Brandy was mumbling in her sleep. It always gentled his whole demeanor when he got to trace down her spine with his palm, sliding it over her derriere and giving her a soft squeeze. This would be the last morning he could feel the ecstasy of making love to her under the soft glow of first dawn.
He inched down the sheets, opening her crossed arms and nuzzling between her breasts as she began to awaken. He watched her eyes open with lazy enjoyment as his fingers slipped over her belly to the magic juncture between her thighs. His forefinger encircled her bud until one of the little presses made her jump.
His mouth was on her opening, his tongue taking over the work from his finger. He gently bit her labia and let the delicate flesh feel just the tip of his canines. She moaned, bent her knees and arched her back, making her breasts heave and then fall as she exhaled, widened her knees and accepted two of his fingers inside her. Her hands flailed on top of his, pushing him deeper and massaging every knuckle and joint. Her arms forced her beautiful orbs with the knotted dark pink nipples to overflow. They called to him. He was hungry for her in so many ways, he vowed to try every one of them on her, until she could hardly move. It was that important that he leave her exhausted and begging him to stay. He needed to hear and feel that need in her.
Because it matched his own.
At eleven o’clock sharp he kissed her good-bye just outside the gate that housed the busses to the airport. He smoothed the backs of his fingers over her wet cheek.
“No need to cry, Brandy. Nothing on this earth would keep me from coming back to you. Be good to your father and be a good friend to Dorie. I think she’s going to need it.”
She wouldn’t take her eyes off his. “I will.” Then came her sweet smile. “But I’m going to miss you so much, Tucker. Can we talk every day?”
“Not sure if the rules have changed, but if I’m off on a training, which will happen after I finish the Corps School, then no. There will be days, maybe even a week or two I’ll not be in phone contact.”
“When can I come visit?”
“Working on it. Good news is, Great Lakes will be pretty then. Early summer. Perfect time to come out. So, let me do a little research and I’ll let you know. Have to scope it all out first.”
“Roger that,” she whispered.
“Hudson! Get your ass over here and quit fondling the wifey,” one of the instructors barked.
Tucker winked at her. “Hear that?”
She sent him off with another quick kiss, and then watched him board the bus. He felt her eyes on his back, and then saw her face between the bars at the gate, her little ring glistening in the sunlight as she gripped the metal barrier.
Her form got smaller and smaller as the caravan of two busses traveled down the frontage road, then turned the corner around SEAL Team 3’s building and hit the back road to the airport. Just like that, she was gone.
On the bus, he knew he was the object of discussion. He caught the sideways glances and the faint whispers. He was going to graduate as a forty-year-old man, trying out for a young man’s job. But Tucker had never been injured and had hardly ever missed a workout. The messy divorce with Shayla had truncated any dreams of finding love, so he’d thrown everything into his Teammates, by taking a job supporting the community—helping the would-be recruits get in the kind of physical and mental shape he knew they’d need to be able to qualify. It was the closest he could get to actually being on a team these past years.
The morning’s activities were a blur. Everything moved at light speed. Their soft lovemaking, the quick double check on his packing list, something he’d gotten drilled into him from his past. In a full-on retro deva-vu, he harkened back to his childhood in Oregon, when he and Brawley sat side by side and compared lunches while they bounced down the country roads in the big yellow bus. The day was judged based on what kind of dessert his mother had packed. Watching the murky water and the Coronado Bridge come up, then the city of San Diego proper, he felt just as when he was in grammar school. He was waiting for the rest of his life to happen.
He had placed a call to his mother earlier as he drove Brandy to the base. He wanted the two most important women in his life to talk together for the first time.
“Mom, this lady is going to marry me. Can you believe that?” he’d told her.
His mom laughed. “Well, I guess there are miracles in this world after all. First Brawley and now your turn. She’s probably very special if she is in love with you, not that I blame her one bit.”
