"Checkmate," Bruce announced, surprised to have won his first game in the six weeks since he and Morris had started playing.

"Good one, Major," Morris said before downing the remainder of the amber liquid in his glass. He was drinking heavily this evening—the only reason Bruce had won.

"Everything okay with you?" Bruce asked, hoping this had nothing to do with Claire and some kind of petty jealousy. Up until now, no reference had been made to that day in the clinic two weeks prior, and Bruce wanted to keep it that way. Fact was, he didn't even like to hear Claire's name being mentioned in the bastard's vicinity.

Morris picked up the almost empty bottle and poured what was left into his glass. Placing his elbows on the table, he lifted the tumbler and twirled its contents. "I got word today that my son is dead . . . killed in the line of duty."

Bruce stayed silent, letting his body absorb the shock while his mind planned out a cautious path. If you only knew, he thought.

"We weren't that close. He was more his mother's kid." Morris snorted out a laugh and put down the glass before adding, "Half the time I wondered if he was even mine." His hand came up to draw circles in the air just above his head. "He had this thick red hair. There wasn't anyone in my family, nor hers, who had red hair."

"I've heard it's a recessive gene—can skip generations."

"Yeah? Well . . . I never trusted that slut."

She was lucky to get away from you, Bruce said to himself.

"It would have been nice if she'd contacted me right away instead of waiting for more than a month. The only reason she emailed was to see if I wanted any of his belongings before she donated them." He shook his head. "Still a bitch."

In life, you get what you deserve. "Damn. That's rough, man."

Morris straightened in his seat and met Bruce's stare, probably wondering whether the touchy-feely convo had overstepped the boundaries of their budding bromance. Bruce did his best to front a look of sympathy.

"I'd visit him from time to time when on leave. Walt, that was his name, was a pretty good kid. He was a little on the clingy side when he was young, but all in all, he ended up okay."

Just a murderer and attempted rapist. Bruce tried to keep it level, but his fury was building like a tornado on an open plane. He needed to get off this topic before it got out of hand.

Morris sighed. "Hell, I don't even know if the guy had a proper funeral."

"Wouldn't the cops handle that?"

Morris's head whipped up, his face toughened by a frown. "How did you know he was a cop?"

Bruce held back his curse, hoping the alarm didn't show on his face. "Sorry . . . I just assumed . . . you said 'line of duty' and—"

"No, no, you're right." Morris waved his hand with an apologetic shake of his head. "He was LAPD. Yeah, hopefully they came through for him."

Morris picked up the empty bottle and looked down at his watch. "It's early. Shall we start another game and bottle?"

Bruce nodded numbly, still working on slowing down his racing pulse.

Morris stood up, the feet of his chair scratching along the concrete floor. "I'll be right back."

When the outer door shut, Bruce sagged in his seat. "Dumbass," he muttered. Fast-forwarding through his recovery, he forced himself to his feet and went for the keys. Morris kept his stash of bourbon in his quarters at the end of the hall. That gave Bruce a few minutes to work with, but he didn't want to take any chances, not after all that blundering.

He had the door unlocked, keys put back, and the board set up for a new game by the time Morris reappeared.

Three hours later, he was back in front of the squeaky door with mixed emotions. Most of the documents had been scanned and sent to Paul, the sheer volume requiring the reporting frequency to be moved up to daily. Which meant his assignment was almost at completion. Which meant he would soon be leaving.

Leaving Claire.

Leaving an empty feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Although to be honest, perhaps it was for the best. In the last two weeks, she had hardly spoken to him outside of work-related discussions. They were back where they had started. No matter how many times he tried to explain the story he had fed Morris, she wouldn't listen.

She didn't trust him. He could see it in her eyes.

Making his way into the room, he pulled at the bookcase and slipped inside the hidden closet. After setting up the scanner on the desk, he reached for the only box he hadn't searched through.

The first file was the thickest. Pulling it out, it caught on the edge of the box and shifted in his grip, causing its contents to slide out like slippery fish and land in disarray at his feet. Glossy scenes stared up at him like a tabloid newspaper's photo binge. He bent down and picked up the closest shot of Morris standing arm-in-arm with Nathan Johnson, the civilian contractor who ran the kitchen on base. Wooden crates, all of which bore a U.S. Marines seal, were stacked behind them, at least eight feet tall and just as wide.

Bruce smiled. "You smug bastard. Couldn't resist the photo op, could you? Well, thanks. You just handed us one of your accomplices." He reached down and fanned out the rest. "Now, let's see who took the picture."

There were numerous shots of Morris with Johnson. Another man, looking like a local businessman or politician, was in a few. One showed all three of them in front of a rundown two-story building with Pakistani militiamen in the background. "Holy shit," Bruce whispered. "That's not good." Was Morris selling to them too, or were they just on his payroll?

Working as fast as he could, the most relevant pictures were scanned, reorganized, and put back into storage.

When he had finished with the rest of the box, he packed up and gave the room a final once over. His eyes latched onto the television sitting on the desk. He had paid no heed to it after discovering it wasn't a computer. Now that he was done, curiosity got the best of him. What do you do in here, Morris? Watch porno on this thing?

He sat down in the chair and hit power on the remote, his finger moving to the mute button, just in case. He looked up as the screen came to life—jerking backward with such force that the chair two-legged it, almost sending him to the floor.

Claire was on screen, her back to the camera as she stood brushing her long hair. Blurry squares grid-lined the view but didn't obscure it.

