TRITON: A Navy SEAL Romance (Heroes Ever After Book 2)

by Alana Albertson

  One round. One bullet.

  Enough to end his life.

  Enough to end mine.

  I removed the round, clutched it in my hand, and buried the bullet in my purse.

  I walked back into the living room, my heart racing, but I was certain I’d done the right thing.

  But I was also certain I had to get the hell out of here. What if he found out I stole his bullet? In the haze of lust and desperation, I’d put myself in a dangerous situation—alone with an armed stranger. Emotions twisted inside me. Grady was sexy and a true hero.

  But it didn’t matter.

  Ultimately, I didn’t feel safe. Though I wanted to be a clinical psychologist, I didn’t have the tools to help Grady, and one glance at the bullet in my purse made me realize I was in way over my head.

  But what about our connection? I liked this guy—my heart raced when I thought about him. We had just had the most incredible sex, twice, and he’d opened up to me, revealed himself to me, showed me his scars. He asked me to spend the night. How could I leave him now when he had just begun to let me in?

  After a few more minutes, Grady came back into the room. “Sorry about that, my buddy’s going through a rough time.”

  “No worries. It’s great that you’re there for him.”

  We sat in silence. I didn’t know what to say to him. I had so many questions about what had happened to him in Iraq, what his life was like now, how he coped. But I had no right to ask these questions. I never wanted to start a relationship with sex first. But we’d already crossed that line, and there was no going back.

  My phone vibrated. Marisol.

  Marisol: You hooker! You ready to go home?

  Isa: I’ll be back where you parked in a few minutes.

  Marisol: K.

  “Grady, my friend is going to pick me up downstairs. I’m going to go.”

  His face fell and it was as if I could almost see hope escaping from his eye.

  What had I just done? I hated myself.

  “Good.” He stood up.

  Good? Ouch. Maybe he had only asked me to stay the night because he was a gentleman. Guess he didn’t want to be held responsible if a cabbie murdered me.

  Or maybe the sting of my rejection had caused him to turn cold.

  I’d been wrong to think there was a connection here; I was probably nothing more to him than another random hookup.

  This was for the best. As much as I craved getting close to a man, I truly doubted that I could really let my guard down, especially with someone who was going through his own issues. Plus once he realized I’d disarmed him, he would probably never trust me again.

  I refused to let him see my hurt. “It was really nice to meet you, Grady.”

  My arms extended for a hug but he brushed me off. Double ouch.

  I wanted him to throw me over his back and take me back to his bed, fuck me all night. Grady’s wounds, his scars of war, were likely so deep, that no amount of love could heal. Maybe he was actually right—no amount of therapy could help either, especially with an unwilling patient. He was not right for me—I couldn’t risk getting involved with and loving another person who would leave me.

  Pathetically I still hoped for a second that he would ask me for my number, or out on a date. Somewhere public, without a loaded gun in the vicinity. Some sign to show me that this was more than just a one-night stand.

  But he just opened the door.

  Isa, you’re embarrassing yourself. He doesn’t want anything to do with you. Just make a clean break now and forget this night ever happened.

  I squeezed his hand, gave him a kiss on his cheek, and darted out of his apartment.

  7

  Grady

  Man, she couldn’t leave fast enough, just like all the other girls. I’d been wrong, thinking there was a chance she could actually be interested in more than just a drive by. She definitely would never agree to attend the ball with me and be seen in public with a freak.

  I threw my beer against the wall—shards of glass flying through the air, the liquid dripping down the wall.

  Had I said something wrong? I didn’t have a tolerance for bullshit or small talk. I never knew what to say to women. After living through the hell that was my life, talking about my favorite color or what movies I liked seemed so superficial.

  This entire night had been so fake. Another meaningless hookup. I’d actually been about to ask her out before I had that flashback at the party. But once she’d followed me back to my place, of course I tried to fuck her. I’d hoped she’d stay the night, and maybe we could slowly learn about each other. If she’d seemed cool, I was going to ask her to the ball.

  But asking her out was a dumbass idea anyway. I clearly couldn’t handle being out in public, even with my face covered. Where could I take her? Some smoky bar where she wouldn’t have to look at me?

  I paced around my apartment, the blood pulsing violently through my body, my adrenaline spiking. Had she taken pity on me? Catnip to a wannabe psychologist? A pity fuck—that was all I was these days.

  And I’d seen her before, but I just couldn’t figure out where. When I asked her where, I could swear she was lying to me. My mind never cooperated anymore. Her face, her body, her eyes, even her voice. It was as if I knew her. But that wasn’t possible. Maybe I was really losing it.

  Fuck that bitch. It would’ve never worked out between us anyway. She was training to be a shrink. If I dated her, our relationship would turn into a never-ending counseling session.

  Fuck women. I’d risked my life for my buddies and they had done the same for me. My love for my brothers was the only thing that mattered to me. My best friend was dead, and here I was acting like a pussy, stressing out because some girl I met took off. It didn’t matter. None of this dating drama mattered.

  Living in San Diego didn’t help. I missed my hometown friends. And the Southern girls too. Everyone out here on the left coast only cared about appearances and money. I had neither.

