Hot SEAL, Dirty Martini

by Johnson, Cat

  Luckily another workday had begun. While she was busy with production during the day she was fine. It was those long nights alone in her tiny bedroom that proved to be a problem.

  Tasha sighed. One day at a time . . .

  About mid-morning, they sat around the table in the living room for a quick production meeting—Maria, Tasha and of course Clay, who gripped a bottle of water in one fist and looked unhappy to be there.

  She looked a little closer at him. Judging by the dark circles beneath his eyes, he wasn’t sleeping that great either. That made Tasha feel moderately better.

  Maria read the schedule aloud from the screen of her iPad Pro. “Tomorrow the painters will be here—”

  “Wait.” Clay frowned. “Tomorrow is Sunday.”

  Maria eyed him. “Yes. And?”

  “You got a paint crew to work on a Sunday?” Clay asked.

  She smiled. “Of course, we did. The show pays well and it’s free advertising for the business. The owner told me he got new matching shirts for the crew printed with the company’s name and phone number on them. Even if he does have to pay more to get his crew to work on a Sunday, it’ll be worth it for the publicity. He’s not stupid.”

  Clay scowled. “No, he’s not. But I guess I am for assuming we’d have a day off during this thing.”

  “There’s only three weeks left and there’s a lot to get accomplished.”

  “I understand that. But most people have a day or two off a week,” he grumbled.

  Tasha watched the debate and sipped the iced coffee one of the assistants had delivered to her. It was interesting to be an observer in a fight that involved Clay and not her for once.

  “You were in the Navy.” Maria pointedly dropped her gaze to Clay’s U.S. NAVY tattoo, visible on his forearm. “Didn’t you work long hours and go a few weeks without a day off during your service?”

  He scowled at that. “Yes. But—”

  Maria’s only reply as she waited for him to continue was one raised brow.

  Clay stopped at the sight of her unyielding expression and blew out a breath. “I can be here in the morning but I can’t work late the way we usually do. I need the evening off.”

  “What time?” Maria asked.

  “I need to leave before seventeen-hundred—I mean five p.m.,” he corrected himself while Tasha tried to ignore the flutter in her groin his slip into military-speak had caused.

  She’d lived in this area for five years and had never dated a sailor. Who knew she had a thing for military men? Certainly not her . . . and not until now. Until him.

  Ugh, were they all hot as hell and stubborn as a jackass? And why was she so physically, irresistibly, attracted to him?

  Supposedly women got turned on by their brains first and their bodies second. She’d always gone for guys who were smart and funny, not pig-headed Neanderthals like Clay.

  Though maybe that was the answer right there. Her biological clock must be ticking and some instinct left over from the caveman days of humanity was tricking her body into thinking Clay would make a good mate.

  She had no doubt he would. If killing wooly mammoths to put food on the fire and fathering their own clan of cave babies were the only issues, then Clay would be a perfect mate.

  But as a match for a modern woman? Not so much.

  Meanwhile, while Tasha had been occupied considering Clay’s caveman abilities and attributes, the battle between him and Maria was still going.

  Maria scrolled through her tablet and finally nodded. “Fine. You can leave at five. The painting crew and Tasha can continue without you. I can leave the main crew here and send just a cameraman with you to wherever—”

  “No.” His single word was loud and firm.

  “Clay—”

  “Maria. No! I’ve put up with a lot. I’ve let you invade my privacy and my home and even my damn bedroom, but the line I draw is here. No camera. Not for this.”

  “And what exactly is this?” Maria asked as Tasha wondered the same thing.

  “It’s private.” Clay held up his hand when Maria opened her mouth to protest. He shook his head. “I’m serious. This is a deal breaker for me.”

  His expression looked deadly serious. Tasha had seen him annoyed and angry, but she’d never seen such focused unwavering determination in him.

  Would he really walk away from this deal and this house and be in breach of contract for one camera-free evening?

  As she watched his nostrils flare while he glared at Maria, unflinching, Tasha had a feeling he might.

  For some strange reason she couldn’t figure out, Tasha wanted to help him. Maybe because for once it didn’t seem like he was being contrary on purpose. Whatever he had to do, it was important to him.

  She had an idea. “You know, Maria, I think it might be kind of fun to be on set alone for a few hours without Clay. I can play up how now that he’s not here I can make all the decisions on my own. Maybe I’ll even bring out a can of pink paint and threaten to paint his bedroom that color as a joke. It’ll be funny.”

  Maria drew in a breath and finally broke eye contact from the staring contest she’d been having with Clay. Her focus moved to Tasha.

  “I think that might work.” She turned her gaze back to him. “Clay?”

  “Fine.” He didn’t even balk about the pink paint idea proving this thing, whatever it was, was big. That only made Tasha want to know what it was even more.

  Was Jane’s guess right? Did Clay secretly have a girlfriend? Was this mystery event he couldn’t miss some sort of date? And if he’d go to so much effort to be with this girl on this particular day, why the hell had he screwed Tasha on the bathroom sink?

  Her stomach twisted at the thought.

  She glanced in his direction. Jaw clenched, breathing fast, brows drawn low, Clay was visibly agitated. The man’s emotions showed clearly on his face, but he was still a closed book when it came to her trying to read his thoughts and his motivations.

