SEAL Firsts

by Sharon Hamilton

  Christy threw the tablet and newspaper onto the tiled countertop and placed her hands on her hips to assess the scene before her. She squinted at several days’ worth of dishes piled high in the sink. Next to it, a large stainless steel bowl sat encrusted with dark green and purple leaves at the bottom, evidence of a salad—several days old.

  Maybe Wayne had neglected to tell the sellers about the open house. She decided it was entirely possible. “How can you expect to sell a house this way?” she muttered, then sighed and removed her jacket, slinging it over the back of a clean-looking kitchen chair. She decided to take a tour of the place, checking for other things to clean or straighten before she’d be ready to hold it open.

  But this house was such a mess, an uneasy darkness chilled her. She tiptoed down the carpeted hallway, feeling like an intruder, past empty rooms to a closed door at the end.

  Probably the master bedroom.

  Something about the whole scene was strange. These people left in a hurry without cleaning up dinner from several days before. She’d been told short sale houses rarely showed pride of ownership, but this felt absolutely creepy, like she’d stepped on someone’s grave. The hair on the back of her neck bristled as she gripped the doorknob. She lightly tapped with her other hand and then opened the door.

  A naked body lay on the bed.

  Holy crap.

  Hesitant to look at first, she pushed through her fear. She saw movement. Tanned skin, a muscular male chest that rose and fell. Earphones were wired to a phone balanced on his open palm. The man was very much alive, and healthy. Her eyes drifted further down to a dusting of dark brown hair that led to an impossible-to-miss erection. His penis stood at attention, like a deep rose-colored light standard under a matching fireman’s hat of deeper pink.

  Blood pumped to her ears, making them ring, as her heart raced. A wave of anger coursed over her at the realization she had been the victim of a very sick joke perpetrated by Wayne and one of his disgusting friends.

  Christy silently closed the door and tiptoed back down the carpeted hallway, her three-inch heels wobbling on the thick, padded surface. Her knees knocked against each other as she picked up speed, her anger building. She grabbed her jacket, keys, and purse, and crossed the living room, headed toward the front door. She was almost free.

  Christy wouldn’t give the prankster the satisfaction of knowing she had even seen him. She wanted to stomp her foot and kick something through the window. This was Wayne’s doing.

  That sonofabitch and his lopsided plugs will pay for this.

  She pulled the door handle and was rewarded by the smells of a warm spring day bleeding through the inch-wide crack she’d created. An enormous hand and forearm came from behind her and slammed the door shut. She saw a familiar blue-green tattoo of some animal tracks on his muscled forearm just before his other hand gripped her mouth. Callused fingers pinched the sides of her cheeks. The grip hurt.

  She panicked at first; then her self-defense training kicked into gear. She struggled to duck and turn, digging her nails into the man’s arm. He locked her tightly in a choke hold, which immobilized her upper torso. She attempted a muffled cry, but the chokehold pulled against her windpipe and allowed her only a weak, high-pitched whine. He was good at the mouth grip, not giving her any room to bite the way she’d been taught. His mountainous shoulders were so large she couldn’t find his face to scratch at his eyes.

  That left her lower body somewhat free. Christy balanced herself like a stork on one high heel, leaned against the wall of his chest, and dug the other heel backward into his knee. She felt him jerk in a sharp inhale. He didn’t cry out. She knew she’d hurt him, but cursed her inability to land the steel tip of her new three-inch stilettos into the soft tissue area of his thigh, going for his femoral artery. Christy moved to deliver a second blow and was pulled backward, tight against his chest. They tumbled to the floor. He took the brunt of the fall, and then pitched her body like a tiny twig in the wind, climbing on top of her.

  Though they faced each other, her hair was everywhere, covering her eyes, but by the anatomical placement of his body pressed against hers, she knew he was the naked stranger from the bedroom. It took only one large paw to hold both her wrists and pin them high above her head.