  I regretted ruining a perfectly good beer over this bitch. I grabbed another bottle, drowning myself in liquid regret. Each sip increasing my rage. Yes, I was a fucking alcoholic. And no, I didn’t need any help.

  I should’ve never left my place. I couldn’t handle being around people anymore. From now on, I would hide away from the world. I’d fulfill my duties to the Corps and complete my required treatment.

  I still needed to find a date to the ball, but it sure as hell wouldn’t be Isa.

  8

  Isa

  I woke up the next morning with the worst hangover, but it wasn’t from the alcohol, it was from the guilt. My head throbbed, and my eyes were blurry. God, I hated myself for dashing out of there last night after he’d asked me to stay. I could’ve been honest with him about finding his loaded gun and asked him if he was suicidal. What was wrong with me? How could I claim to want to be a psychologist if I ran away at the first sign of trouble?

  I also should’ve just opened up to him, told him I used to be on Dancing under the Stars. Maybe we could’ve connected. He would’ve probably understood how fame distorted reality since he was also in the public eye. A brief fantasy of grabbing brunch after incredible morning sex, maybe topped off by a walk on the beach later in the day, filled my head. We’d fall into a deep relationship before either of us really knew what had happened.

  But more than likely, opening up would’ve just led to nothing.

  But I didn’t feel sorry for stealing his bullet. Granted, he was a Marine, so I was pretty sure he had more ammo around the house. At least if he had a weak moment, he would have to reload his gun, and even that short delay could potentially save his life. I’d missed all the signs that my mother was suicidal, so I refused to regret being proactive.

  I did entertain the thought that my action could’ve possibly put his life in more danger. An intruder could break into his place, Grady could reach for his gun, think it was loaded, and then shoot, and lose his life. But that was the chance I�
�d taken, and my gut told me that he had a higher likelihood of committing suicide than of being robbed.

  I Googled him the second I returned home. He had been so beautiful before he’d been injured. Kind of looked like a young Elvis Presley but with a way better body. I was still attracted to him, even with his disfigurement and scars. In a way, it made him sexier. More badass.

  My fingers shook as I clicked away. I glanced around my room—a dust bunny perched on my nightstand, last night’s costume in a pile on the floor, a day-old coffee mug on my desk. I definitely wasn’t neat like Grady. I wondered if he had always been that clean and organized or if being a Marine made him that way.

  I hoped he didn’t think I’d left because of his injuries. I shuddered, thinking I could have possibly made him feel like he disgusted me. Maybe I was being conceited—he clearly knew he had a great body and could get any woman. Maybe he’d been relieved when I’d left.

  Another link took me to his official webpage. I laughed when the page loaded—it played that song “Grenade” by Bruno Mars. I loved that Grady could keep a sense of humor about his injuries. On second thought, that song would make a good rumba . . .

  I missed dancing, connecting to the floor, expressing the emotion of a song. For years it had been my outlet, kept me sane when my family life was chaotic. But after my mom killed herself during my last night on the show, the memories of me dancing had been laced with tragedy.

  Wow, Grady wasn’t the only one who needed therapy.

  Despite all my intense work on myself, I was cognizant enough to realize that I was completely screwed up. I’d never been in a healthy relationship. And my own interaction with my father was complicated. He’d become distant after my mom died, not that I blamed him.

  And he refused to talk about my mother.

  I tried to tell my father once how much I needed to share memories about her with him, but he claimed it was too painful to remember. I thought it was more painful to forget.

  I closed my eyes, and replayed last night over again, haunting questions increasing my anxiety. Would I ever be able to find a man who was emotionally present and responsible? Would Grady ever recover from war? Could he move on from his traumas and find happiness in a normal, stable life? A man like that, so strong and sexy . . . I wondered what it would be like to be his.

  But I’d never know. I’d closed that door before it was even cracked.

  After stalking Grady, I finally closed the window, determined to push him out of my mind. I logged in again to my student services account, hoping the hold on my account had mysteriously vanished in the night, but unfortunately it remained.

  Something was off. My father hadn’t even returned my text.

  A thought chilled me. Was he avoiding me?

  I rummaged through my notebook to find my passwords. Finally, I was able to log in to my trust fund, a fund I had set up with my earnings from Dancing under the Stars. I had made my father trustee.

  The blinking screen seemed to take forever to refresh. But there was no mistaking the negative balance in glaring red.

  -$359.

  What in the world? This had to be a mistake. I had checked last quarter and had over thirty-five thousand dollars. Definitely more than enough for this final year of school.

  I shot off a frantic text to my dad. Maybe he was in Vegas or on one of his benders? I would not wait for him to respond. First thing tomorrow morning, I would head to the bank. No one else had access to these funds— except my father.

  And he would never touch it.

  Would he?

  9

  Grady

  My hand grasped the thin envelope, crumbling it in my fist. My heart knew the words written inside—medically retired. Not fit for duty.

  Worthless.

  I ripped open the letter, the stoic black ink confirming my worst fears. I was out, done. I’d be medically retired at the end of this enlistment—six more months. Nothing left of me but a broke-ass civilian, doomed to spend the rest of my life shuttered away from public view so I didn’t scare the children. A future working the graveyard shift was my best bet so no one would have to look at my fucked up face.

