Mountain Man SEAL

by Quinn Peachwood

  I can’t believe what’s happening here but I don’t know why I’m so shocked. What the hell did I expect from a pair of vagrant hillbillies that lifted me off the street like used furniture?

  “So that’s why I’m here.” I shout at Blaze as I struggle to pull the tee shirt over my head. “You thought you might pimp me out to your buddy. So much for the sweet talk about taking care of your woman.

  Blaze winces at my words but doesn’t deny any of it.

  I realize he’s still filling me and try to shove off of his body but he’s too strong for me. His grip pins me firmly in place. His face holds a stricken expression at how this has turned around.

  “You don’t need to doubt me ever.” He says. “No one is touching this body but me, not ever, you understand?”

  “Well I didn’t hear you telling your Tank that. That man is way too sure of himself.”

  “You don’t understand. It, it’s complicated.” He says.

  I’m not falling for that. I was an idiot to let myself fall for him.

  He probably even did that naked outdoor shower thing just to lure me - after all he could just as easily have gone to wash up at the waterfall that’s situated not a hundred feet from the shack.

  “I still don’t hear you saying you promise not to share me with your buddy.”

  He starts laughing hard at my statement, his lips irresistible. But I’m so angry, I start to pound at his chest.

  “I hate you.” I shout. “You and your buddy.” I know I’m being way too hysterical, but my body is still pumping from what we just shared. Maybe I’m allowed a little upset. “And why are two grown men living together in squalor?”

  “You think my house is squalid?” Blaze asks. He looks confused, crestfallen even.

  “Surely it must have occurred to you that normal people don’t live like this.”

  “I’m not sure I know what a normal person is any more - do you?”

  “Of course I do.”

  Well, maybe not.

  When I think of some of the stories I heard from others in group therapy sessions, of what some people had endured as children and the conditions they grew up in - maybe I’m not sure about anything.

  Blaze is watching me intently, his eyes nothing less than a blazing inferno.

  “Sometimes.” I add half-heartedly.

  11

  Blaze

  I could sit under a tree with Whitney curled (or impaled) on my lap all day long and be completely happy. She’s all I need or want in my life but that doesn’t go both ways clearly.

  She thinks I’m a hillbilly living in a pigsty. She wants to live like normal people. And I have no damn clue what normal is any more.

  I’m pissed.

  Not with her, she’s beyond incredible. But with the whole ‘rules of life’ thing. Like there’s only one playbook. Who gets to dictate how all of humanity ‘should’ live? Especially when most of humanity isn’t permitted to live that way.

  I get that my house may not have every modern luxury but that isn’t what she’s saying. She thinks living isolated is some indication of weirdness. That two men in the wilds together, not related or in a relationship, is some kind of weirdness. But that’s just how we lived for months and then years. It’s what seems normal to us now.

  When I get back with some of her stuff, we’ll sit down and discuss this. Because at first I just wanted her and didn’t consider overly much what she felt about it. That was selfish, putting my wants over hers. But now that she’s here, I want her to be happy.

  I want her to want to be here. With me.

  Reluctantly I release our close connection and help her stand. She’s obviously impressed by the strength in my thighs and shoulders. Yeah well, combat training gives you that much at least. Muscles that make women round-eyed and open-mouthed. Is that what I was for her?

  I hoped it was something more meaningful.

  Leaving the deep warmth of her is loneliness encapsulated. Then I take her by the hand and lead her back up the slope to the house.

  “This is a first.” She laughs. “I’ve never taken a walk in the woods with a stark naked man before.”

  “It was good enough for Adam and Eve.” I say, not smiling, still deep in thought.

  “If only this was the Garden of Eden.” She adds.

  Again she’s letting me know how much she thinks my cherished independent sanctuary is a total dump. To me it is a simple paradise. I guess it was crazy to imagine it could be enough for a woman.

  “So what’s the plan for today?” Tank comes striding out of the structure we call the barn but is really a more decrepit shack than - the shack is.