Bruce burst out of his seat, sending the thing toppling onto its side. He yanked the television forward to find the feed and traced a cable with his hands down to a DVR tucked under the desk. Another cable went from there to an outlet on the wall. Fucking hell. The bastard was recording her. The camera must have been propped up in some kind of vent inside her room and wired through the ceiling.

His vision narrowed as he righted the chair and slowly lowered himself onto it. "Claire . . ." he whispered. On screen, the brush was placed on the dresser. Her hands came down to the hem of her T-shirt and peeled it up and over her head. Golden strands slid their way through the neckline and floated down to recover her back.

Oh, God . . . Turn it off.

Her hands moved to her waist. She bent and shed the pants. Bruce pushed the chair back from the desk as if the screen had exploded in flames.

Turn it off.

Pulling her hair over one shoulder, she started braiding it. Losing his ability to move and, evidently, every shed of decency he had, his eyes swept over the view.

Turn it off.

She was a vision. Those legs he remembered well, only now they led up to pink lace panties cut high enough to give a sexy peek of one perfect ass. Hips curved into a waist that he swore he could span with his hands. Her back and shoulders were delicate but toned, the elegant lines leading up to the long slender length of her neck.

Turn it off.

With the braiding complete, her hands slid up her back to the bra. Her fingers worked each hook with agonizing slowness.

Turn it off.

Bruce scooted the chair back to its original position. His hand reached for the remote.

Turn it off.

The bra was tossed onto the bed beside her. His finger hovered, only fractions of an inch away from propriety.

Turn it off. Turn it off. Turn . . . around.

And then she did.

)l(

Bruce's hands shook as he fumbled to find the correct key for the clinic, the whole lot of them ending up on the floor in a tangled heap. He got down on one knee, put a hand on the wall by the door, and sagged against it, dragging in some air. Calm down, he told himself. Taking his time, he spread out the keys on the ring and picked them up by the correct one, hitting his head on the doorknob on the way back up. With a muttered curse he shoved the damn thing into the lock and gave it a twist.

Once inside he turned on lights, closed the door, and pressed his back up against it. There was tightness in his chest and he rubbed at it, even though he knew it wouldn't help. The only way to relieve that pressure was by doing the one thing he was trying desperately to divert himself from. Go down the hall, take a right, then a left, and strangle that mother fucker with your bare hands, the voice in his head demanded.

He groaned and rapped the back of his head against the door. Twice.

Oh, God . . . What was he going to tell her?

He looked over at her room. What could he tell her that wouldn't have her ripping the camera from its hiding place? What could he tell her that wouldn't push her distrust in men to a point of no return? Would not telling her do the same?"

"Damn it," he hissed, hitting his head into the door again.

There was a click and a whisper of movement. "Major?"

Bruce shut his eyes, not wanting to look at her, ashamed of what he had to do. He couldn't tell her. It would put the whole operation at risk. There was more at stake here than Morris's perversion.

"Are you okay?"

The concern in her voice only deepened the guilt, but it forced his eyes upon her. He got a brief glimpse of white satin once more before she finished slipping on the long-sleeved shirt of her uniform to use as a makeshift robe. Bare feet silently padded over to him.

"Hey. What's going on?" Claire said softly.

"You know I would do anything to protect you, don't you?"

"That's . . . ah . . . thank you." Brown eyes warmed but were still fraught with worry. "What's happened?" She reached out and touched his chest, and just like that, the tightness eased.

He brought both hands to her face as he realized how much he cared for this woman. So much that he . . . loved her? Did he? How could he know? He'd never been in love before.

Or was he like her patients—enamored because of this place and its effect? That being said, he had a pretty good notion that if he could rank the ardor on his own face, his score would surpass them all. A perfect ten. No, a twelve—bonus points for her putting up with all of his stupid shit.

As all these questions raced through his mind, one thing stood out with utmost clarity: For that brief moment back in the closet, that blink of an eye before he had forced his finger to finish its reach, he had been given a new standard to uphold. For the rest of his life, she would be the gauge by which other women would be measured.

She had redefined the meaning of beauty.

In all this time he had yet to kiss her, and for that he was now grateful. It wouldn't have meant as much being initiated by flirtatious provocations because at this moment, with his feelings forced to the surface as they were, it meant everything. And despite her own doubts, he knew from the way she was looking back at him that she was more than willing.

Bruce dropped his hands. The timing was wrong, inappropriate with Morris's sick secret between them.

"I'm going to fix it," he said fiercely, reaching back to grope for the doorknob. "I'm going to break it." He backed his way out to the hall.

"Fix what? That makes no—"

The door closed, cutting her off. He spun around and hurried to his tent, anxious for the next day to arrive. He knew what he had to do—take apart the DVR to remove the hard drive and destroy it. Morris didn't have the wherewithal to figure out what was wrong with the thing. And if he was going to ask anyone to take a look at it, it would be Bruce. It was the perfect plan.

He was going back in that room one more time.

After that, he would return to Claire and claim that kiss.

END OF CHAPTER FORTY

Ah, Bruce, what to do, what to do. Now we see how much of an asshole Morris really is😡

This is actually two chapters put together since they were both a little short. I think it worked out okay, though. I know you guys don't like short chapters😘

I appreciate all votes⭐️ and comments 💬 so rant away 😉

Dedicated to @twerkingdabqueen for making me laugh. You discovered me only recently but soon became one of my most active and vocal supporters. Thank you❤️