But each of these is properly punishing me for yesterday’s actions.
I deserve this punishment.
Unbidden, a flash of a black belt lashes through my thoughts, the glint of the silver buckle arcing through the air before it made brutal contact with my skinny-kid ass.
I falter on my forty-ninth burpee, dropping my potential time by a second. I curse. It’s been a long time since my old man has invaded my mind. Then again, it’s been a long time since I’ve fucked up.
I push harder on the last burpee and make up for the squandered second. I glance at the large digital clock on the wall and note my time. My best time yet for a Filthy 50.
Yay, me.
The drone of the big box fans at one end and the pulsing beat of the techno music pump though me. I brace myself on my knees and catch my breath, my palms slick against my skin. A good number of the others in the box tonight are still pushing through the workout, and they’re struggling as they near their final sets. One other finishes, and he drops onto the floor like a mosquito colliding with a zapper.
I allow myself only another thirty seconds and then jog to the back door for the five laps to the corner of Fourth Street and back. Night has fallen since I first came inside, and my existence narrows to running from one pool of light to the next on North Lemon, as if I’m connecting dots over and over.
Sarasota is a strange city. I could run a few more blocks in the other direction and be in a down-and-out area or keep heading south and be in the ritzy downtown where new money meets over-the-top architecture, dotted here and there with hardened up kernels of humanity who drifted their way down to warmer weather and gave up. One such unfortunate is in front of me, beat-up backpack on his back, hunched over and just…standing there, arms and head hanging down. Young kid too.
But this dichotomy is what keeps me in this city. It reminds me that all of us are just one bad decision away from being on the streets. And I can’t ever forget that.
As my trainers beat against the sidewalk, my mind clears a fraction. Pushing myself to the physical limit has always done this for me. Helps me get my head screwed on right, as if the ache and strain is a physical thing that pushes out all other thoughts and worries.
And one thing is obvious.
Pepper makes me feel more alive than I’ve ever felt. Always has. I’ve never admitted it to anyone, but I only feel when I’m in combat. It’s why I seek the aggressiveness of hurling. It’s why I joined the Navy at eighteen and immediately pushed to become a SEAL.
Outside of that?
It’s just kind of…flat.
That makes me fucked in the head, I know. And it pisses me off when everyone assumes it’s a result of my deployments.
No, I’ve been this way ever since I can remember.
So you can see why being around Pepper has become my new fucking mission.
You can also see why I’ve never had a serious relationship before—not only was I too focused on my SEAL career, but why would anyone want to be with someone who can’t feel.
Another realization hits me, hot and bright, and it’s the difference between knowing and understanding. I know my old man was right about not having the luxury to make errors, but I think I finally understand it in a new way. I’d ignored my rational mind and didn’t keep my margin for error minimal at the café. That lapse allowed the situation to spiral further, one mistake begetting another with Pepper.
I don’t fool myself that I have a chance with her. I’ve messed up too much—back in high school and again now. Though the high school incident wasn’t actually my doing. The ship’s sailed on explaining that one.
But she has to evaluate our team for the Langfield Corporation, and I’m now her self-appointed liaison to the team.
Hooyah.
I’m past the halfway point of my run when the sky opens up. In seconds, my T-shirt and shorts plaster to my skin. But I keep going. It’s not lightning.
Pepper
Only one cure exists for the emotional rollercoaster I just experienced—calling a friend. The conflicted feelings storming through me are threatening to become their own weather system over Sarasota if I don’t gain some control. I learned early, though, that emotions should not be indulged. Too risky. First in high school with the shit my parents put me through, and then during my residency.
Don’t get me wrong—I don’t have a horrific childhood past to share. I grew up with privilege others envy—safe home, safe neighborhood, with all the comforts a kid could want. Except love and approval. I know, I know. Waa-waa, woe is me. Believe me, I know now how lucky I was and cannot complain, but as a kid, all you know is you work your heart out—twist that thing up—trying to get any scrap of affection from the two people who should give it no matter what. It messed with my head and impaired my judgment in high school. Which seemed to become a theme for me. So I’m starting fresh here with a clear head, if I can help it.