  “Have you been setting up the new still or drinking the profits? I ask, irritably.

  “Neither. Just waiting for orders, Sir.” He says it with a sarcastic tone I’ve never heard out of him before.

  His eyes slide across to Whitney, taking in her bare legs with a smirk. Briefly, my fingers curl into a fist. I don’t like him looking at her. A squall has blown up between us like never before. It creates a tension in the thin mountain air.

  “I’m going into town for a while.” I tell him.

  I feel Whitney’s hands on my back, hanging on to me. Her fingers are trembling. I look back at her and see the dislike mixed with fear in her eyes. I turn to my buddy and see the same dislike in his gaze. Did something happen between them to make them so full of animosity?

  “Don’t leave me here alone with him.” She murmurs in the back of my ear.

  “You think I’m gonna touch you or come within ten feet of you?” He snaps. Her whisper wasn’t low enough for Tank’s sniper-level awareness.

  “Everyone calm down.” I say. “Whitney, go in the house and get dressed. You’re coming with me.”

  She does as I say. Tank and I stand in a stare-down across the yard. It’s ridiculous. This man has been the closest thing to family. I step forward and extend a hand to shake but he pretends not to see as he turns back to the still.

  I go in the house and throw on a pair of jeans and a tee shirt. Whitney has located the clothes she rinsed out in the tub and put them on.

  “I look like a hobo.” She says, looking in the mirror in disdain.

  “You look beautiful.” I can’t bear when women belittle the way they look. They’re so much more than attractive toys to be looked at, Whit especially so.

  “I don’t have any make-up with me.”

  “You don’t need that stuff on your face. You’re divine without it.”

  I head for the door.

  “Blaze.” She whispers.

  It’s the first time I’ve heard her speak my name in that tone. I turn and find her looking at me in terror.

  “He wouldn’t do anything to you.” I say. “Not ever.”

  She looks so dubious that I wonder why she’s intent on her dislike for Tank. A look at the stain on her tee shirt gives me a clue. But can she be holding a grudge about a little spilled coffee or is it something deeper?

  I move across the floor, take her hand and lead her out to the truck. She has to jog to keep up with my stride. At the doorway, I slow down and my hand finds the small of Whitney’s back, that gentle curve my palm rests perfectly into as I guide her outside the house.

  At the truck I open the door for her and help her clamber up into the cab. She settles into the bench seat and I see her throw a tense glare at Tank who’s leaning up against the post supporting the porch over the front of the shack.

  No one says a word to anyone else as I fire up the engine and pull out of the yard.

  “What is it?” Whitney says quietly, once we’re down the mountain side and on the road toward town. “Why are you so angry?”

  “I’ve known Tank a long time.” I say hoarsely. “I owe him.”

  “What for?”

  “A bunch of stuff that went down while we were in Fallujah.” I really don’t want to have to relive all that again. I’ve avoided explanations all these years. I don’t want to dig
them up again, not even for her.

  “So you figure it’s okay for him to want your girl?” She snaps.

  “No, of course not.” I growl. “You’re mine now.” I hope she feels that too but I have strong doubts about her state of mind. And I’m not at all convinced Tank made a move for her. He’s just a sarcastic bastard sometimes. Then because I’m still thinking about what she said earlier, I add; “And what is normal anyways?”

  We drive in silence for a while, both staring straight ahead out the windscreen.

  “Is that what this is about?” Whitney finally asks. “You’re mad because I said normal people don’t live like that.”

  “I guess. Not that you said it but that you think my lifestyle is wrong. Like I’m a danger to society, some freak sending parcel bombs to innocent folks and plotting the end of civilization.”

  She laughs wistfully and shakes her head. “I’ve been thinking about what I said, after I said it and no I don’t think you’re becoming a new Unabomber.”

  “So is it the hooch?”

