Trap: A Salvation Society Novel

by Jennifer Rebecca

  Trap

  Jennifer Rebecca

  Contents

  Letter to the Reader

  Prologue

  Crashed

  Chapter 1

  Crash and Burn

  Chapter 2

  Try Again

  Chapter 3

  Well, fuck

  Chapter 4

  Sweaty palms

  Chapter 5

  Something new, something alive

  Chapter 6

  When you grew up

  Chapter 7

  In her bed

  Chapter 8

  Truth or dare

  Chapter 9

  The one

  Chapter 10

  Cute little foldy cap

  Chapter 11

  I have to go

  Chapter 12

  Payphone

  Chapter 13

  Same old, same old

  Chapter 14

  On mission

  Chapter 15

  Call you later

  Chapter 16

  Nothing is ever free

  Chapter 17

  Lock it down

  Chapter 18

  Crashed

  Chapter 19

  Tactical Retrieval of Aircraft and Personnel

  Chapter 20

  Who’s sorry now?

  Chapter 21

  Beautiful and broken

  Chapter 22

  Clipped wings

  Chapter 23

  Go to bed

  Chapter 24

  Walk through hell

  Chapter 25

  Love me anyway

  Epilogue

  fairytale

  The Salvation Society

  Author’s Playlist

  Books by Jennifer Rebecca

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2020 Jennifer Rebecca

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the authors’ imaginations and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance of actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author.

  Cover Design by Alyssa Garcia

  www.uplifting-designs.com

  Editing by

  Kayla Robichaux

  Proofreading by

  Karin Enders

  For more information about Jennifer Rebecca & her books, visit:

  www.jenniferrebeccaauthor.com

  Letter to the Reader

  Hello Beautiful,

  I can’t even begin to express how thrilled I am to be part of Corinne Michaels’s Salvation Society. I adore Corinne and her books so much. As both an author and a navy wife, this is my dream come true.

  Years ago, my bestie and I were walking through the Bookworm Box, combing the racks for treasures, when she handed me a book, and said, “You like military romance. Read this one.” That was it. No other explanation. So a week later, when my three babies and I were flying from Dallas to San Diego to go spend the summer with my parents and grandparents, I packed it in my carry-on.

  The book was Consolation, and somewhere after takeoff, I bawled my way through Aaron’s funeral, looking like a crazy person. I cursed out my bestie when we landed and then downloaded the rest of Corinne’s Salvation Series on my Kindle. It felt only fitting that as MacKenzie and Kyle find their way, that Liam and Natalie, Mark, and Jackson, and even Wolf, help them along the way to their salvation. The rest of the guys, I based on my husband Sean and his friends, because they are still some of my very favorite sailors despite—or because of—the shenanigans they cooked up.

  And the rest, as they say, is history.

  From the bottom of my heart, thank you for giving Kyle and Mack your time and maybe even a little piece of your heart. This is my book, Trap.

  For Sean,

  the sailor with blue eyes and tattoos who stole my heart 14 years ago.

  It was only ever you.

  Prologue

  Mackenzie

  Crashed

  Blurry. The hazy gray and blue colors of the room twist and swirl all around me. I blink to clear my vision and clench my teeth against the wave of nausea that grips my belly. I must have eaten something that disagreed with me. Maybe not enough fluids this morning before a hot day in the cockpit.

  I blink again and try to chase the last bit of sleep away, the nightmare that still has me caught in its teeth. I’m careful. I always have been. I know when to push the throttle and when to ease up so I know that it’s just a dream. None of it is true. Not one bit of it. It can’t be because if it is that means that I… No.

  When I open my eyes that I realize it’s not a nightmare but my real life.

  The steel bars of the cell clank, and I hear harsh-sounding words uttered in a language I don’t understand. A tray of food is dropped onto the concrete floor next to the door before it’s slammed closed again.

  No. It can’t be true. It just can’t. I couldn’t have…

  Crashed.

  I crashed an eighty-million-dollar airplane. Not only did I crash a plane, but I was taken for reasons outside my control. I never had a chance. And now I’m nothing more than an animal in a cage.

  I should have told Kyle that I loved him when he said it first. I shouldn’t have waited like a scared little rabbit. I shouldn’t have let my fears rule me. Maybe it’s better this way. Maybe he’ll be able to move on from this, from me, and whatever we were or were heading toward. Because as I struggle to sit up from where I’m lying on the cold, hard floor of this cell, I know without a doubt that this is where I’m going to die.

  I can only pray that the Reaper finds me quickly, because I’m not sure how much of this I can survive, along with the devastating knowledge that no one is coming for me.

  Chapter One

  Kyle

  Crash and Burn

  Four months earlier…

  “Make good choices, gentlemen.”

