and thick with sleep—which made Dax happy.
    “Because you’re the only loser who would answer his phone at five in the morning,” Dax said. “Come on, man, Lola?” He looked at his pristine bike with that god-awful lock on it and wanted to cry. “It’s abuse of power. Plain and simple.”
    “I’ll let the sheriff know,” the sheriff said with a chuckle, and Dax heard a lightness to his brother’s voice that he hadn’t heard much since their dad died. He would have been happy for him, but messing with another man’s bike was on the same level as messing with another man’s woman.
    “Make sure you tell him that it’s a total dick move,” Dax said.
    “He’d tell you so is driving around town before the doctor gives you the go-ahead,” Jonah said, and Dax could hear the prick