  She laughs again. “Hardly. I’m just out of rehab remember. And don’t think I can’t be a bit of a renegade myself. I can hardly call my lifestyle normal, so I don’t have the right to critique yours.”

  I’m relieved she’s starting to come around to my beliefs - that we each should be allowed to choose our lifestyle and not be judged on some imposed norm.

  “Tell me about you and Tank.” She says, then adds; “If you want to.”

  “There isn’t much to tell.” I say, which isn’t true but like I mentioned, I’m out of practice with chit chat. To make her understand though, I decide to push through my blockades. “We were in the same team in the desert.”

  “Team? Like a military unit?”

  “Yeah, navy. SEAL units are called teams.”

  “Ohmigod you two are SEALs? I should have known.”

  “Why’s that then?” I ask, smiling.

  “The…physiques.” She says. “Does that never diminish? You seem to be in perfect shape - are you still, um, in the team?”

  It’s sweet how she stumbles over military lingo. Civilians don’t usually understand it but in her case, it’s adorable. And I’m glad she finds my - physique - appealing, just in case I was in any doubt. For her, it makes that grueling training worthwhile.

  “Nope. We’re out. Though strictly speaking they could recall us under special circumstances.”

  “You aren’t hiding are you?” She whispers.

  “No.” I grin. “There’s nowhere on this planet that we could hide if they wanted to find us.”

  “Oh.” She frowns a little. “That sounds sinister.”

  “Just the facts, ma’am.”

  I’m keeping it light and desperately hoping that she has enough background on me to let the subject drop. Apart from my distaste for chatting about the past, I realize from the tension in my body that training has still got me resistant to talking about ops.

  “What about that remark that you ‘owe him’. What happened over there that you owe him for?”

  I swallow the hard lump that rises in my throat.

  “Thirteen in our platoon landed, sixteen counting the chiefs. We swam ashore, no marine craft on the mission.” That’s about as much detail as I can deal with. I need to finish up right now. “Only five came back out.” I croak.

  I’m not going to mention that those five were on a covert op that the others weren’t aware of. In many ways we betrayed those guys by keeping them in the dark. Or so I’ve come to believe, rightly or wrongly.

  “Hero, huh?”

  “Yeah that’s me - the big hero.” Even I’m perturbed by the bitterness in my voice.

  “You must have gone through a lot.” She says. “Sorry.”

  “Same as the others. It’s weird coming back. Hard to make sense of life in the ‘burbs after what you see over there.”

  “So you build a hut and retreat?”

  “There you go with the hillbilly stuff again.” I bark, more ferocious than I meant to sound.

  “No, I understand it now. It makes a lot more sense.”

  I want to take her hand and explain that it can get you like this sometimes. The stuff you’ve lived through and have a hard time putting on the back burner, can make you flare up in sudden anger with those you love the most. It’s the reason all five of us who survived are living away from normal life. And the questions that can never be answered.

  Instead I grit down on my jaw and make sure the ‘physique’ remains intact. If that muscle is good for one thing, it’s for keeping stuff imprisoned inside me.

  12

  Whitney

  “Tank had started building that shack as a summer place for him and his fiancee.” Blaze says. “I guess it looks rough but he had plans - the waterfall, the outdoor bathtub.”

  I feel a little guilty for being so down on the place. It would definitely be a beautiful setting for the right kind of place. I also feel bad for probing Blaze about his deployment. I can see from the rigidity in his biceps and how he clamps his jaw that it’s torment just remembering. There was a guy with PTSD in rehab. I remember how he’d lose his temper for strange reasons, seeming nonsensical. He had disturbed sleep too. You could hear him screaming or shouting in his dreams sometimes.

  “What happened to his girl?” I ask, gently.

  “She sent him a ‘Dear John’ while we were out there. He got it the same day, right before we were blown up.”

  My heart leaps as Blaze lets slip that little bit of information. They were bombed, or shelled, or whatever it’s called. If he weren’t driving, I’d wrap my arms around him.

