Legacy: A Salvation Society Novel

by Rachel Robinson

  The guy behind me bumps me with his shoulder and I go down hard, face first in the sand. More freaking sand. I swear, I’ll never go to the beach and deem it relaxing ever again. I spit it out of my mouth as I glance up to see his tired face.

  “Sorry, Dempsey. I stumbled.”

  He doesn’t offer his hand, he goes straight for the food. We get ten, maybe fifteen minutes to eat. I don’t blame him. I look down at the sand and pull myself to my knees as nimbly as I can. My uniform is dry now, but it was starched so it makes an awful crunching noise anytime I move. A hand extends down into my line of vision. Without taking the offered hand, I stand and eye down the person.

  He smiles and a dimples pop on his cheek. “Have a nice trip?” he says.

  I swallow hard. I’m too tired to deal with any trifling bullshit from men, and honestly, all I can think about is putting something into my stomach. “Good one,” I mumble, arching one brow, letting my gaze find his name tag on his uniform. “Hart.” Why does that sound familiar?

  I let that be the end of the exchange and stumble a bit as I get my legs again. “Hey Dempsey,” he calls after me.

  Sighing, I turn around. Smirking, Hart raises his right hand and gives me the bull symbol.

  What is that supposed to mean? Rock on? Is that some sort of Henry Durnin rock star jab? Am I so exhausted that I assume everyone knows I dated that asshole? Instead of replying, I nod with wide eyes and pick up a humungous pre-plated meal and slink down in the closest open seat. I peer over my shoulder, but he’s gone. Maybe because it was the first kind gesture I’ve experienced since Sunday, but I’m having a hard time believing it actually happened.

  The guy next to me is almost finished, shoving the last bite in his mouth. I didn’t even realize it was Sanders, the dude who knocked me over until right now. I’m losing it. “Sorry again for knocking you over.” His voice is clipped—a swarthy representation of how we all feel.

  “Don’t apologize,” Hoffer, a candidate across the table barks out. “You wouldn’t apologize if you knocked me over. Just because she has tits doesn’t make her any different. Remember what they told us. Equal in all things.” His face is grizzled—marred with oil and he looks like hell chewed him up and spat him out. I meet his eyes and then continue eating. Sleep deprivation brings out the worst in people. This is probably what all of my peers think. Friends won’t come easy here.

  This is how it’s been since I arrived. I don’t complain, don’t try to change anyone’s minds. I expected it—craved it. A testosterone riddled community isn’t going to embrace newcomers unlike themselves. Especially ones with tits. Something they’re used to playing with in their free time, not working next to. It’s my job to prove to them that it can be done, while keeping my personality intact.

  Inhaling, I smell something disgusting. Pulling out my shirt, I put my nose in my stiff collar. “Seaweed?” I make a retching noise as I exhale. When it dries it smells like burning garbage. A combination of rotten fish and festering socks. One more night, I remind myself. Just one.

  “Dempsey, let’s go,” the tall man looming at the tent exit booms. He stands tall, legs apart, face weathered from years at the Teams. He wears the same look as my father—I bet they’re the same age.

  “Yes, sir,” I say, keeping my chin up.

  Hart. Another Hart. This time it clicks and I know Maverick Hart is the man standing in front of me, commanding me to go get wet and sandy. I remember being told he had a son at the Teams, but it wasn’t something I thought about again. He must realize I’m putting two and two together because he smiles. It’s all the confirmation I need. The dimples.

  I spend the next half hour rolling around in the frigid water with my boat crew because we didn’t listen to a specific order. Rather, the instructor purposefully left out a tidbit to see if we’d catch it, and we didn’t. The other crews got to stand next to the bonfire on the beach because they’re obviously not as sleep deprived, shriveled and disoriented as we are. If you do something right, and quick, sometimes you earn a five-minute nap. My crew was not that lucky, and the hot food is the closest thing to comfort we’ve had in five days. The sun sets and the haggard torture continues.

  My ears are ringing from the near constant whistles screaming in the dark night.

  “Flutter kicks!” Hart yells.

  We link arms in the chest deep water and kick. A simple order on a regular day, but in sixty-degree water, in the dark of night, I’m silently praying I won’t drown. My arms are shot from carrying the zodiac boat in an earlier evolution. I kick, and the guy on my right, Hoffer, dips below the surface. I can’t see him, but I feel his weight pulling me underwater. I let my feet find the bottom and I pull him up. He coughs. Splutters. Gasps for air.

  “Dude, come on,” I say, heaving breaths in between words. I shake him which probably feels like a weak tap for all I’m capable of at the moment. His eyes open lazily and close again, his body once again dead weight. Sanders is on his other side and helps me pull his head out of the water this time.

