by Anne Marsh
Color me shocked. Not. “Why are you here?”
This isn’t a bar or a boardroom, and I don’t see his big-ass fancy boat parked offshore when I swing my gaze out over the ocean. If the size of your yacht corresponds to the size of your dick, Xander’s packing a monster peen. It’s an amusing thought, but I don’t feel threatened (Mother Nature having been generous with me herself) and I have zero interest in measuring firsthand.
“I bought an island in the South Pacific,” he says, like other guys announce they’ve picked up a six-pack of beer. “I’m setting up security.”
“Probably a good idea,” I allow. “Given your rabid fan club and all.”
He bares his teeth. “You should talk.”
I drop into a nearby chair. So many counter-accusations, so little time. Ro’s busy drafting something at the computer—probably our new business agreement—so it’s playtime for me. “How about that blonde in Miami? She tried to kill you after you dumped her.”
Xander grins. “You know my rule. One night and no more. She wanted to renegotiate the terms of our relationship.”
Semantics. The blonde’s renegotiation was all over a gazillion celebrity gossip websites because she went after Xander with a hunting knife when he was on his way to some big charity dinner. She yanked that sucker out of a teeny-tiny cocktail dress—which made for awesome photos that I enjoyed—and just went for him. Xander defended himself. He didn’t hurt her, but he disarmed her in about three seconds flat, proving you can take the SEAL out of the Navy, but you can’t take the SEAL out of the man. Then he handed her over to the hotel’s security detail and went to dinner. The media loved it.
“Twenty-four hours isn’t a relationship,” I point out, because heckling Xander is one of my favorite amusements.
He does that annoying eyebrow raise thing that I’ve never been able to do. “And you’re an expert on long-term relationships?”
“I’ve seen them.” From a distance.
Ro and Xander snort in tandem and I flip them both off.
There’s no law that says SEALs can’t be married. It’s just that most of us aren’t. Part of the reason is the job—when you’re out fighting in the sandbox, you’re not home. Six months or more between stateside pit stops makes it hard to keep any kind of relationship going.
Somehow, though, B.B. managed it. He married Stacey and became our family guy, your best bud who shows you four million crappy pictures on his phone and then is surprised when you don’t want to see one more. We gave him shit for it, but secretly we envied him. He was a lucky bastard, having Stacey on his side and in his life, and we all knew it. I fought for every man in my unit, but losing B.B. hurt even more because when I lost him, I lost his family.
After everything happened, the higher ups asked me if I wanted to talk to Stacey about B.B.’s death. I had no idea what the fuck I was supposed to say to her. She couldn’t possibly want the details of watching my friend and teammate bleed out slowly from a gut wound while we waited for the insurgents to figure out exactly where we were. After I’d pulled what was left of him out from underneath the fucking Hummer, I’d hauled ass into a nearby culvert. We were the only two left alive, and I’d planned to keep us that way. The bastards who’d set the IEDs hadn’t even bothered to conceal their approach. They skidded down the side of the canal, boots scrabbling for purchase on the slick concrete sides, and the need to gun them down was a howl in my head, an ache in my gut.
But B.B. couldn’t run, couldn’t fight. Hiding didn’t feel right, but I’d have done anything I could to buy him time for the medevac to reach us and whisk him away to a hospital where there’d be doctors to patch up what was left. Wasn’t quite sure how B.B. would feel about leaving most of his lower legs behind in the desert, but I knew one thing. His wife would take any piece of him she could get, so I dragged him deeper into the culvert, and I shut the fuck up. For her.
One noise and we’d all have been dead. Not before I’d squeezed off a few rounds of my own, but there was nowhere the bullets couldn’t reach us. We’d go out in a blaze of glory, but it would be the period on our fucking sentence right there. It’s why B.B. asked me to take care of business for him. I thought about it too. I should have done it. Because the man had been running down the final few seconds on his clock, and he’d wanted to make them count. I was too pussy to do it because I was still hoping. Hope isn’t a strategy. I fucking learned that that day.