  With the weight of his packed and well-developed body immobilizing her, she feared a more sinister intent. She mentally prepared herself for the worst: a brutal rape or murder, or perhaps both.

  Think, dammit. There’s always a solution.

  But the universe remained mute.

  Out of options, she vowed deep in her heart she would cause him damage, maybe spill some of his blood so that when the police detectives looked over her lifeless body at the crime scene, there would be forensic evidence.

  So this is the way I will be remembered: at a crime scene, outlined in yellow chalk.

  Maybe she wouldn’t survive, but she would help get him caught and save another innocent woman from this sexual sicko. She couldn’t see his eyes, which was a minor blessing. She didn’t want him to know her fear.

  He adjusted himself and shifted off her lower body. Her skirt rode halfway up her thighs. Christy used the opportunity to maneuver her stocking-covered knee between his legs and punch his groin. To her horror, her knee felt the warmth of his naked skin. His yell, accompanied by a string of obscenities, interrupted her repulsion. She was pleased not all the blood from his cock had drained, meaning the hit had caused him pain. He lifted his hand off her mouth and balled it into a fist under her head, gripping her hair at the scalp.

  “You bastard…” She growled from deep inside her chest, surprised at her own bravado, then decided to scream. Immediately, the hand clamped over her mouth again. This time she bit down through the soft tissue between his thumb and forefinger and tasted the warm metallic liquid from his broken skin. But he still didn’t flinch and pressed down even harder. His other hand released her wrists and pulled her hair back with a tug at the nape of her neck, forcing her chin up toward the ceiling. She tried pushing him away with her arms, but his were longer.

  She arched her chest in defiance, but this gave him a full view of her breasts. The buttons on her sheer ivory blouse popped open. She muttered a curse. The fleeting thought that he would now ruin her two-hundred-dollar bra and be spurred on to ravish her further flashed through her mind.

  He immobilized her arms above her head with one forearm and pinned her thighs with his own that were easily twice the size of hers. She had no way to move and no ability to scream for help. But his blood dripped on the wooden flooring, and it coated the inside of her mouth. Maybe that would be enough to land him a spot in San Quentin. Tired and resigned, she sighed, knowing she could not win the physical tussle, and allowed her body to go limp.

  He responded by whispering a question in her ear. “Who are you?”

  For a second, her ears buzzed. Then she mumbled through his fingers, seeking the soft fleshy part of his palm with her canines again, but failing. She was unable to give him an intelligible answer, but if she could, it would be, “Who the fuck are you?”

  “I’m going to take my hand away, and you will tell me who you are and whom you work for.” His voice came across calm and steady. Practiced. Measured. She’d have to say, commanding.

  This surprised her, but she still didn’t trust him. She gave a short nod, but intended to get away at the first opportunity. He removed his hand and brought it between their bodies. She sucked in her breath and straightened her spine, even though it hurt. She prepared for him to grip her breasts and rip her clothing to shreds. She clenched her abdomen and waited for the pain.

  But instead, she caught a filtered view through her tresses of one heavily veined hand reaching to his tensed pectoral muscle, removing her Patterson Realty nametag that speared him there. He sniffed the pin as he thumbed over the embedded letters of her name, and then tossed it. The pin skidded across the floor until it hit a baseboard.

  “This gonna make me pas
s out?” He made it sound like a legitimate question. He touched the pinprick wound on his chest and then yanked back the strands of her hair he still held wrapped in his fist. She couldn’t see much of his face.

  “What?”

  “You an agent?”

  “Yes, I’m…I’m a r-r-r…”

  “Business or political?”

  Christy furrowed her brow, squinting. “Business!”

  He reached under her skirt, pulling down her pantyhose so quickly that he got her lace panties too. Cold fear snaked in her belly and shivered up her spine. She shrieked, but it did no good. He removed her remaining heel and then ripped her under things off in one fluid movement. Christy attempted to scream again but was silenced by his hand squeezing her neck, his thumb pressing against her voice box.

