by Anne Marsh
I’m the asshole. The player. The guy who gives you a screaming orgasm but not his number or his heart.
Never the heart.
Hearts are strictly off-limits in my world. I don’t do forevers because my relationships come with shelf lives, and none of them last longer than a day or two. My last date claimed her orgasm lasted longer than our relationship. She wasn’t wrong.
None of this explains why I’m standing outside the zany yellow-and-white bakery Valentina Fuentes owns in Angel Cay, wondering what she’ll throw at me today. What names she’ll call me. Whether she’ll yell or cry or just slam the fucking door in my face and remind me that I screwed it all up. That from her point of view, she’s the payoff for a bet that should never have been made.
Whatever she does, I deserve it because I didn’t walk. I ran like a coward because I was too scared to figure out how hearts worked until I’d broken mine. I want a hell of a lot more from Vali than a Band-Aid, too.
I’ve fucked my way through a legion of women since my high school glory days. Women love a US Navy SEAL, and I loved them right back. Now that I look back, I wasn’t terribly discriminating, but I made sure my partners had a great time. I was Finn Callahan, the Orgasm King. Funny how that’s not enough anymore. I mean, I thought making a woman feel good, making her scream my name because I was that fucking good, making her melt for me, was enough. You see, when I made the woman of my hour forget everything but me, I got to forget too. I didn’t have to think about past battles or shit I’d gotten wrong or how maybe I shouldn’t have been the guy who came home. How there were other, better men who never left Afghanistan or Iraq or a godforsaken Colombian jungle. I mean, I know how to fight the good fight and give it my all, but if I were God and it came down to picking and choosing, Finn Callahan name wouldn’t be on the top of the Save List.
I’d be dead last.
So I need to open the door. Stop lingering on the sidewalk like the worst kind of pussy. It’s just that I don’t know what to say when I step through that door. Because when I’m around Vali, I’m not Mr. Sex-on-a-Stick SEAL. She sees through the bullshit and she sees me.
And I’m certain I can never be enough for her.
I need to man up.
I need to open that door and step through it… pin all my hopes and dreams on the one-in-a-million lottery ticket that maybe it’s not too late. Maybe Valentina Fuentes hasn’t come to her senses, and maybe she’s still sweet for this SEAL.
Six weeks earlier
FINN
Jesus. I love my fucking job.
The dog-training program I run with two former SEALs—and which we christened Search and SEALs—has just trained two new search dogs for the Alaskan Coast Guard. A number of nonprofits train search and rescue dogs, but we’ve been tapped to add to their numbers, and I’ve flown their newest dog out to them. We may train the dogs in the Florida Keys, but they can handle any terrain, as I plan to demonstrate tonight. Toby and I are working with the local search and rescue team so his new handler can become familiar with his commands and Toby can show off his skills.
Toby’s one of the most talented dogs we’ve trained. I may not be active duty military anymore, but I don’t have to let my standards slide. My brothers and sisters are out there fighting for our country, and I owe it to them to do my part at home. I train dogs that save lives, and I’ve witnessed firsthand what a well-trained dog can do. My dog didn’t save my life every night we were out in the field—but I lost count of the number of missions where he did. I’d be dead without him, and that’s a debt I recognize.
Right before we shipped back stateside, we were clearing a village. Place was a maze of small rooms, half of which seemed to be hollowed out of the hillside. The angle of those doorways was such that you couldn’t see inside—which meant the first guys in ran the risk of hitting a tripwire or getting cut down by a hostile with an AK-47. The dogs prevented that. One good sniff, and Max knew if there were explosives on the other side of that threshold—or humans. If he smelled a threat, he’d park his ass on the ground, ears canted forward as he alerted, his entire being focused on the telltale scent. That night, he’d discovered a tripwire that we couldn’t have seen until we hit it. Fifty pounds of ammonium nitrate would have triggered, and I’d have been dead or missing my favorite body parts.