If I can’t find a balance, I’ll be at risk of compromising my integrity. I just know it. I’ve been hired to evaluate Luke and his team, and I will do my best.
Tricia agreed to meet at the Purple Chow on Lower Main—hip for good vibes, but quiet and private enough to actually have a conversation. If things get blubbery, her condo is nearby.
I spot her behind the metal pelican sculpture and wave. I haven’t seen her since moving down from Gainesville a week ago, but we’ve chatted on the phone. First, it was all the unpacking and shopping for apartment stuff and then all the paperwork and errands I needed to do for my new job. Guilt twinges that I’m here to dump, but I don’t do this often so she’ll cut me some slack.
She jumps up and gives me a tight hug, still dressed in her lawyerly work clothes. She hasn’t changed much from high school except to become a more confident version of herself. We’ve kept in touch via Facebook and my infrequent visits home, but our gruesome schedules hadn’t permitted much more than that. Now that I’m out of med school and fellowship training, I’ll have more flexibility.
“Still like appletinis?” she asks. At my nod, she grins. “Good, because I ordered you one. Sounded like you needed to get right to it.”
Sure enough, there’s an apple green martini across from her. She takes a sip from her own glass, which has three olives poking off the side.
“Dirty martini?”
“As always!”
A bit of light peeks through that inner storm cloud as we slip easily back into the groove of our friendship. It’s always this way, no matter how long it’s been between visits. A memory blooms—of my first visit to Tricia’s house. How warm and relaxed and welcoming I found it. How the empty glass I set down wasn’t immediately whisked away by her mom. I’d never been allowed to do slumber parties as a kid, but since I was finally a teen, I’d excitedly packed my overnight bag. We stayed up late sipping one hot chocolate after another without being told it would make us fat, talking about our favorite movies and crap at school. Typical teen angst stuff.
It wasn’t until her mom dropped me off the next morning and I walked along our curving walkway through the perfect landscaping that was our front lawn in Bird Key that I noticed something inside me for the first time—a low buzz of anxiety. I’d never noticed it before because it was my normal state at home and at school as I strove so hard to please and impress my parents. I hadn’t felt that pressure at Tricia’s, and that had been a revelation.
“How’s Susan?” I take a healthy swallow of my appletini. Mmmm.
At the mention of her partner, Tricia’s face softens. She’s been in a committed relationship with her girlfriend since college, and I’m thinking if a relationship can survive law school, it’s solid. “The arts community is good for her. She loves it here, thank God. She’s having her first one-person show next month. You’ll have to come.”
I smile. “Of course. That’s fantastic.”
“So.” Tricia waves a speared olive at me. “Catch me up here. You were supposed to meet Rick at the coffee shop, but you ended up
with someone else?”
Mortification washes through me all over again, and I squirm in my seat. “First, can you apologize to Rick for me? I honestly didn’t see him.”
She huffs a breathy laugh. “Because he wasn’t there. I had words with him. He had a last-minute deposition and didn’t think to text me so I could alert you. Now I’m glad you didn’t meet up with him. So spill.”
So I do. One martini later, I’m more relaxed, but I’m still dealing with that whole storm of emotions brewing inside me that I can’t seem to dissipate.
She munches another olive and signals for round two. “You and Phil ended things, what, six months ago, right?”
“Four.”
She flicks her hand. “Immaterial. The point is, you weren’t this thrown by that breakup.”
“Tricia. I named a cockroach after him.”
She chokes on her olive. After she regains her breath, she says, “Whaaat? You’ve got roaches at your new place? They have this invention called bug spray.”
I laugh. “No. The Bronx Zoo was doing some kind of fundraiser—name one of their Madagascar hissing cockroaches after your ex for ten dollars. So I did.”
The waiter arrives with our fresh round. Tricia grabs hers. “You didn’t.”