  “Don’t we always?” Sean, my best friend since the first day of kindergarten, asks our Senior Chief. The look on Wolf’s face has to mirror the one on my own as I look at Sean. He’s full of shit. He’s always been full of shit. He never makes good choices. Okay, that’s a lie, he consistently makes questionable choices every single time.

  Sean is a happy go lucky, good time guy. He likes to party, and he’s liked it since senior year of high school. And as his lifelong best friend, I partied right along with him. It was my sworn duty as his buddy and wingman to make those questionable choices right along with him.

  And while he’s an easygoing guy, he’s also no stranger to a bar fight or two, usually over a woman who forgot she had a significant other when she caught sight of all six foot four inches of burly sailor and his blue eyes. Which is why when Wolf saw us dressed in our civvies and ready to head off of the island, he was rightfully a little concerned.

  “Just promise me one thing,” Wolf says, and I wonder where this is going. It could actually go anywhere. Sean is the kind of guy that you never know what he’s going to do next. He has no fear. Or shame for that matter and he’s a hell of a lot of fun.

  “What’s that, Senior Chief?” Sean asks with a goofy grin on his face.

  “Just no bar fights.”

  “We’ll try our best, Senior Chief,” We reply in unison.

  “Try really fucking hard,” Wolf says, eyeing us suspiciously so we give h
im our best boy scout smiles.

  “Scout’s honor,” Sean says holding up his hand with the wrong fingers folded down for the scout sign. I barely hold in a groan and his bald-faced lie.

  “Something tells me that you knuckleheads were never boy scouts,” Wolf says, knowing that we’re absolutely, one hundred percent, full of shit. “Try real hard.”

  “Yes, sir, Senior Chief,” I say seriously. Sean, for the love of Christ, is already a little tipsy. Not one to be a fan of heavy bar tabs, and the fact that because he’s the size of a goddam bear he requires a lot of alcohol to get shitfaced, my buddy has learned the art of the pregame. He probably already has the better part of a bottle of Jägermeister in him.

  He sways a little bit on his feet, not enough that he’s sloppy drunk before the sun goes down, but enough that I notice it. The fact that nothing gets by the senior chief has me thinking he probably sees it too. I let out a sigh and barely keep from rolling my eyes.

  “Really fucking hard, Garrett,” Wolf directs to me.

  “Yes, sir.”

  When Wolf walks away shaking his head, because the likelihood that Sean is going to be a liberty risk—again—is pretty spectacular and we all know it, I shove my best friend through the parking lot and toward my truck. It’s not much, an old Ford pickup with a shell on the back to hold my gear and my surfboard. I’ve always loved the ocean, but being stationed in San Diego brought with it a new love. I hit the waves every chance I get and never want to squander an opportunity when one is given so I keep my board in the back of my truck just in case whenever I’m stateside.

  “What was that for?” he asks as he flops into the front passenger seat. He pulls a small bottle from the pocket of his cargo shorts and shoots it back.

  “Try not to get our asses busted before we ever get off Coronado,” I reply, rolling my eyes. “And try not to get me an open container ticket while you’re at it, asshole.”

  “What?” he asks. “It’s not my fault we’ve already tapped all of the local talent on the island. You’re the one who wanted to avoid all the adoring SEAL fans tonight.”

  “While that’s true,” I agree, “maybe try not to make us sound like complete douchebags while we’re out.”

  “Why?” He snickers. “I prefer not to live a lie. I own my truth.”

  Oh my God, what a fucking idiot. He’s also my favorite idiot. We left New Jersey together. Enlisted in the navy together, and went to BUD/s together. He’s my brother in everything but blood, and we both have some questionable family history, so even that’s still a possibility. And while his words ring with an undeniable truth, maybe after we burn off some of this tension from the last mission we should cool it for a bit. I’m not saying settle down with a shit-ton of kids in the country, but maybe not head farther down the douchebag path. The love ’em and leave ’em lifestyle isn’t working for me anymore. It has me feeling like there’s something, I don’t know, missing. Also, if I don’t slow down, fatherhood may happen sooner than I’d like. Condoms aren’t foolproof either.

  Sean is right; I’m tired of the same women in the same two bars looking to bag SEALs over and over. I’m starting to feel a little dirty and used. It’s not even an effort anymore. They’re the ones on the hunt, not us. So when Sean wanted to go out tonight, I said I’d drive but I wanted to head north.

  He cranks up the radio as I drive over the bridge that takes us off the island. The highways are full of cars, but it’s nothing new. At least the rush hour traffic is long gone. I get off the 805 at Miramar Road and cruise around. There are always a ton of bars around the bigger bases. Miramar is home to the Marines now, but it used to hold the old Top Gun flight school. There’s a museum with old planes on display and a cemetery. I’m still not comfortable with the losses we sustained this last mission and the sight of the military cemetery reminds me of them. It’s one of the reasons I’m actually considering trying to find something in the private sector when this enlistment is up, and it’s up soon. The clock is ticking. I always thought I would be a career guy, but now I’m not so sure. I’m just feeling… conflicted about so much in my life. I feel like at my age, maybe I should have more going for me than collecting bedpost notches in between deployments.

