Hot SEAL, Dirty Martini

by Cat Johnson

  “I’m parked this way.” He tipped his head toward the left.

  “Oh. Okay.” She spun to the left but he kept his hand on her elbow. Safer that way as they crossed the side street.

  The sex gods were definitely giving him a run for his money with this one, yet he was still going back to her place.

  Was that a testament to her hotness or his horniness?

  That was probably one of those chicken and the egg conundrums with no answer. Not worth worrying about.

  He clicked the locks and swung open the passenger-side door. She frowned at the seat, nearly chest level with her in spite of her fuck-me high heels, which he intended to enjoy later.

  She glanced at him. “I heard men with big trucks have a small penis.”

  A surprised laugh escaped him. “I assure you that isn’t the case.”

  With Junior already stirring in his shorts, ready to rise to the challenge, he’d enjoy proving that to her the moment they got to her place.

  “All right.” She reached for the handle in the doorframe and the back of the seat and struggled to get her one foot up. The skirt, narrow and tight and hitting her at mid-thigh, wouldn’t let her. She hiked the hem up too far, exposing more of her legs than she probably wanted to, and tried again.

  Through it all Clay watched instead of helping her, enjoying the view. Also enjoying watching her vodka-soaked brain reason out how to accomplish her goal in spite of the obstacles.

  Maybe he was rude, or at least crude.

  He knocked himself out of the trance watching her ass had put him in and boosted her up with a hand on each hip. It was at the same time she used all of her effort to hoist herself up.

  The added momentum sent her tumbling face first into the cab of the truck.

  He bit his lip to not laugh as she momentarily perched with her head in the driver’s seat and her ass high in the air.

  It was a good position for a couple of things he wouldn’t mind doing with her and it was amusing as hell.

  This might turn out to be all right after all.

  He was still thinking that as she righted herself. With the tempting view obscured as she sat on it, he moved around to the driver’s side and got behind the wheel.

  Clay was still thinking it was turning out to be a pretty good afternoon even after he finally got an address out of her and had plugged it into his GPS. She lived across the bridge in San Diego, but he managed to navigate the traffic and find her place.

  In fact, he had great hope for a memorable encounter as she led him inside her place, pulled him with her onto a white leather sofa and yanked his head down for a kiss.

  No puke in his truck. Straight to the action without any small talk. So far so good.

  He reached down and rested one hand on the smooth skin of her thigh. She let her legs fall farther apart and, never one to ignore an invitation, Clay slid his hand up and in between her spread thighs.

  As he plunged his tongue between her lips, his hand reached what felt like lace underwear beneath her skirt and he started to get really excited about the possibilities.

  She needed to take off the skirt and blouse. Give him a better view of what he’d bet was expensive lingerie because from the looks of her place she liked nice things—when she wasn’t drunk that was.

  This chick was definitely slumming it with Clay and his prison ink now.

  Seeing her in nothing but the lingerie with those heels would go far to soothe his bruised ego and getting laid would go a long way to get him over her insults.

  He might even be able to laugh about this one day. It would at least make a good story to tell the guys.

  With his main goal in mind, he was victorious in the battle against her tight skirt and finally wiggled it up enough he could get to the spot between her legs that made her moan.

  He slipped two fingers inside her, stroking as he circled her with his thumb. She spread her legs wider.

  Her moans had him thinking things were progressing nicely toward his end goal. When her orgasm broke, he was sure of it—this was going to be one hell of a night.

  She broke the kiss, breathing heavily as he continued to work her, pushing her past the end of her orgasm.

  He was ready to rip his pants off and enjoy her hot core with his cock rather than his hand when he felt it . . . her body relax, sagging limp against the cushions.

  Then he heard it . . . the soft tell tale deep breathing of a woman asleep—or possibly passed out.

  Crap.

  Resigned, Clay eased his hand out from beneath her skirt and stood.

  It looked like the only thing he was getting today was that good story to tell his teammates. Though, on second thought, he didn’t even have that since there was no way in hell he’d admit to the guys a woman had fallen asleep while his hand was up her skirt.

  They’d tease him about that until the day he died. It could even earn him yet another nickname. Something far less flattering than his current Dirtman. Something like Sandman because he’d put her to sleep during foreplay.

  Yeah, no. This story was going with him to the grave.

  He sighed.

  The A/C was pumping icy air into the room—proving the woman didn’t worry about conserving power and saving the world or reducing her carbon footprint or whatever the hell the politically correct saying was nowadays.

  He glanced down at her, sound asleep and noticed the goose bumps rising on her skin.

  With a scowl, he grabbed the white throw that was folded on the arm of the sofa. He flipped it open and laid it over her, covering the tempting legs he’d almost made it between and those luscious tits he would have enjoyed immensely.

  He’d consider not letting her freeze while she was passed out his good deed for the day, done without any reward or hope of one.

  No thanks. No loving. He might as well have been her Uber driver except he didn’t even get paid for the ride home.

  Clay let himself out of her apartment, making sure the door was locked before he pulled it shut behind him.

  Now that he wasn’t getting sex, he realized he was starving. His mind turned to a nice juicy bone-in rib-eye steak, seared on the outside and bloody in the middle.