I grin. “I did. Felt good.”
I take a slow sip, marshaling my thoughts as fresh hurt at being called cold threatens to add to my mental stew. I’d heard similar terms growing up—“aloof,” “stuck up” —but I thought Phil had seen past that. I’d been wrong. I relive that betrayal. “Yeah, you’re right. After I got over my anger, there wasn’t much else left. Dating him was a huge mistake.”
And I’m still paying the price—I’m under probation because of my poor judgment concerning him, and my new supervisor at the practice looks like he’s going to use it as a cudgel to keep me in line.
“I don’t know about that. Brought you here, didn’t it?”
I jolt in my seat. Had it? “I didn’t move here to run away from Phil.”
She cocks her head. “Why did you then? I don’t remember you being all that fond of our hometown.”
“To start fresh,” I assert. It definitely wasn’t to reconnect with my parents. That’s a fruitless cause. They’re in their own bubble and always have been. The only difference is I no longer even try to gain their approval and thereby acceptance into that bubble with them. Right now, they’re on a two-month vacation in Italy, staying in some villa.
Her eyes narrow. “Because…”
I look away and watch the brightly dressed people strolling by outside. “Because…” Self-reflection is not a default setting for me, but Tricia’s giving me her patented glare. No trouble seeing why she does so well as a prosecutor. “Gainesville just seemed…messy for me.” I sigh. “Okay, maybe because of Phil, but it’s wrapped up in all that went into getting through my schooling. I was basically unfinished there. Working toward what I wanted. So…maybe I figured I’d come here and be the finished me.” That sounded lame, but it’s hard to pick up the threads of my logic and straighten them out.
She puts up both her hands. “Hey, I’m not saying the move was a bad thing. So dating Phil was a mistake. But maybe good things come out of mistakes.”
I frown, doubtful. “Not sure what good will come from yesterday’s epic mistake.”
She twists her mouth to the side. “So…Luke Haas, huh? I don’t know that I remember him all that well.” Not surprising—Sarasota High had over 2,500 students.
“He’s the one who competed with me every year at the science fair. Diet Coke on my winning project guy?”
She pauses, her drink halfway to her mouth. “Oh shit, really? Him?”
I nod.
She snorts, and I try to channel her patented glare. She puts a napkin over her mouth. To hide her grin, I’m sure.
“Sorry. It is kinda funny. I might have had a class with him, but I don’t remember. How did you not recognize him?”
I fall back against my seat. “Luke, to me, is a short, pimply, skinny kid. Quiet. And kind of a jerk. I only saw him once a year for that fair. We never shared a homeroom or classes.”
“And…?”
“The man I met yesterday was this six-foot-two Greek god with a dry sense of humor who just oozed sex appeal.”
“Oozed, huh? They make ointments for that.”
I throw a napkin at her. “I’m being serious. Right when I walked in the door and spotted him, his presence pushed and pulled against me. You know? We just…clicked.”
She smirks. “Is that what you heteros are calling it these days?”
“Tricia,” I mock-plead. “Are you going to help me or tease me?” I laugh, already feeling better.
She leans back against her seat. “Sorry, I missed you. You’re such an easy mark.”
The waiter comes with our bill, and Tricia whips out her card. “Let me treat. To celebrate you moving back.”
I put up a token protest but acquiesce because I’m still looking at a mountain of debt. She knows it, and I appreciate that she lets me save face with her excuse. “Thank you.”
“No sweat. And I’m holding you to your promise to come to Susan’s one-person show.”
“Wouldn’t miss it.” I tap the Lyft icon on my phone.
We stand and work our way through the crowded restaurant. “What are you going to do about Luke?”
I sling my purse strap over my head. “Nothing.”
“Nothing? I thought he was a ‘Greek god.’ ”
I lift my chin and adjust my purse strap. “Doesn’t matter. He’s dishonest. I’ve also already been-there-done-that with the whole dating a client athlete. It’s too complicated.” Including my feelings. “I don’t need complicated right now.”