  We drive past a strip club called Dirty Dave’s. It’s nothing but a square, gray building with a neon sign overhead that flickers with a burned out letter All in all, it looks like a classy joint said no one ever. Beggars can’t be choosers and it looks like absolute shit. Truth be told, it’s probably where we’ll end up in a few hours if the bar happenings are slow tonight.

  Across the parking lot is a sports bar. The neon lights overhead proclaim it The Underdog. It looks almost identical to Dirty Dave’s only it doesn’t have that air of desperation and bad decisions that the titty bar does. This looks like the right place. I pull into a parking spot and cut the engine.

  Sean and I climb out of the truck, and I tuck my keys in the pocket of my cargo shorts. I look over at my buddy and realize we’re dressed exactly the same, in cargo shorts, flip-flops, polo shirts with the ball chains of our dog tags peeking out of the collar, and watches on our wrists. I can’t help but shake my head. If there was a dress code for “Sailors on liberty” this would be it. We look ridiculous and, I’ll admit, a little douchey. I should probably invest in a couple of wardrobe options but, then again, I’m almost never home so why bother?

  It’s when I pull open the glass front door that everything changes, because through the smell of stale beer and the haze of old neon bar lights, is the most beautiful blonde I’ve ever seen in my entire life. And I know without a doubt that I will do anything, say anything, to get her attention. She might be sitting with two other men, but tonight, if she goes home with anyone, it’s going to be me.

  Of course, after I make this mental declaration to myself that I open my mouth and crash and burn.

  Chapter Two

  MacKenzie

  Try Again

  “Fuck,” Hooter bites out before he drains his beer. “What was he thinking?”

  “He wasn’t thinking,” I reply.

  It’s tough being the one who tries to keep these guys levelheaded, especially on days like today. We were in the air all day running maneuvers. We’re working up toward our next deployment where we will run support patrols from an air base in the Middle East. We were looking good. All of us. And then we started to get cocky.

  “Waltz is in so much shit,” Cinco says with a sigh and he’s not wrong. Waltz fucked himself over hard with no lube. He took risks he shouldn’t have and paid a heavy price for them.

  “Yeah,” I agree quietly before sipping my own beer.

  “He’s lucky to be alive,” Hooter adds. And he’s also not wrong. If the aircraft we fly, the F-35 Lightning, didn’t have safety features that pop the ejection without the pilot having to, we probably would have spent the afternoon fishing his dead body out of the bay and not just his bird. Those safety features did just what they were designed to do. Unfortunately, the pilot didn’t hold his end of the bargain.

  Waltz made a careless decision on a v-stall and ended up ditching his airplane over the Pacific Ocean—his eighty-million-dollar airplane. What had started as easy maneuvers turned into a TRAP—a Tactical Recovery of Aircraft and Personnel—while the coast guard rescued Waltz from the drink and the marines and navy pulled a dead bird out of the ocean.

  After being looked over by medical, he’s home recovering where his wife can look after him, and while I’m glad that he has her, it reminded all of us that we won’t be running in flight moves and showing out overseas. There’s a very real possibility that not everyone will make it home safely.

  After our incident debriefing, all of the married guys went home to their wives and children, and as the only single ones left, Hooter, Cinco, and I headed over to The Underdog for a beer to unwind before we went home.

  Although, by the looks Cinco is getting from the college-age cocktail waitress, he won’t be going home alone. Ho
oter catches my eyes after seeing what I see and winks at me, making me smile. Our boy will be all right for the night. But I’m going home alone. I always go home alone.

  It’s when the door opens and two men walk in that my breath wheezes out of my lungs. I’m not one to jump from bed to bed. My job is my only priority right now, and even if it wasn’t, with my older brother in a high-powered billet and a very public image to maintain working for the President of the United States, I have to keep my shit locked down, even though he keeps his family life as private as he can. But there’s something about the man who walks through the door that calls to me. He’s built, muscular in a way that screams he works out all the time isn’t a gym rat.

  His sandy-brown hair is a little wind tousled, and he has an easygoing smile on his face as he talks to his companion, who is built like a linebacker. Actually, he’s built like a grizzly bear if grizzly bears were jovial men on the prowl for a good time. And oddly enough, they’re both wearing polo shirts, cargo shorts and flip flops on their feet. The ball chains peeking out of their shirt collars hint at their military standing. I can draw no other conclusion than these men are sailors.

  What a couple of squids are doing in devil dog territory, I have no idea, but my interest is definitely piqued. On further inspection, they both have giant watches strapped to their wrists. These aren’t just any sailors that have wandered into the Under Dog, these are SEALs. Color me surprised.