  “Stop it. I don’t want to hurt you.”

  That’s what they say just before they kill you.

  She couldn’t move. She couldn’t breathe and tried to cough, hoping death would come soon, before he raped her. But then he relaxed his grip, allowing spring air to flood her lungs. For a grateful few seconds, everything was right with the world.

  With his other hand, he took the now shredded pantyhose and wrapped them around her wrists that he held up over her head. The knot he tied cut off circulation to her hands, but at least she could move her torso a little. Her neck tensed up from the fall, and her tailbone hurt.

  “Please, I’m j-just…here…for…the open house.”

  “What open house?”

  “W-Wayne…said…I…should…”

  “Who the hell is Wayne? He your handler?”

  Now this pissed her off. “God damn it. I’m an independent contractor!” She’d heard it so many times while she was studying for her license that the phrase was the first thing that popped into her mind. “Wayne is another agent. I’m a Realtor.”

  “Sure you are.”

  Christy drilled him with a look he wouldn’t be able to mistake, if he could see it. Hair still covered her face.

  He chuckled. “This part of your sales training? They teach you how to bite men, break into houses, knock out their knees, and puncture them with poisonous needles?” His subtle mocking fueled something bubbling in her stomach.

  She shifted slightly, noticing the still rather large package between her legs that might have been welcome in another time and place. She shook her head to the side, clearing the hair from her face with the aid of her bound hands; she then stared into deep blue eyes, a crooked nose, and soft full lips pressed together in a straight line. A tiny scar resided on his high cheekbone just under his left eye.

  He swallowed as he looked down on her and watched her follow the trek of his Adam’s apple. When she looked back into his eyes, his body seemed to soften. A few errant strands of hair were caught in her lip-gloss. He removed them with two hardened fingers. His eyes explored her face, tracing all her features, as if memorizing every one.

  Her heart beat against her chest wall, echoing his, for several long seconds. He didn’t look like a criminal. Or a practical joker type. As she studied him closer, she realized something didn’t add up.

  He righted himself, released his hold on her, and then sat crouched, covering his exposed groin with the throw rug. He seized her purse and turned it inside out in seconds by pulling apart the lining and dumping the contents on the floor.

  “Hey! That’s a Coach bag, you…”

  He gave her another glare, reminding her she was physically outmatched. She closed her mouth mid-sentence, choking down renewed anger. He sifted through the contents, opened a lipstick tube and sniffed the pink shaft, then carefully retracted it and replaced the top.

  “Sorry.” He directed his apology to the floor and didn’t glance up.

  That’s it? Can’t even look at me, you horrible son of a bitch? She decided it was still unsafe, so kept her thoughts to herself.

  He’s crazy. A psycho. A sociopath. No wonder he has financial issues and has to sell his house.

  Christy sat up, her spine ramrod straight, and held out her hands, encumbered by the torn pantyhose that hung like moss from a tree. It was not a beg but a demand to be released of her bonds. To her surprise, he gently leaned over and untied her. She buttoned her blouse, noting before she could finish that his last-minute stolen peek gave him a good view of her lacy beige bra.

  She returned a poisonous look she hoped would stop any ideas from forming on his part, and then she noticed a tiny trickle of blood coming from the pinprick in his chest. A much larger ribbon of blood dripped to a small puddle on the floor where her heel had done damage to his knee. Below that was a tattoo of thorns ringing his bulging calf. As if she asked, he raised his palm, showing her a nice bloody semicircle of teeth marks.

  “You’re lethal,” his voice was soft, but measured. He arose, all six-foot-something of him, then fisted the throw rug to his groin. He turned, exposing his muscled buttocks, and looked over his shoulder at her. He shook his head and smirked as he watched her stuff the lining back into her purse and replace the spilled contents.

  “I don’t think it’s funny at all,” she huffed. “Get someone else to hold your damn open house.”

  He didn’t say anything but continued staring down at her as he offered a hand, which she refused. She clamored to stand up, barefoot.