  “Tank’s emotional state is actually in worse shape than mine. I came back with the physical injuries that win you medals. Some post whatever as well but nothing like Tank’s.”

  It’s interesting that Blaze won’t say the words trauma and stress or disorder. Like those are to be ashamed of. I guess he still needs to be tough. Which he certainly is, amazingly powerful but I’d like to let him know he doesn’t have to keep up a shield wall with me.

  Wait, what am I saying? If I was going to stick around those kind of sentiments would be one thing but as I’m out of here as soon as we get to town, it’s best I put a lid on the soft feeling I have growing toward him.

  “I guess being abandoned by the one you love on an already rough day does something weird to your head.” Blaze says, with regard to Tank and the letter from his girl. He shakes his head and laughs. “You know what? That was more words than I’ve said in the last three years put together. See what you can do for me?”

  “Thank you for sharing them with me.” I say and I mean it. “And I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have been so judgmental earlier.” My fingers reach to the side on the bench and entwine into his resting on the gear shift. Flames of light sear up my arm from the touch.

  “It’s worth it.” He says.

  Maybe he means it too. As though wanting me to understand him a little better so much that having to talk about the ‘rough days’ that have been locked away is worth the effort.

  He pulls into a strip mall not that far from my townhouse and parks the truck.

  “I’m gonna grab some supplies while we’re here. I figure I’ll get a few things girls like - tea and cookies and such. Maybe some cleaning products too.” He grins and even looks happy about the concept of cleaning.

  “I’m going to grab coffee.” I say.

  He reaches out to clasp my wrist, as though reluctant to let me out of his sight.

  “It’s okay. I’ll be right there in the diner.” I reassure. “Can I order us a club sandwich as well?”

  “Sure.” He says, still unwilling to let me go. There’s little I can do to inspire his trust at this point.

  He reaches into his back jeans pocket and pulls out a wad of cash, peels off a twenty and hands it to me.

  As I walk away in the opposite direction, Blaze keeps looking back over his shoulder, to watch me. And I have to be
looking back at him too, in order to notice that he’s checking up on me. It’s just that I’m waiting for the chance to slip away, right?

  So why am I feeling like I want nothing more than to run after him. I see myself jumping his powerful frame, wrapping my arms and legs around him and hanging on like my life depends on it. No, that was not the plan. As soon as he’s out of sight, or goes into a store, I can make a beeline for my home. He has no idea where I live. I’ll just lie low all day until I can be sure he’s gone back up that hillside to his hillbilly hotel.

  Now I feel terrible for that thought. Those men are heroes and they had dreams and plans for that property, which in the right circumstances could be magical. You can’t expect two hunks of men, who are usually alpha warriors. to be much in the way of design and decoration gurus. I even feel a little bad for Tank, being jilted on the day of a big mission.

  Personally, I know I’d have lost it. When I lost my first boyfriend, second one too, come to think of it, I cried on the couch for days and shoveled chocolate chip cookie dough down my throat like I was a starving orphan.

  I go into my favorite old time diner, all leatherette booths and a slightly withered waitress in a white frilled apron. I order two strong coffees. “And can I get one of those huge club sandwiches?”

  “The triple decker?” She says.

  “That’s the one. To go, please.”

  “A triple decker. Still a greedy girl.” The voice behind me makes my blood curdle in my veins. My heart has dropped like a stone into my stomach so that my anticipation for the giant sandwich shrivels. My entire being shrivels and I don’t dare look behind me. If I don’t look maybe he isn’t really there. Kind of a reverse childish attitude of if I can’t see you then you can’t see me. “Aren’t ya gonna say hallo when I’ve come so far?”

  I bite my back teeth together, gather the courage I’ve been thinking about, or I should say admiring, all morning and turn around. Facing my enemy isn’t easy though and my thighs tremble. Not in a good way like when I look at Blaze. This is pure disgust. And complete fear.