  Why hadn’t I died in that shanty house? Honorably, a hero. Maggots eating my body in Arlington, a twenty-one-gun salute blazing.

  At least I’d be with my best friend, Rafael.

  I missed that motherfucker. His raw sense of humor, his supremely bad taste in music, his penchant for dousing his MREs in hot sauce. But more than anything, I missed the way he took care of everyone in our unit. He truly had our backs. If you needed some extra cash, Rafael wouldn’t hesitate to lend it to you. If you needed a ride from the airport at two in the morning, Rafael would be there even if he were due to PT on base at six.

  He had a wife and a beautiful little girl who worshipped him. Who missed him. Who would do anything to see him one last time.

  I had no one.

  No one would ever love me like that. No woman would ever want to look at me every day for the rest of her life.

  It should’ve been me.

  I jammed my key into my apartment, grabbed a bottle of whiskey, and blasted the death metal CD I’d left in the stereo.

  San Diego was suffering from another late summer heat wave. The sun blazed outside the window, the excessive warmth incinerating my already torched skin.

  I paced around my apartment, clutching my cell phone, but my fingers refused to press any numbers. I didn’t want to burden my grandparents with my pain, my friends were in the field at CAX preparing to deploy to Afghanistan. I was jealous of those motherfuckers, training in the desert of 29 Palms, able-bodied, fearless, free. I was a prisoner of my body, my mind. Loneliness and despair crashed in a wave over me, drowning me in the agony I tried so hard to ignore.

  I can’t do this anymore.

  Another swig of whiskey, and I knelt beside my bed. One shot, that’s all it would take to end my suffering, my burden on this world. My spirit would soar free, leave my battered body.

  Maybe it was my destiny. I shouldn’t have survived.

  I shouldn’t be alive.

  My life as I knew it was over. My career was finished. My best friend was dead. My body was in excruciating pain. I looked like a mutant.

  No one would even notice if I was gone.

  I grabbed my pistol, my Glock. No magazine; I always kept one round in the chamber. One click, and I’d meet my maker.

  This wasn’t the first time I’d thought about killing myself—I’d always kept my gun close by, in my nightstand, in my glove compartment. It was like a prescription that was always filled just in case I needed it.

  It was time.

  I wasn’t afraid; I was at peace. I wanted to go home.

  I placed the gun to my head, the cold steel imprinting on my temple, and squeezed the trigger.

  Click.

  Nothing. Radio silence.

  What the fuck?

  I was still here.

  Fuck, I can’t even kill myself.

  Where the fuck was that round? I always left a round in my chamber.

  Always.

  No one had been in my apartment in a while. Only person who had been here recently was Isa.

  Isa?

  No way. No fucking way.

  But it could only be her. No one had broken into my place to steal my bullet.

  How did she know how to disarm a weapon? When had she done this? While I was in the shower? On the phone with my buddy?

  I placed the gun down, debating going into my closet to get more ammo. But I just sat still on the bed, frozen.

  I couldn’t believe that bitch had stolen my bullet. What if I needed my gun to protect myself?

  If I ever saw her again, I’d make her pay. But I didn’t even know how to contact her. No last name, no phone number. Nothing. Only a memory remained that replayed daily in my mind. The sensation of her hot, wet flesh, of how being inside her erased my pain, if only for a fleeting moment.

  I buried
my face in my hands. And for the first time since my injuries, I allowed myself to cry.

  One tear burned my skin, and it was like I had opened up a floodgate. I wept for Rafael, I wept for myself, and I drowned myself in self-pity. What had I ever done to deserve this fate? I was caught in an endless cycle of surgeries, intolerable pain, agony, and no relief.

  I grabbed my bottle of whisky and downed it, the smooth liquid coating my throat, taking the edge off my aching. The framed picture of the President awarding me the medal came into my view, and my breath hitched. I was not worthy of such an accolade—the highest military honor in the country.

  After staring at my gun, I stood up and placed it back in my nightstand. Once again, I’d cheated death. I would make no promise for tomorrow, but tonight would not be my end.

  10

  Isa

  My hand shook, my coffee spilling through its tiny plastic slit. This bank opened at nine in the morning, and I’d been standing outside for the last half an hour. Worry gnawed through me. This was more than money—this was my life, my future, the only lasting benefit of my past.

  The teller finally opened the door at a minute past nine. I marched to the back of the bank and sat in the manager’s chair.

  A middle-aged man with a glint in his eyes and an ill-fitting suit greeted me. “Good morning, Miss. How can I help you?”

  I handed him my driver’s license and bankcard. “There’s a mistake in my account. My tuition check bounced. I looked online last night and it said there was a negative balance. That can’t be correct. I had over thirty-five thousand dollars in it a few months ago.”

  He glanced at my ID. “I see. Please swipe your card in the reader and enter your PIN, and we will get to the bottom of this.”

  I followed his directions and pulled my hair.

  The manager gave me a sympathetic grin and perused his screen. After the annoying tapping of his old-school keyboard, he nodded his head toward me.