So I sat and I waited it out and I kept a hand over B.B.’s mouth, holding in whatever else it was he’d wanted to say. I didn’t have last words for his widow because I was too busy trying not to die to hear them. When Vann and Ro broke through the firefight and came for us, it was too late. I sat there in the culvert, holding onto B.B. while the explosions rocked the desert around us and B.B.’s blood stained the metal.
It’s hard to forget shit like that, but talking about it isn’t any easier.
It’s just not.
“Passive observation doesn’t count,” Xander says way too fucking cheerfully, and his comment drags my head out of my ass and my past. Giving him shit is much better than remembering how I failed B.B.
“You don’t do relationships either,” he continues.
“But I could.” I like to think I can do anything, other than keep my best guy from dying. I bet you think that’s arrogant, but I’m stubborn and I don’t quit. If I really wanted to go steady with a girl, I could. I’m sure I could.
“Uh-huh.” Xander’s grin gets wider, the fucker. He’s really enjoying whatever memories are playing through his head. Bet his mental tape has something to do with those red-headed twins we hooked up with in Miami, because those are some pretty spectacular… memories.
Okay. Maybe he’s right.
“So you’re saying you could be faithful to one woman.”
“Ménage is actually not a weekly occurrence in my life.” I say dryly.
Xander snorts. “I’m not talking about a two-for-one special. I mean a special girl, the kind who’s more than a bang buddy.”
It amazes me that Xander’s own dating life is so rich and varied, given the shit that comes out of his mouth.
“You think I don’t like the women I sleep with?” Not that my own conversation is so much better than Xander’s—hello pot calling the fucking kettle black—but I’ve never had sex with a woman I hated.
Xander eyes me like I’m a particularly cash-rich company he’s just targeted for his next hostile takeover. “Have you ever waited to have sex? Like not put out on the first date?”
“Far be it from me to disappoint my lady,” I say virtuously and he rolls his eyes. Honestly? Why am I even discussing my sex life with Xander? “I can wait.”
The rude noise that escapes Xander’s mouth is one-hundred-percent denial. The fucker definitely doesn’t believe me.
“If you met a girl who wanted to wait a while before she jumped into bed with you, you’d be able to handle that?”
“I can live without sex,” I protest, and it’s true. It’s just that sex is right up there with oxygen, sleep, and red meat in Finn’s Universe. It makes my world go round, and it’s about the only way I get to sleep some nights because B.B. hangs out in my head way too much.
“Prove it.” Xander leans toward me. Shit. That’s his boardroom stare, the hard-eyed gaze of a man who smells money and opportunity. I’m not a multi-million dollar company, so why is he after my ass? Has yacht-racing gotten that boring? “Thirty days. No sex. I dare you.”
Uh-oh. The first four words are the bait in the trap—but those last three? Those are the surface-to-air missile that just exploded my safety position.
“I bet you a million bucks you can’t go thirty days without having sex.”
Fall back. “I don’t have a million bucks.” Shit. I sound prim as a church lady or a debutante.
“You have a share in Search and SEALs,” he drawls. “You bet your share. I bet a million bucks that you can’t go thirty days without sex, Mr. Orgasm King.”
&nb
sp; “Could too.” Shit. I didn’t realize that name had gone public.
Xander doesn’t blink. See? Fucking shark right there. “Not.”
What are we, five? No, because then we wouldn’t be arguing about my sex life.
“Prove it,” Xander croons. “No one night stands, no seduction missions, no covert ops in anyone’s panties. Do that and you’re a million dollars richer.”
Ro chokes. He’s Mr. Conservative—he doesn’t even buy those scratch-off lottery tickets, claiming that it’s a better long-term investment to put the five bucks in an IRA. It’s nice to know that when he’s ninety, he’ll have beer money, but my plan is to cadge my cold one from him.
On the other hand… one million bucks. It’s exactly the kind of crazy-ass stunt Xander would pull. And it’s easy money. How hard can it be to stay celibate for a month?
“Bet you can’t do it,” Xander repeats. I know what he’s doing. He’s pushing my buttons, getting me to do what he wants—which is probably only because he’s bored.
I can’t make this too easy for him. The man’s about to part with an impressive chunk of change. “What if I fall in love?”