“She’s right here, Mom.” Tucker handed the phone to Brandy, who nearly dropped it before she took up a light-hearted conversation with the elder Mrs. Hudson. She promised a road trip North after Tucker’s graduation from Corps School, and before he started his first phase of SEAL training back in Coronado.
A young, lanky black kid he’d been training who took the seat next to him interrupted his memories of the morning.
“Jamal. If this isn’t old home week. Now I’ve seen four of you on this trip. Is there some kind of conspiracy?” he asked, following it up with a grin.
“Don’t know that, but feel free to kick my butt if I forget anything you’ve taught me. Can’t make you look bad now can we?” he said in his slow, Southern drawl.
“May I offer a piece of advice?”
Jamal enthusiastically nodded his head, yes.
“Not sure where we’ll be housed, but if I don’t get a chance to tell you, go ahead and volunteer to take any tests they give you. But if they tell you you’re going to dental school, sub school or some other specialized career path, tell them to pound salt. You’ve been promised a berth in the next BUD/S class, and if they give you any guff, give Collins a call.”
“I certainly do appreciate it, Tuck.”
The kid sat back in the seat and then had an afterthought, “I hear they do a timed run as soon as we hit the tarmac in Chicago. It’s going to be a pleasure to see you overtake the drill instructors—all of them!”
Tucker reveled in always being the fastest runner in any group of men. He could also bench press more than nearly anyone else as well. He was most worried about the swimming portion of the course, and for that, he would be looking out for an expert swim buddy.
Jamal chuckled right along side Tucker. He was glad that, even though his hair was prematurely gray, his run times had never been better. He was starting to believe he was the machine Brandy always told him he was.
He woke up with a jolt when the wheels touched down on the runway. They’d been put on a commercial flight. One of the overhead bins popped open and began spilling things over his shoulder, into the aisle.
At the training facility, they were set up into quads, in sets of two rooms with a quasi-living room between them. Nice thing about it was that they had a small kitchen, equipped with a full-sized refrigerator and microwave.
Several of the men in their pod were from the east coast. One was from Montana. Tucker and two others hailed from California. One of those men, Conner Newsome, was also a SEAL candidate, and looked extremely fit, so Tucker made a point to arrange project workups and P.T. with him. He knew that sometimes it didn’t take much to get a guy to quit, especially if he felt he was doing it all alone. Having a swim buddy, or someone to watch your back or help with some aspect of the course he didn’t understand was a smart move. The bonding would give them both an edge they could draw on when they needed to.
As the days went by, he began to settle in to a routine, studied hard and tried to curry favor with his instructors. He knew this was a safe bet now, since when he began the first phase, he would seek anonymity. He didn’t want to stand out or he would get picked on. But because he was re-qualifying as a medic, the math and science courses were more challenging. He’d been out of school longer than anyone else.
In the third week, several of the men had dropped out or been reassigned back to the fleet, leaving a vacancy in their pod of eight. It remained that way for nearly a month before they found a replacement.
The Navy allowed one recruit for roughly every ten thousand men, to try out for the Teams, and guarantees were not always given at enlistment any longer. Because Tucker was returning, he’d have his shot, unless he just blew his courses. That didn’t mean they’d make it easy on him. They did want his experience, he’d been told. Having served for ten years, he walked into the field with skills and knowledge of the way the Teams operated that no amount of training could ever duplicate.
He talked with Brandy by phone nearly every day, and enjoyed hearing about life back in San Diego. It took his mind off dwelling on BUD/S, only a few weeks away now. Her dad was nearly up to his old speed and the police had some leads they were following, trying to locate the former employee who had stolen from them and nearly killed her father.
“And wait until you see Dad’s garden. I’ve never seen him so happy,” she told him.
It had been his gift to her father, rototilling the nearly half acre space. It had been part of elder Mr. Cook’s dream to raise his own vegetables and then sell them through his store.