  “Fucking A. He’s passing out,” Sanders says loudly to get the attention of the instructor, dry on the shore. Panic strikes.

  “Shut up,” I hiss at Sanders. “We’re so close. They’ll drop him from training. We need to keep him up.”

  I do the one thing I always see chicks do in movies, I smack him in the face. The irony. His eyes go wide and he startles. “Wake up, man. Keep going,” I say, linking on to him tighter in case he drops again. “We’re almost done. You have this. Don’t let them take it from you. We are so close.” My voice is hoarse from disuse and from having to talk over the splashing water surrounding us. Also, speaking the words out loud gave me the pep talk I needed myself. I do have this. I won’t let them take this from me.

  Sanders resumes his flutter kicks which is good because we’ve drawn attention and God knows we don’t want any extra. Hoffer looks at me sideways as he leans back and starts kicking again. He doesn’t say anything, but he squeezes my arms a couple times. His way of saying thank you, I suppose. Instructor Hart watched the whole exchange from his chair on the sand off to the side. I realize as I resume the repetitious motion. A lump forms in my throat.

  Keep your head down Aara, I think. Fly under the radar.

  Tilting my head back, I count the stars. My gaze travels from one to the next and I name them funny things. Fart Nugget is directly north, and Jazzy Juke is east. I can almost forget my core is on fire and my legs are numb when Instructor Hart orders us out of the water and the rest of the SEALs go wild, blowing whistles and shouting.

  Hart walks over to where we’re shivering on the shore and says, “Sanders, I think it’s time you DOR. Right now. Drop. You aren’t cut out for this.”

  Sanders looks straight ahead, trying not to let the words sink in. Keep them surface level. It’s their job to hustle you. Drop on request is when you quit SEAL training. That’s what most do. Only twenty to thirty percent of SEAL candidates will make it all the way through.

  “Ring the brass bell, Sanders, and do everyone around you a goddamned favor,” Instructor Hart yells. Others chime in, screaming in his face, spit flying from the corners of their mouths. Blue veins bulge on their temples, illuminated by the scant light of the moon and flashlights. My heart pumps and my face heats because the yelling is so loud my body thinks the orders are being directed at me. It’s hostile. It’s rough. My stomach flips, and I take a deep, calming breath. Worthless. Useless. You don’t belong. Not strong enough. Not a team player.

  A tear rolls down Sanders’ cheek and catches on his upper lip. I look away. The breaking down of a psyche started Sunday and it looks like it’s ending right now.

  Hoffer pipes up, “He belongs here. He helped me.” I look over at Hoffer with wide eyes. He glances back at Hart. “So did Dempsey. They’re both team players.”

  Approval. The first time it has come from a peer.

  Instructor Hart shakes his head, blows the damn whistle and yells, “Around t
he world evolution is starting. Boat crews assemble.”

  My stomach sinks. Hoffer nods at me, Sanders bumps my shoulder on his way by, and I can’t tell if it’s intentional or if he’s just a stumbling mess. There are more strenuous problems to worry about. We’re about to paddle a small, inflatable boat all the way around Coronado, in the black of night. Dad told me about this evolution when I asked him for the Hell Week crash course after reading everything I could on the Internet.

  We jog to where several of the instructors are surrounding the boats. Not quite the size of a Zodiac, the stereotypical inflatable boat one thinks of when referencing SEALs, these are smaller. The scent of rubber mixes with gasoline and my stomach turns. Holding a hand on my stomach, we break off into seven-person boat crews while donning bright orange life vests. There is little fuss about who sits where in our boat. There are seven black oars, one for each of us. It only smells like gasoline because the instructors will follow us around in their own boats, propelled by engines instead of oars.

  It’s about six miles all the way around Coronado island, but in the dark, we’re talking about a serious gauntlet. Arm strength only. As we set out, following the seven-man crew in front of us, I get a fresh wind. Tomorrow morning this will be over. I think about every person who said I wouldn’t make it through Hell Week. Every sarcastic look, or casual brush off when my goals were spoken aloud. All of them part of my driving force for being in this boat, oar in hand, rowing with my crew on the very last night of Hell Week. There’s still SQT, SEAL Qualification Training to follow, but I know I’ll make it through. I have to.

  I’ve never experienced a darkness like this. There are manly grunts of effort, and heavy breathing, and I try to concentrate on my counts as the water pushes against my effort. There’s no way to mark time except by counting strokes, but the fatigue distracts me, my eyelids falling to half-mast, the same time my arms start shaking. Henry Durnin pops up from the black water, hair wet and in his eyes, voice pleading with me to save him.