Xander looks unconcerned. “That’s not happening.”
“But it could,” I say, just to be stubborn. “You gonna make the love of my life be celibate too?”
Xander shakes his head. “You can have sex if you’re in a committed relationship.”
Ro makes another one of those choked-up sounds, kinda like he’s got a hairball of righteousness stuck in his throat. Xander grins at me, his trademark, let’s-set-this-place-on-fire smile… the one I usually see right before we do something completely crazy that gets us kicked out of whatever bar, club, or private party we’ve crashed.
“You’re on,” I say to Xander.
T-14 days and counting
FINN
My girlfriend had a pregnancy scare in high school, and after that I suited up. I’ll be the first to admit it. I was a selfish bastard. I could describe the Saturday date night that led to my holding a girl’s hand while we waited for the one-line-or-two to appear on a stick, but you can fill in the blanks. She’d agreed to let me go bareback, I’d decided that would feel even better than sliding inside her covered with latex (true), and I’d gone for it. Stupid, selfish, self-centered… pick an adjective. They all applied, but I’d learned. Making your girl and yourself feel good counted for shit if you knocked her up by accident.
Suit up or man up—my old man made it clear those were the only two choices. I agreed, but I was still damned glad when that stick came back with one line and the girl showed me the door. I wasn’t ready to be anyone’s daddy. It’s a big commitment, and I get that.
I’d always had a decent relationship with my old man, and he’d been there for me. Stuck by my side no matter what shit I pulled. He was a good guy, and I miss him. He went out with no fanfare—just a massive heart attack that dropped him one day with no warning. His death left a hole that I don’t like to think about, although my mom must have felt the same way.
A few years after he passed, Mom went on one of those singles cruises. You’d think a bunch of middle-aged singles would be tamer, but the pictures she emailed me were truly horrifying. She did things I’d never even dreamed of—and now I have the images burned into my brain.
Somewhere between Rome and Monte Carlo, she met a retired dentist. Insta-lust, she texted me… and she must have really wanted to tell me because do you know what international texting costs? I see her and her new old man twice a year, but we’re not close. My mother lived for the happily-ever-after, and she was good with a wedding ring. I like to think that being with my dad was so good that she couldn’t imagine spending the rest of her life alone. The dentist was the second-string who got an unexpected chance to play in the big game.
Me? I’ve spent a lifetime playing the field (or blowing it up because, hello, SEALs get the best explosives). I’m a charmer, and I make no bones about it. In high school, when I wasn’t getting in panties, I played football and earned decent grades, but I wasn’t getting drafted and college was a long shot. Then I discovered Uncle Sam. Uncle Sam taught me discipline. Routine. I learned to stick. My other relationships may not last longer than a night or three, but I’ve got my brothers’ backs and they’ve got mine. I don’t need any more relationship than that. Betting Xander that I could stay celibate for a month was risky. I have limitations. My balls are already blue, and they don’t care that a million bucks and Search and SEALs is at stake.
I try to lose myself in work, but two weeks after taking Xander’s bet, I’m slowly going crazy. It doesn’t help that the bastard has taken to texting me pictures of his current arm candy. The girls rotate in and out of Xander’s bed, but he’s definitely not living in the orgasm-free zone. Today’s picture? Yeah, it’s pretty awesome. He’s got one hand on the wheel of a monster yacht (at least I think it’s a yacht—it’s no fucking rowboat) and the other hand curls around the waist of a redhead who’s rocking an itty-bitty red-white-and-blue spangled bikini. Red’s nipples are standing at attention, and she stares adoringly at Xander. Okay. That part’s disgusting.
I wander over to our office, staring at Red. I’m pathetic. And horny.
Vann looks up when I come in. “Stay strong,” he advises.
Uh-huh. I hand him my cell phone silently, and he whistles.
“Xander knows how to pick them.”
We observe a moment of appreciative silence for Red’s spectacular tits, and then he looks up at me. “You can’t let him win.”