“Can’t wait to be back in the San Diego climate. It’s getting nicer up here, but damn, it’s still cold, especially at night. And it doesn’t just rain here. It monsoons, and the wind blows right in your face, coming off the lakes. Sometimes, even at this late date, the rain is laced with snow. It chills you to the bone.”
“I’ve got some ideas how you can warm yourself up on those cold nights, Tucker. Just say the word, and I’ll be up there tomorrow.”
He was getting horny talking to her and couldn’t wait to see her. “I think we get a weekend soon. We’ll stay in Chicago. You’ll love it.”
“So—Kyle’s group left yesterday. Not sure if you knew that.”
“Figured it was coming up. How’s Dorie doing?”
“Not so good. She’s really struggling.”
“Keep close, Brandy. It will be the best thing for Brawley, for everyone, when he comes back and she’s got her head on straight. Maybe he’ll squeeze those demons out of his system. He could come back a changed man.”
“Hope so. You have any clue what’s gotten into him though? I mean, was he like that at all when you two were growing up in Oregon?”
“Don’t think so, but I honestly don’t remember. I mean, I’ve known him so long, he’s like a brother. What’s he doing?”
“Well, remember I told you about the calls he was getting from some girl?”
“I do. That still going on?”
“Not sure. But he smashed up the Hummer. Pretty good scrape all along the passenger side, denting the rear door. The truck had to be towed since the frame was bent.”
“Just a single car accident, then?” Tucker wanted to know.
“He said he was avoiding a deer. I believe him.”
Tucker had noticed the increased drinking at Brawley’s before he’d left. And Brawley had stopped coming by to visit him, using the excuse he didn’t want to get in the way of his still new relationship with Brandy. It was one of his regrets, not being able to spend a little more time with Brawley before he left. It was unsettling. “When he gets back from deployment, I’ll be just finishing up Phase I. I’ll make sure to reach out, see if I can get together with him. I hope you won’t mind.”
“Not if you behave yourself. Because when you come home, your ass is mine, Tucker. I don’t much like the idea you’d be his sidekick if he’s looking for girls.”
“I should be so lucky.” He chuckled at Brandy’s brazen attitude.
“I mean it, Tucker.”
“Duly noted. I promise, sweetheart.”
As the weeks progressed, Tucker still hadn’t heard from anyone on the Team. He didn’t expect a report on a classified mission, but he always stayed loosely connected even after disengaging from the Teams. He was hoping the new guy was being useful.
But Brandy told him Dorie had also been virtually left alone. The longer this went on, the more he worried about his friend.
As the two friends got older, Brawley attended a different high school, so most of the time their sports teams were competitors. Both athletic and gifted in multiple sports, the matchups between the two of them became the whole story of the game, and drew lots of fan interest.
But unlike Tucker, Brawley didn’t have a sweetheart in high school. Instead, he played the field. Tucker wasn’t aware of a reputation for being a womanizer. He’d often wondered if perhaps Brawley hadn’t been the smarter one between them. There was just so much unfinished. So many holes creeping up on them, it felt like this childhood friendship might be in peril.
One day, he got the call he was dreading. Brandy was coming for her first visit in two days. Brawley’s long, rambling message made no sense at all. He wished he could talk his friend down.
“Must be nice and warm in Baja now,” Tucker said to Brawley.
“Fuckin sweatin’ bullets. They got cockroaches the size of dogs. You should see them.”
“Well, at least the local cat population is under control then.” Tucker thought Brawley would find it as funny as he did, but silence hissed on the other end of the line.
The awkward gap between them made Tucker’s hair stand on end. The back of his neck was hot. It felt like there was a hole in his rebreather, or tent. “Hey dude. What’s up? You don’t sound like your frisky asshole self.” He wanted to break the frostiness between them.
“I’ve been seeing things. Scary shit.”
“Not following you, Brawley.”
“Well, we’re deep into May, past Cinque de Mayo and everything. These people have those skull masks? You know the ones I’m talking about?”