Tonight’s search and rescue is a guy who lives off-grid in the Alaskan mountains near Fairbanks. He’s getting on in years, and the daughter suspects he might be in the early stages of Alzheimer’s. She’d come up to try and convince him to move closer to town and found him gone. Our job is to find him before he fucking freezes to death or has an accident. I’m not into sightseeing, but my new “office” is spectacular.
The boreal forest stretches from the Kenai Peninsula almost to Fairbanks in a ten-hour drive, and everywhere I look, I see trees. Spruce, aspen, and paper birch fill every inch of available space, so dense in places that I doubt anything—let alone a full-grown adult male—could penetrate. Somewhere not too far away, there’s water rushing heavily, and I hope to God the man didn’t fall in and drown. Retrieving a corpse is a bitch.
Toby’s itching to work—he wants the reward he gets when he hits pay dirt. Toby’s particular brand of crack is a bright pink rubber ball. I flash him the ball, and he whines low in his throat, a needy, covetous sound like the way I respond to a great pair of tits. As soon as I give the command to search, Toby works the yard like an out-of-control ping-pong ball. He bounces from house to tree to outhouse, trying to pick up our target’s trail. The scent is everywhere because this is where the guy lives and spends most of his time, but we’re looking for the freshest scent cone.
Toby’s onto something now. His head comes up, his nose working as he turns toward the woods. His tail gets straighter, his muzzle pointing the way to the source of the scent. The closer he gets, the more excited he’ll be. We already know the guy’s not in, on, or under the cabin, because we’ve all but torn the place apart. I learned quickly in Iraq that even the biggest guys could hide in small places if they’re sufficiently motivated, and our target tonight is apparently missing a few cards from his deck. Not his fault and not something to be ashamed of, but we’re gonna take care of him and make sure he’s safe and sound. That’s our job.
Toby lopes along steadily, alternating between smelling the ground and the air. The other searchers yell for the victim, in case he’s conscious and able to respond. The noise also helps with the bears, or so my companion assures me. It’s summer, which is good, because in the winter months they do more avalanche work up here and the clock ticks fast on that. You don’t have much time to dig a guy out when he’s got two tons of snow choking the air out of his lungs. On the plus side, the temperature is still pushing eighty and the sun’s up almost twenty-four/seven. The mosquitos, however, go in the negative column—they’re voracious as fuck.
The terrain’s rough as hell—I could walk right by the guy and never know it. We follow faint game trails, picking our way through the dense vegetation. The trees are close-set, the forest floor covered with scratchy, thick clumps of rose hips. Forty-five minutes into the search, Toby barks, a high-pitched alert. He thinks he’s located our guy. He runs back to me and jumps up, setting his paws briefly on my shoulders as he licks my face. That’s our found signal—every dog is different.
“Figures you fucking taught the dog to French kiss,” the guy by my side mutters. He’s former Coast Guard and he’s still learning to be a handler, so he doesn’t know yet what I know about dogs. About how they can save your fucking life and deserve all the love and respect you’ve got. I’m a big fan of keeping arms, legs, and dick attached to my body, and my dogs have been the key to realizing that dream.
“Jealous? Because he’s al
l yours.” I blow a kiss toward my companion.
I’m the pretty one, the eye candy who sweet talks the cops, the marketing firm, the breeders, and the women who come by looking to adopt a dog. My face is simply another tool I use to get the job done. Rohan, one of my two co-partners in Search and SEALs, isn’t pretty. At all, as I like to tease him. He’s a big, dark bastard thanks to a Cajun daddy and a Black Irish mother. Once upon a time, he was the leader of my SEAL team. I respect the hell out of him and I’d die for him, but he doesn’t get to bust my balls any more, and I think he’s finally good with that.
I suggested coming up with an “M” word so that our initials could be S&M, but I was overruled. I suggested Search Me SEALs too. Guess what happened to that suggestion? Yeah. Nixed.
Vann, my other partner (both in business and in crime), laughed his ass off at that. Vann doesn’t usually say much, although it’s more a matter of choice for him. He certainly doesn’t waste words. He’d like Alaska, too. The people up here are barebones and more than a little rough around the edges, but they’re not afraid of silence or hard work. He’d fit right in.