“Not a chance in hell,” I say, way more confidently than I’m feeling. Vann grunts, but I’m not sure he agrees with me. I let it go. Today’s shaping up to be busy, however, with several active duty BUD/S trainers and SEAL team members stopping by. In addition to training new dogs, we make sure old dogs have comfortable homes to live out the rest of their lives when they finish their service to our country. No one wants to see the dog that saved his life kicked to the curb or dropped at a shelter—and these dogs need a particular kind of home. They have a lot in common with us two-legged vets, if I’m being honest.
Bandit’s a good-looking boy. His coat of short, wiry fur is a deep caramel color, and he’s got black ears, a black muzzle, and a touch of dark fur on his chest. His powerful build advertises exactly what he’s capable of, too. He leans against Ryder’s leg, panting happily. Ryder’s just finished giving the dog a workout with the rubber ball—that fucker’s never bounced so high or so far, and Bandit’s in doggie heaven. Ryder looks pretty damned pleased himself.
Ryder plans on leaving his SEAL team as soon as the paperwork processes. Knowing Uncle Sam, that could be two weeks, two months, or two years—it just depends on whether there’s “one last job” for a retiring SEAL or not. He’s an experienced handler, and Bandit was his until recently. At thirty-six, though, Ryder claims he’s ready to dial it back and try something different. We offered him a job with Search and SEALs.
“Think about it,” Ro urges, when Ryder finally gets ready to leave. Ryder nods, his hand running over Bandit’s head. Bandit perks up, as if another game of fetch might be in the offering.
“Take care of him for me,” Ryder says finally after a long stretch of silence when we alternate between staring at the dog and examining the beach. It’s kind of nice to know no hostiles will open fire on our asses and that we don’t have to lug fifty pounds of scuba gear up the sandy incline. This beach is simply pretty—it’s not a target. Ordinarily, I save pretty for girls, but today the word fits.
I sense that Ryder will be back for more than the dog, but he turns the conversation to what’s been happening with the SEAL teams. Since we’re no longer active duty, there’s only so much he can tell us about the missions (which is a big, fat nada), but the guys on the team are fair game. Ryder tells us all about the usual shit that happens when one guy gets drunk and leaves his door open and the best of the practical jokes. Cheese Whiz in helmets, steak juice on gear (because
nothing’s better than watching all the dogs love on the guy), you name it, they’ve done it and hearing about it secondhand is almost as good as being there. Hilarity ensues for all, if you know what I mean.
In other words? We fucking gossip. Not that we’d admit it, but we’ve got plenty in common with the old biddies down at the retirement home. They keep an eagle eye on Angel Cay—and they call you on your shit. I’m not arguing that I haven’t earned my reputation as a bad boy and then some, but Angel Cay’s old guard has blamed me for misdeeds that never crossed my mind.
After Ryder leaves and we’ve consoled Bandit, we head down to the bar. None of us are big drinkers—got that out of our systems early. Now it’s more about the ritual and feeling normal. We have a beer, stare at the TV, and compete to see who can eat the most free peanuts. Pretty sure the bartender would cut us off if she weren’t hot for Vann. Stupid bastard doesn’t even seem to notice.
When the game heads into a commercial, I turn to Ro. “You think I really gotta go a whole month without sex?”
Xander and I shook on our bet, which means while I can’t cheat, I can look for a loophole. It’s not like I’d really take a million bucks off him if—when—he loses but, I think he might take my share of Search and SEALs. Business is the one thing Xander doesn’t fuck with—and not because business doesn’t have a vagina.
“Fourteen more days,” Vann adds, as if he’s Mr. Helpful. At least he picked the shortest possible definition of a month—four weeks. Twenty-eight days. Six hundred and seventy-two hours. And yeah… I could give you seconds, too.
“Chastity’s not a death sentence,” he points out.
Fortunately, Xander failed to include masturbation in his list of verboten activities. My palm time is the only thing keeping me sane. That and my ten-mile run. And that’s not so much about sanity as it is about collapsing into a stupor on my bed. While sex is great and orgasms are a hell of a lot of fun, they’re also my only guarantee that I sleep through the night. Memories from Iraq visit me like they’re the three ghosts of Christmas and I’m Scrooge.