  Yeah, that would hit the spot. It would be almost as good as sex.

  Almost . . .

  FOUR

  Realization came slowly.

  At first everything was okay—good even as Tasha clawed her way up from sleep and into consciousness.

  Then she began to notice things. Bad things. The fuzzy feel of her teeth. The dull headache. The nausea and dizziness as she opened her eyes. The fact she was on the sofa and fully dressed in the clothes she’d worn to work.

  Hangover.

  The word flew into her brain. It made perfect sense. It had been a while since she’d been hung over but she remembered well the feeling.

  Her memory was the last thing to return. She remembered she was no longer employed. Might never be employed again after her on-air meltdown.

  No wonder she’d gotten drunk at the bar—

  Holy shit! The bar. The guy. She’d brought him home.

  She sat up too fast and paid the price in pain and queasiness.

  Where was he? Was he still here? Had they—?

  Eyes wide, she reached down beneath the blanket covering her. Her skirt was hiked way up, almost around her hips. Not a good sign. Her underwear were still on but that didn’t mean much.

  Jesus. Did they even use a condom? That man could be carrying all sorts of diseases.

  Her stomach churned and it wasn’t all from the hangover.

  Bringing home a stranger. Having sex with him. Apparently she made very bad decisions when she drank too much.

  No more getting drunk ever.

  Glancing around she spotted her purse. At least that had made it home with her. She sat upright and groaned. Sudden movements were proving to be a bad idea.

  She shuffled slowly over to the table where she’d dumped her bag. Inside she found h
er wallet and credit cards along with a couple of bills. A hell of a lot less than she’d gone to the bar with, though most likely she’d drunk her cash away.

  Her car keys were inside her purse as well. She remembered climbing into a huge high truck. He must have driven her home—whoever he was—so her car had to still be parked at the bar—she hoped.

  She’d have to get over there and pick it up—maybe later when she could move without fear of vomiting.

  The muffled sound of her cell phone ringing caught her attention.

  Was that her one-night stand from last night calling her for a booty call? That would be just her luck. She couldn’t get guys she actually liked and could picture a future with to call her back after a first date, but the one she couldn’t remember having drunken sex with would totally call her the next day.

  Lovely. He must really be a loser. A desperate loser. Just like she was.

  A bit of rummaging—and moaning because damn her head hurt—and she finally made hand-to-cell contact inside the cavernous interior of her bag.

  Wondering when she’d set the ringtone so damn loud, she pulled it out and groaned when she read the name on the display.

  Milly.

  Her agent.

  Uh, oh.

  Sitting and flopping back against the sofa’s cushions, Tasha punched the screen and answered the call. “Hello?”

  “Have you been online yet today?” Tasha’s agent had dispensed with the greeting and gotten right down to the point.

  Since her brain was running a little slow, she couldn’t figure out why Milly would care if she’d had time to log into Instagram today or not. “Um, no. Why?”

  “Why don’t you go ahead and look for yourself. I’ll wait.” Her tone told her this wasn’t a good thing. It had to be about what she’d said on air yesterday.

  “Which site?” she asked.

  Milly laughed. “Pick one. Instagram. YouTube. Twitter. Facebook. You’re everywhere. Gifs. Memes. Even a remixed video set to music. Congratulations, Tasha, you’ve gone viral.”

  After yesterday’s show, Tasha had a feeling that wasn’t a good thing. She’d run out of the studio the minute they’d yelled it was a wrap so she didn’t have to face Jerry.

  She’d never considered the video of her on-air meltdown would go viral.

  But everything she’d said had only been the truth. How could people fault her for that?

  Hoisting herself off the sofa again, she stood motionless for a second as the room swung, before she moved to the desk and sank into the chair.

  Luckily the laptop was in sleep mode, so all she had to do was flip open the lid and it sprang to life. There was her browser, open to the last page she’d been on yesterday before work when she’d still had a job.

  “Just search ‘talk show host loses it on air’ and it should come right up,” Milly told her.

  Uh oh. That was definitely not a good thing.

  The search results told Tasha that Milly hadn’t been exaggerating. She’d indeed gone viral. That was one thing to check off her bucket list.

  She leaned closer and selected one. It was a gif of her saying dickheads over and over again in an eternal loop.

  The next search result was a meme. It had Tasha’s heart clenching as she read it. “I don’t always lose my shit on TV, but when I do, I do it with a career-ending bang.”

  Had that two minutes on air in the beginning of yesterday’s show ended her career?

  It might well have. Who would want to hire a host who went off on-air, criticizing her own network? No one.

  Tasha was shaking, scared and angry both, when she swallowed hard and said, “Milly, the bastard told me ten minutes before I had to go on the air for the last live show ever.”

  “Well, at least you restrained yourself and didn’t actually call Jerry a bastard on-air too. You limited your insults to only calling the network executives dickheads who are too stupid or chauvinistic to care what women want.”

  “I didn’t call them stupid—did I?” Crap. She’d better watch the video.

  “Not in so many words, no. But the subtext was there. Loud and clear. And the entertainment reporters didn’t miss it. There are already plenty of posts and articles up online about your little meltdown. With this momentum, I expect it might even make prime time. You might want to watch Entertainment Tonight this evening.”