My search companion punches me in the arm with a grunt—lightly enough that I figure the blow’s more punctuation than protest—but I don’t see how he responds because suddenly I’m hyper-focused on Toby. Toby charges through the trees, coming to a halt in front of some bushes. The greenery’s probably got a name, but as far as I’m concerned, that mass of sticks and leaves just spells trouble. Our rescue must be on the other side, but I don’t know what we’ll find. Could be a ravine, a hunting trap, what’s left of a bear’s sushi snack… or maybe the old guy’s simply taking a siesta on the ground. I won’t know until I look. Toby’s trained to find living subjects—and cadavers. And since he doesn’t speak English, I don’t know which he’s found tonight.
Two minutes later, I’m peering down into a short, steep gully, and there’s our guy, lying at the bottom. He doesn’t look dead or bear-chewed, which is a good sign.
I descend double-time and crouch down beside him. Another plus? He’s not entirely unconscious.
“Hostile or friendly?” he growls, fisting my T-shirt when I lean over him. I’m suddenly glad the gun I spot next to him has the safety on. And that he didn’t think to point it in my direction.
He’s also not entirely lucid, either, but I’ll take it.
“Friendly. Sir.” I snap out a salute. I don’t know what his rank is, but if he’s served, he deserves my fucking respect. “Rescue mission, sir.”
He nods, and his death grip on my shirt eases up. “Good to go.”
He will be. I silently make that promise to myself while I assess his injuries and the rest of the search party makes its noisy way down the ravine. They sound like a herd of fucking elephants but, if elephants keep the bears away, sign me up to do some stomping too. Surprising a bear isn’t on my bucket list.
“We had dogs in ‘Nam,” my rescue says, reaching out a hand toward Toby. Toby’s not a fan of strangers, but he lets the guy fondle his ears. “We were told to euthanize ‘em because they were surplus.”
I don’t leave my guys behind—and I don’t leave my dogs, either. I tell him this, while the search and rescue team springs into action, splinting and loading the guy onto a stretcher. In my professional opinion, he’s dehydrated, more than a little confused, and he’s sporting a busted ankle, but he’ll be fine long-term.
We head back to the cabin, and the return trip is quicker because this time we go in a straight line. Toby carries his ball like it’s the world’s biggest trophy, and I tell him how awesome he is the whole way back.
I’ve worked with dogs for five years now, and they like to hear you praise them. Dogs don’t bullshit you, either. They like to hunt, they like to bite, and don’t ever get in the way of the bouncing rubber ball. They also won’t steal the last beer out of your fridge or bitch that you didn’t call them back or demand you talk them up for anything but a job well done. You don’t have to prove to me that dogs are smart as fuck.
When we reach the cabin, a woman bolts off the porch, running full out toward us. Since the terrain around the cabin isn’t precisely smooth, this isn’t smart. I move forward to intercept her before we’re arranging two medevacs.
Naturally, she trips halfway to our happy hunting party, but it’s okay. I’m right there to catch her. Did I mention how much I love my job? Because she’s curvy in all the right places, and she’s dressed for summer. Her thin plaid shirt stretches across her boobs, threatening to pop buttons and spill her tank top-covered goodies into my palms. I take another second to appreciate the wash-worn jeans that hug her hips and butt, and then I set her on her feet.
I’m totally capable of being a gentleman.
“Did you find him?” She latches onto my forearms with a death grip, staring up into my face with fevered determination. Honestly? She could go look. She can see that we’ve got someone on a stretcher, and that someone has to be her dad, unless there are random Caucasian males aged seventy to eighty traipsing around the guy’s back forty. What she’s really asking is if he’s dead or dying, because that’s not something she wants to see, and by asking me, she can postpone any bad news for a few more seconds.
“We’ve got him,” I tell her. “He’s a little banged up, and I bet he’s busted his ankle, but otherwise he’s fine.”
Not that I’m a doctor or anything, but I have basic medical field training, and even I know I’m not supposed to list all the other things that can go wrong when you’ve got a seventy-five-year-old man who’s spent seven hours lying on the ground with a busted ankle.