  What was Clay’s deal? She was angry with herself for even wondering, but far more disappointed that she cared. That she couldn’t fight the attraction, in spite of it all.

  “All right. That’s what we’ll have to do then.” Maria blew out a breath as she tapped on her iPad’s screen. “Tomorrow, Clay will leave at five and Tasha, the crew and the painters will stay here and keep working with the cameras rolling.”

  Maria didn’t look happy with the plan. Neither did Clay, even if he had gotten his way.

  Tasha wasn’t all that satisfied with this outcome either. All it had done was make her wonder what Clay was up to.

  She hated nothing more than an unsolved mystery . . . so perhaps she should do something about solving this one.

  It was definitely something to think about.

  TWENTY-THREE

  McP’s was abuzz by the time Clay walked in.

  The guys already had a table and a round of drinks in front of them. No surprise. They’d planned to meet at seventeen-thirty and Clay had walked in at seventeen-twenty, but he knew his friends and had no doubt they’d all gotten there early.

  Asher only had to drive from the base, which was barely a stone’s throw away. The others had driven or flown in specifically for this. It was that important to them all—and he’d nearly been late because of a fucking reality show.

  Jaw clenched from residual anger over the whole debate with Maria that had nearly kept him away, Clay glanced behind him one more time. It didn’t hurt to be extra careful.

  He’d kept one eye on his rear-view mirror the whole drive over to make sure she hadn’t put a camera crew on him. He could spot a tail better than most, and he didn’t think some Hollywood production company would have cameramen who even knew how to follow someone unobserved, so he was probably safe.

  So far, so good. He hadn’t spotted anyone on the road and he didn’t notice anyone here now.

  If she had sent a crew to follow him, he would have turned the truck around and missed this rather than have it
tainted. His teammate Randy had sacrificed himself to save the rest of the team five years ago to the day. He deserved better than to have his memorial be exploited for television ratings.

  “Dirtman.” Asher had spotted him from across the bar and waved him over.

  No need. Clay had seen them the moment he’d walked in, in spite of the fact they’d chosen the darkest, farthest, most secluded corner in the place. He’d just been avoiding going over until he was sure the coast was clear.

  He moved over now, catching Raymond’s eye and holding up one finger to the bartender as he walked by.

  Ray would know what he wanted. They’d been meeting here and ordering the same drinks on the same night every year for five years now.

  Clay spotted the usual cast of characters. Each had his cocktail of choice on the table in front of him.

  His gaze landed on the empty chair with the full shot glass sitting in front of it. He tipped his head toward the vacant place and the untouched shot, acknowledging the teammate who was there in spirit but not body.

  He could picture Randy downing those damn Blowjob shots like it was yesterday, rather than half a damn decade ago.

  The man ordered them like they were candy. Hell, they might as well be candy since they were made out of all sweet shit and cream. The big Texan didn’t care about the girly ingredients in his drink of choice and no one would have ever dared comment on it anyway. Well, no one outside of his brothers on the team. From them, Randy got plenty of shit.

  Clay forced his gaze off that shot and empty chair and moved to the next table over where a man and a woman sat at a table with three seats. “Anyone using this?” he asked, resting his hand on the back of the empty chair.

  The guy, who had Navy written all over him, shook his head. “Nope. It’s all yours.”

  “Thanks, man.” Clay swung the chair around and shoved it in the narrow space between Asher and Chase Flannigan.

  “I was worried you weren’t gonna make it.” Asher, smartass to the core, waggled his eyebrows. “Thought you might be too busy with . . . other things.”

  “Fuck off, Knots.” Clay rolled his eyes. “I’m not late.”

  Chase tsked. “Now, Dirtman, you know what the commander always said.”

  “If you’re not early, you’re late.” The commander in question, Connor “Hammer” Evans, raised his glass in a toast to Clay.

  “I know. I know.” Clay shook his head, accepting the criticism.

  His former teammates hadn’t signed their lives away to a devil corporation from Hollywood with enough lawyers to sink Clay if he didn’t toe the line. However, that was not a subject he planned to discuss here and now with these guys.

  “So, how’s the TV show going?” Asher asked.

  Or maybe he was.

  He braced for the onslaught of questions and jokes and wasn’t disappointed. It was like Asher had dumped a bucket of bloody chum in the water and his teammates were the sharks riled into a feeding frenzy.

  The questions came fast and furious. Too many to keep track of and answer in any cohesive order.

  Clay held up one hand to silence them. “If everyone shuts up for a second, I’ll explain.”

  He glanced behind him to see where his drink was and spotted it sitting on the bar waiting for a cocktail waitress to deliver it.

  Waiting was not Clay’s strong suit so he stood and stalked to the bar. He grabbed the martini and took a big sip before he carried it back to the table.

  Setting down the glass, he took his seat again and drew in a breath. “All right. Here’s what happened . . .”

  The story he told was heavily edited. Clay played up how conniving the production company had been swooping in and driving up the price of his house. He made sure they knew how perfect it was and how he had to do something—anything—to make sure it was his. And he mentioned Tasha as little as he could get away with, all while shooting Asher repeated warning glances to tell him to keep his mouth shut.