  Tasha groaned. That had always been her dream, for her local show to be big enough to get covered by the national prime time entertainment shows. But not like this.

  She swallowed and forced herself to address the issue that had her gripped in fear. “Am I done, Milly? Have I ruined any chance of a career?”

  Her agent’s pause, however short, had Tasha’s hopes plummeting. Finally, Milly said, “I honestly don’t know.”

  “Oh.” That single word was all she could manage as the tears began to spill.

  Milly drew in an audible breath. “I did have something come across my desk recently. I didn’t tell you about it because—well, you had a job then. I’m not sure if you’d be interested—”

  “I’m interested.” Tasha sat up a little straighter.

  “Wait. Let me finish. It’s not network. It’s cable.”

  Tasha gripped the cell tighter, clinging to this new hope. “I don’t care.”

  “It’s a home renovation show.”

  “That’s fine. I can do that.”

  “Oh, can you?” Milly let out a laugh. “When’s the last time you held a hammer in your hand?”

  “Just last week.” Okay, the hammer was pink and had come in a leopard print toolbox she’d bought because it was cute, but the fact remained she owned tools and she could use them.

  “And what did you do with it?” Milly’s skepticism was clear in her tone.

  She hesitated, but had to admit, “When I couldn’t crack the shell of my take-out King Crab Legs, I used my hammer.”

  “That’s not exactly the same as renovating,” Milly said.

  “I can learn. Besides, wouldn’t there be a real carpenter on the show and I’d be more like the host?” It would be just like Good Day, San Diego. She never actually did the cooking herself. The guest chef did and she just stood next to them and talked.

  “I don’t know all the details for the show but I’ll find out.”

  “And you’ll put my name in for the job?” Tasha resisted the urge to cross her fingers for luck.

  Again Milly paused, before saying, “Yes, I’ll put your name in. But, Tasha, you need to toe the line. No comments to the media. No posting on social. No responding to anything anyone posts about you. Got it?”

  “You don’t think I should at least post an apology?”

  “No! Just leave it be. You said it. It’s out there. There’s no taking it back. It doesn’t matter what you say now, the haters are gonna hate and your supporters will continue to love you. Let the story die, the sooner the better. Don’t feed into it. Someone will do something else stupid soon enough and you’ll be completely forgotten.”

  Completely forgotten. Didn’t Milly know that was Tasha’s worst fear?

  FIVE

  Clay picked up his cell—and then put it down again for what had to be the twentieth time that morning.

  Antsy, he glanced around the one bedroom apartment he rented, looking for something to take his mind off wanting to call the real estate agent.

  A single window in the living area looked out at a narrow piece of grass and the house next door that blocked his sunlight, as well as any view.

  There wasn’t a whole hell of a lot to do within the four walls. No wonder he was going stir crazy.

  On a gorgeous day like today, he wanted to be outside, not indoors watching some show he could care less about. He wanted to be outside in his own yard, looking out at his own little piece of beach.

  Fuck it. He wanted that house. He didn’t care if it hadn’t even been twenty-four hours since he’d seen it or that calling would make him seem too eager and willing to
pay asking price.

  Since he’d cued it up this morning before he talked himself out of calling, the number was right there in his cell when he unlocked the screen.

  He hit the number and, breathing a little faster, waited as he listened to the ringing.

  “Russell Ramirez speaking.”

  “Hey, it’s Clay Hagan. You showed me the Imperial Beach property yesterday.”

  “Yes, of course I remember. Good morning.”

  “Good morning. So, uh, I’ve thought about it and even though the house does need a lot of work, I think I’d like to put in an offer.”

  “Excellent, I’m glad you called before it’s too late.”

  Clay rolled his eyes. These agents, always trying to create a sense of urgency by pretending there were other interested parties when in reality there weren’t. If there had been, the property wouldn’t have sat on the market for two years.

  Refusing to play this game, Clay cut right to the chase and said, “So I’d like to offer twenty thousand below asking price.”

  “All right. But I feel I need to tell you that there’s another bid currently in and being considered by the seller.”

  Clay didn’t like the sound of that. “And?” he asked.

  Ramirez paused and finally said, “Under asking is not likely to be competitive in this situation.”

  That revelation knocked the wind right out of Clay’s lungs.

  There was another bid. He could lose this house.

  “Would you like to raise your bid, Mr. Hagan, or would you like me to present it to the seller for twenty under asking?”

  In a position he did not like being in, Clay had to trust this man’s integrity, even if Ramirez did stand to gain financially on this transaction.

  “How much more do you suggest I offer?” he asked, afraid of the answer.

  “That’s completely up to you, of course.”

  Clay sighed at the man’s evasiveness. “So, like, asking price?”

  “Um . . .” Ramirez hesitated.

  Crap. Sucking it up, even as much as it hurt, Clay said, “Or five-thousand over asking?”

  “I believe that would be a nice strong offer.”

  Ouch. Twenty-five thousand more than he’d hoped to spend. That hurt. He sucked in air through his teeth. There was nothing to be done about it. He wanted this house.