“Thank God,” she whispers and sort of folds in on herself. The adrenaline rush is catching up with her, the cocktail of nerves and fears and wishful thinking taking out her knees. Since I’m a gentleman (did you doubt it?), I catch her and tuck my own arms around her. Then I walk her over to meet the search party so she can see for herself. While we cover the twenty feet to her dad, she babbles. She’s grateful, what would she do without me, and my personal favorite… what can she do to me? Okay. She actually says for me, but it’s the same thing. After we take care of her dad, I’ll get her number and offer her a little professional one-on-one time.
Which explains why, even though I’m not active duty anymore and I’m in more danger from grizzly bears than IEDs, I’m never giving this up. I love what I do. The blonde in my arms snuggles closer, and I’m happy to help because I live to serve. Love to serve? Either or both, baby.
Karma? She’s a bitch, though, and she’s clever. I never saw her revenge coming.
T-28 days and counting
FINN
Search and SEALs is based out of Angel Cay, one of the approximately gazillion islands that make up the Florida Keys. Rohan argued the island’s name would make a great marketing gimmick. Put a bunch of former SEALs and guard dogs-in-training on a teeny-tiny tropical island with a cutesy name and business had to roll in. The puppies are cute and business is good. The rest of us? We’re neither cute nor good. We’ve got more of a don’t fuck with us unless by fuck you mean sex reputation.
Our part of the island isn’t big, and we own every single square inch thanks to Uncle Sam’s signing bonuses. We’ve each got a cottage of our own, too, because living onsite is easier with the dogs. Almost as soon as I get back from my Alaskan field trip, Rohan calls an all-hands team meeting at Search and SEALs. We’re a pretty laidback crew, but when Ro uses his I’m-the-lieutenant-commander voice, we jump to. Plus, it’s not like my commute to work takes long—I roll out of bed, grab my pants, and open my front door. Search and SEAL’s command center is forty steps away. I can almost piss that far, although when Vann dared me to prove it, Ro shot him down. Ro’s the dad in this operation—Vann and I are the problem children.
Two steps outside my front door, I spot the car pulled up in our driveway. Somehow, I don’t think it’s our usual client—the kind of people who shop for guard dogs, cadaver dogs, bomb dogs… they don’t driv
e limited edition Astons in fuck-me red. Or maybe we’re expanding and they do. Maybe Ro needs me to make nice; I’m good at charming our visitors, and he’s not.
While I prefer the field training and working hands on with our dogs, I don’t mind handling the client meet-and-greets. You have to woo them, seduce them, make them believe they can’t possibly live without the service you’re offering. It can be even better than sex, but instead of an orgasm, I get money, and that money lets me keep on living out here in the Florida Keys. It’s a win-win situation.
When I stroll through our wide-open front door, however, I flip off the charm. Ro’s not entertaining a client, and we’re not scoring new business. I know, I know. You’ve just nominated me for manwhore of the year, but it’s not like that. Most of our clients are private sector. They find us because they’ve got security problems and because whatever they’re protecting means the world to them. They’re pissed, they’re worried, they’re looking for a four-legged action plan and a safety guarantee they can take to the bank. These men don’t sit back and wait for trouble to shit on them—they take action. They hit, they fight, they blow shit up on a regular basis—and the guy lounging on our office couch is the best or the worst of the breed.
Xander Reeves is some kind of fucking billionaire who races yachts when he’s not ruling in the boardroom. He’s an adrenaline junkie, a treasure hunter, and the best kind of bastard. He’s also a former SEAL with whom I’ve closed down more than one bar, and on the surface he’s a nice guy. Underneath? Pure fucking shark. You don’t mess with him. He doesn’t give warnings. Ever. If you believe the crap the media prints about him, he takes out his competitors with lethal force, like aiming a surface-to-air missile at a tea party. Boom. Game over.
I point a finger at him, and yes it’s the middle one. “Somebody finally decided to kill you.”
Xander just grins at me. “Every day of the week.”