  When he was finally done, the guys sat silent—a rarity.

  Finally, Gunner said, “Wow. You lucky motherfucker. It just figures you retire and two months later you’re a damn reality TV star.”

  “I’m nothing of the sort. It’s on some cable channel I never heard of and believe me, if there were any other way for me to get that house I would have done it.”

  Nikko shrugged. “I don’t know. It sounds kind of cool.”

  “You wouldn’t think so if they had night-vision cameras running twenty-four/seven in your bedroom so they can capture every fucking thing you say or do even after the camera crew goes home.”

  Carson asked, “Hard-wired or wireless?”

  “Wireless.” Clay frowned as he grabbed on to what Carson was getting at even before he explained. It was like a light bulb went off in his head. “I can jam the signal.”

  Carson nodded. “Hell yeah, you can. All it takes is one little device.”

  “Shit. You’re right.” Why hadn’t he thought of that sooner?

  Because he was so out of his element in this world of TV he forgot one basic thing. He was a SEAL and a good one. His skills would work in the civilian world just as well as they did in the military. He just had to remember to apply them.

  “Well now. This sounds like a fun mission. What are we going to call it? Operation Fuck with the Producers?” Asher rubbed his hands together in anticipation.

  An alternate name popped into Clay’s head, unbidden. Operation Fuck the Co-Host. In a real bed instead of against the bathroom sink, all without anyone hearing or seeing it on the camera feed.

  But they’d agreed. They weren’t going to do that again.

  It had been a moment of weakness and insanity that had it happening the first time. It wasn’t going to happen again.

  But damn, with the jammer it would be so easy.

  Next to him, Asher whipped out his cell phone, typed in a text and then stashed it again in the cargo pocket on his thigh before he glanced at Clay. “A jammer will be in your truck by the time you leave tonight.”

  “What? What are you talking about?” Clay frowned.

  “I texted one of the new guys on the team. I told him to acquire a signal jammer and deliver it to your truck in the parking lot before nineteen-thirty.”

  “And he’s going to do it?” Clay asked.

  “Fuck yeah, he is. He so young and eager, he’ll do whatever the hell I ask him to do.” Asher grinned.

  Clay laughed. Asher’s deadline was only two hours from now. The kid would no doubt have to scramble to get it done.

  “At least the fucking new guys are good for something.” Trevor shook his head, a mug of black coffee in front of him on the table since he didn’t drink.

  “All we got is fucking new guys now that you sons of bitches left,” Asher pointed out.

  “Hey, Knots. Civilian life ain’t too bad. You should try it.” Nikko raised his beer to Asher.

  Asher shook his head. “One day. But not today.”

  The conversation thankfully moved away from Clay’s life and turned to other things, like what the other guys were up to.

  It was good to catch up. He missed seeing his teammates on a daily basis. He’d spent more time over the last twenty years with them than he had with his own family.

  Retiring and being separated from them was a drastic change in his life.

  A change that big could mess with a man’s mind. Maybe that was one reason why this house seemed so important to Clay. It wasn’t life or death that he get it, but damn, it felt that way sometimes.

  But it was good to be with his old teammates now. To forget, for a few hours at least, they would all go back to their separate lives tomorrow. To ignore that he might not see some of them again for another year, until they all met back here again for another toast to Randy. To forget that, for the guys like Asher who were still on active duty, one mission gone bad could mean he’d never see him again.

  Clay reached for his glass, surprised to see it was almost emp
ty. He glanced around and saw that save for Randy’s still full shot, they all needed a refill.

  “Another round?” he asked, though he knew the answer already.

  A rousing response of fuck, yeah confirmed it.

  Clay smiled as he pushed his chair back, liking the familiarity they all shared. For the first time since retiring, he felt like himself again.

  Too bad the feeling wasn’t going to last.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  “So I want a really pretty feminine color. Like lavender or a really soft rose.” Tasha had trouble keeping a straight face as she explained what she wanted to the store employee helping her.

  It would serve Clay right if she actually painted his bedroom pink or purple. But the following weeks of fallout and foul moods wouldn’t be worth the five minutes of fun.

  This whole trip to the paint store was just for show. A bit of humor thrown in to make Maria happy so Clay could go out tonight and do . . . whatever.

  The man standing next to her frowned down at the color swatches in her hand before his gaze moved to her face. “This is for the same house you were here about earlier in the week?” he asked.

  She nodded.

  “Clay’s house?”

  “The Hot House show house,” she corrected. “But yes. It’s the house I’m working on with Clay.”

  She hated that in five minutes Clay and the paint store guy had bonded. It turned out they’d both been in the Navy, so of course the whole discussion had excluded her. It had been like watching The Clay Show and she was just the audience.

  They’d barely remembered she was there and they certainly hadn’t taken any of her suggestions seriously.

  It was just her luck that the one time she got to come to the store alone, the same guy was working and he, of course, remembered Clay.

  He knew damn well Clay would never approve of the colors she’d just suggested.

  “Which room is this for?” he asked, still looking baffled.

  “The master bedroom.”