“I believe they call them sugar skulls.”
“Yea. They paint their faces to look like one of those bright skulls. Starting to depress me a bit. You know how that guy Randy what’s-his-face said if you start to get scared, well you need to get out.”
Randy had been their pre-enlistment fitness trainer, with over twenty years on the Teams.
“You’re one of the bravest men I know, Brawley. You’re careful. Don’t go do dumb stuff. There’s a little tension because of the immigrant population and border issues with the government. But we’re cool. Just be glad you’re not Trace. I heard Kyle and him owe their asses to some General down there who wants his daughter to marry a SEAL. I’m glad I didn’t make that promise.”
Brawley didn’t answer.
“You there, asshole?”
“There. I just saw another one?”
“Another one what?” Tucker asked. Now Brawley was starting to scare him.
“One of those little senoritas of death. She wants a playmate.”
“Horse shit. Don’t go there, Brawley.”
“Ask them to stop it, Mr. Tuck and Roll. That’s all I see when I close my eyes.”
Tucker knew a corner had been turned. It wasn’t a good sign.
“Make sure you get lots of rest, Brawley. Get some meds and get a long, long rest.”
Just before Brawley hung up, he whispered, “I’m being followed, Tuck.”
Chapter 6
Steven Cook, Brandy’s father, had discovered items missing from his store. It started out small, but progressed until several days in a row he’d lost a whole case of fruit. But what bothered him was that the person stealing from him hadn’t tried to cover their tracks. He immediately thought about his earlier assault.
Detective Clark Riverton was on semi-retirement duty from the San Diego P.D. He was skilled in homicide cases, and missed his former job, but investigating stolen fruit from a mom & pop grocery store was where his career was headed these days. He took it like everything he did: swore and complained to anyone who would listen, but did nothing about it. He’d been reminded it was an option to just quit. Being the kind of stubborn man he was, that wasn’t anything he considered for more than a second.
Riverton’s presence, waddling between the aisles, picking up oranges, apples and melons, sniffing them and then setting them back down, made Mr. Cook w
onder if it was such a good idea to call him.
“You can’t tell anything by smelling the fruit. At least, not those,” he said as he nodded to Riverton’s hands. Cook extended his hand. “Steven Cook.”
“Clark Riverton.” He retrieved a dog-eared card from the shirt pocket under his blazer.
“Thanks.” Cook slipped the paper inside the front catchall pocket on his green grocer’s apron.
“So what can I do yous for?” Riverton looked out of place. “You’ve got a fruit burglar I hear.”
Cook winced at the obvious slight. “That’s right. But it’s more than that,” he continued. “It’s like I’m being left a message.”
Despite his manners, Cook heard Riverton swear under his breath, and then clear his throat, standing tall. “And what makes you think that? The fruit talking to you these days, Mr. Cook?”
“Not the fruit—” Then he realized he’d been played. “The guy who assaulted me had been an employee of mine, Jorge Mendoza. Your colleagues are trying to find him as we speak.”
Riverton’s expression didn’t change. “Okay, so we got a serial fruit burglar, then. Anything else you wanna tell me about? Like, when did this happen, and how often?”
“After hours, of course. He’s getting in somehow. I don’t keep the money here anymore.”
“Smart. That’s been stolen too, or did he just prefer fruit?”
Cook examined the lines on the Detective’s face. He couldn’t see any laughter beginning to break out but was fairly sure it was there, just under the surface. Riverton was a pro and masking his feelings, but Cook detected he was about to split a gut.
“No money missing. Not yet, anyway.”
“This—” Riverton consulted his small spiral-bound notebook—“Mendoza fellow, you or any of your staff spot him hanging around?”
“Nope. No one has. The police told me he was a known gang member. Which reminds me, while I have your ear, why can’t an employer like myself consult a database of known gang members before we make that hire? It sure would save us all a lot of hassle.”
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