  “And if you think this is a good way to meet a girl,” she said as she wedged her bare feet into her heels, “well, I hope the bank takes your house and I hope your wife finds out what kind of sick games you play.”

  She headed to the door. She was relieved he was going to actually let her go. Without looking back, she swung the door wide open.

  “This isn’t my house, and I’m not married,” she heard him call just before she slammed the door behind her, finally free at last.

  Chapter 2

  Navy SEAL Kyle Lansdowne threw down the rag rug and stalked naked to the place where the woman’s nametag landed next to the wall. He traced the letters again and examined the nametag’s construction, looking for—what?

  “Christy Nelson,” he said as he focused on the indentations the letters made in the smooth white plastic tag. He had the funny feeling he’d met this woman before. Or maybe she reminded him of someone he’d known in his past.

  He dropped his shoulders and arched backward to give his spine a good crack. Holding the light plastic badge in his fingertips, he was careful not to let it puncture him again. He leaned forward, aimed for the dining table, and tossed the nametag so it landed in one bounce at the center.

  He checked the front window, confirming that the car he’d heard leaving was hers and that he was now alone. He locked the dead bolt on the front door and made his way back to the bedroom.

  I’m losing it, man. He cursed himself for his carelessness. The naked meditation he engaged in usually heightened his senses, but this time he’d fallen asleep. Next thing he knew he was smelling her perfume. Still could smell it. Had she not been a woman, he could have hurt her, or worse. On the other hand, if she’d been hired to neutralize him, she could have taken him out in an instant.

  His Team buddy, Armando Guzman, was missing. Gone. Never showed up at ProDev. He’d made it out of Afghanistan with the rest of SEAL Team 3, but instead of doing the five days decompression in Hawaii with the rest of the guys, he’d booked a flight to Puerto Rico for some family emergency.

  Where the fuck are you?

  Mysteriously, Armando met them at the airport in San Diego when they arrived from Hawaii, talking about seeing everyone at ProDev the next day. And then he didn’t show. Timmons, their chief, was freaked, worried to hell. It just wasn’t like Armando to do this. No way would he disappear voluntarily without alerting Kyle and the chief.

  Day before yesterday, when Timmons told him Armando never checked in, Kyle thought perhaps he’d just found himself a lady to share a little time with, disappear for a day or two. Something they were trained to do: get lost. Wouldn’t have been the first time Armando had gone
to dark. And Kyle couldn’t blame him. He’d done it a time or two himself, but never without checking in with his buddy first.

  Something is very wrong.

  Armando was known all over Coronado as the Latin Lover of SEAL Team 3. So good looking he could capture a girl’s attention simply by walking down the street. His linguistic training allowed him to sound Aussie, French, Brit, Eastern European, Spanish, Pashtoon or Afghani. He could charm the pants off anyone on the phone as well as in person. He’d even been “captured” by a Marine unit who mistook him for a foreign interpreter trying to infiltrate the U.S. forces. Some of Team 3 still called him “Tarjumah,” the translator.

  More than a couple of Senior Officers’ wives, took long, dangerous looks at him when he wore his dress whites. He was the Antonio Banderas type of good looking, with a fashion sense and love of stylish clothes that made him look more like a cover model than a SEAL. The Team guys nicknamed him “Armani.”

  But when Timmons told Kyle his buddy never checked in before he left base, Kyle knew some serious shit had hit the fan. Nobody ever did that unless there was an attitude issue. Attitudes didn’t last long on the Teams. Armando had a history from his youth, growing up with a Puerto Rican gang, but the Navy had pretty much drummed that out of him. Legendary for his nerves of steel, Armando could disarm a bomb while blowing bubbles with his bubblegum. Could save the whole team from extinction while thinking about what he would have for dinner that night.

  So, Mr. Cool and Lethal wanted to be followed, and found. It was as obvious as if Armando had sent him a registered letter.