Having talked it all out with Tricia, it’s clear that the whole fiasco just reminded me why I don’t like messy, emotional crap. Too easy to lose one’s way.
“If you say so.”
“I do,” I say way too cheerfully, fueled by martini courage and resolve. But I worry that courage and resolve will crumble the next time I’m in Luke’s personal space.
The man affects me.
I can’t help it.
But I can resist.
Maybe.
The Lyft driver pulls up, and as I’m about to step in, Tricia grabs my forearm. “Luke might not be the right person for you, but don’t close yourself off to everyone. When you find the right person, they’ll be worth the complication.”
I give her a side-eye, but she persists. “Promise me?”
Reluctantly I agree, since I don’t need to be taking up the Lyft driver’s time arguing with Tricia. She was always good with timing ambushes like that.
Chapter 7
Luke
I stride into The Alligator’s Butt on South Lemon Ave. My shower-wet hair has dampened the collar of my T-shirt, but I had no time to waste after finishing my workout. I’d called a meeting of the team to discuss strategy, and they should all be here by now. Aiden would’ve already been here, since it’s his bar.
The sticky floor clings to my shoes, and the peanut shells crunch underfoot. I note who’s new and who’s not as a jangly tune blares from the overhead speakers. I push through the beaded curtain of a side room. We call it the War Room.
Aiden is leaning against the far wall supervising his waitstaff passing out waters. During the season, we’re on an alcohol break. He nods as I take a seat. A water appears in front of me. They’re so good to me.
Almost everyone is assembled. “Where’s Mark?” I ask, relaxing into my seat.
“On his way.” Conor takes a sip from his water and leans back on his chair legs.
On cue, Mark pushes through the curtain. “Hey, guys. What’d I miss?”
“Nothing yet, cheese ball.” Aiden pushes away from the wall.
Conor turns to me. “Wanna share why Dr. Rodgers is upset with you?”
“No.” While I was prepared for her to be brought up, I was not prepared for the ru
sh of longing and regret that hearing her name induces.
Conor glares.
I shake my head, smiling. “Not gonna work, asshole. You do not compare to my instructors during Hell Week, so give it up. It’s none of your business.”
“Except it’s affecting ours.” Paolo clicks and unclicks a ballpoint pen. He’s our Radar O’Reilly—part nerd, part nice guy, with the round head and round glasses to finish it off. He hates it when we call him Radar.
“Radar,” I grunt. “The circumstances that caused it are private, okay? Yeah, I did something to piss her off. I’ve apologized. I think she’s accepted it.” The look of betrayal and hurt and how she’d huddled in on herself in the car fills my mind.
“You think?” Conor bites out.
Aiden swings a leg over his chair and sits. I hate when he does that. Ever since he saw some compilation of Commander Riker on Star Trek: The Next Generation doing that over and over, he’s made it his signature move. He leans into the table, taking us all in with a big grin. “Drink up everyone! You’d think a round of free drinks would play better with this crowd. Look, I know we’re all tense. Soldier here knows he’s fucked up, and he plans to make it right. He called the meeting, didn’t he? Let’s cut him some slack.”
“Sailor,” I mutter, but the distinction never seems to register with them, so I’ve ceased making a big stink about it. Besides, the razzing is nothing compared to the shit my fellow SEALs gave each other. Like then, we might find someone annoying—hell, we might dislike one—but we all trusted each other. It’s taken a while for this team to get to that point, but we have. It’s one of the reasons we trained so hard—the more intense the training, the deeper the trust we forge. And trust leads to success.
Romy shifts his glass back and forth. “So what do you propose?” No surprise that he’s one of the last to say a word. He’s a quiet guy, a bit prickly, and none of us has a fucking clue what he does for a living.
I smile at him, taking a cue from Aiden to lighten up the mood. “It all depends, and I’m glad we have a scarf-fluffer like you to help strategize.” Since none of us know his occupation, we always make ridiculous guesses just to needle him.
Earning It Page 5