  I scream as I jump away from the edge of the boat, landing on top of Hoffer on the left of me.

  “Dempsey, what the fuck.”

  I can’t catch my breath. Henry has vanished, only dark water and the shining ripples cast from the moon. “I...I...saw something,” I stammer. “Coming out of the water.”

  Hoffer puts one hand on my shoulder. Sanders grunts louder because now he’s pulling my weight as well as his own.

  “Unless it’s fucking Jaws, get your oar back in and work,” Sanders barks. The guy behind me laughs. There’s a lump in my throat that refuses to budge.

  I’m shaking, my mind trying to conjure Henry again. Sliding unsteadily back to my spot, I pick up the oar and dip it into the water. This time when Henry rises from the water he’s with Aurora Ball, and they’re both sputtering for oxygen, hands reaching for me like water-logged zombies. Hallucinations. Dad told me it’s possible for hallucinations to start at about this time. He recalled seeing a yeti-like creature rowing in the boat in front of him when he was doing this evolution. Henry sinks below the surface, and pops back up right where my oar just was. I close my eyes for a second, but it’s a mistake. The exhaustion makes it hard to open them again.

  Hoffer kicks me in the calf from the other side of the boat, and I come to. Was I out for minutes or seconds? The sun is rising in the distance and I pray over and over that I make it to morning. That I don’t drop this oar on Henry’s face and lose everything I’ve ever wanted.

  The guy behind me starts humming a familiar song, and I join in to focus on anything except passing out and how dark Aurora’s hair looks when it’s covered in oil black water. Dear God, this is terrifying, my heart rate picks up and my breathing speeds. Which probably will help me not fall asleep. Around the World does finally end, and we make it back to shore as the sun rises, and it’s hard to recall what happens next because somehow, I’m thanking the Henry and Aurora ghosts for keeping me alert. Who says assholes are good for nothing?

  There are whistles. Intense shouting. Guns firing blanks. Then a voice cutting through the chaos telling us that Hell Week is over and to head to the grinder for pizza. I’m covered in sand—a sugar cookie. A confection that’s still standing. Raising my fists to the sky, I shiver a bit and let out a scream. Tears come next because I did it. I was the first. I won’t be the last. Instructor Hart is patting backs as he passes the line of the men who beat us for five days.

  “Good job, Dempsey,” Maverick says, a little twinkle in his eye. “You did us all proud. Keep it up.” I hear my dad’s words inside his and know this was a message from the man I love immensely.

  I choke up, because I was already emotional, but I manage to thank him and grab an entire pizza box off a table and find a quiet corner to eat before I pass out. It’s crowded on the grinder. All the SEALs are here to gawk at us, and probably to reminisce about when they went through Hell Week.

  Hoffer slumps down next to me, but not too close. He stacks four pieces of pizza on top of one another, rolls them up and shoves it into his mouth like a large burrito. I continue plowing through the cheese pizza, cross-legged on the ground. I won’t take modern comforts for granted again. Never. Beds. Chairs. Underwear that aren’t wet. A stomach that doesn’t growl. The ability to lift my arm without my muscles screaming in protest. Warmth. My, God, above it all, warmth.

  “Hey Dempsey,” Luke Hart calls out, standing wide legged, in clean, dry BDUs. I saw him hanging around when I walked up, and did my best to avoid thinking about the interaction from yesterday.

  With my mouth still too full, I eye him up and down and hate that he noticed. I tilt my chin up to acknowledge him, but keep eating.

  He doesn’t say a word, just throws me the bull horns again and walks away, a dimpled smile on his full lips. His back is wide and he swaggers when he walks—a limitless confidence. I’m going to have to fake some of that, or try to pull some real confidence to the surface. No one else sees when Maverick Hart ruffles his son’s hair, but I do. It makes me smile…and yearn to celebrate with my own dad.

  Chapter Four

  Luke

  This part fucking sucks. “It’s not you, it’s me,” I say. Chantal is a rabid dog—albeit a sexy as fuck one, perched on the side of my California King, wrapped in a sheet. “I don’t do relationships, C. My lifestyle isn’t conducive to having anything serious.” Plus, you really aren’t who I want. You’re vapid. “You knew that,” I add, so it doesn’t seem like it’s only my fault. Which, technically it is.

  “Right. I get it. I knew going into this you were a player. What I’m pissed about is you telling me you’re finished with me thirty seconds after your dick was hitting my G-spot. What the hell is wrong with you?” Ah, crime of opportunity—I woke hard, and she was willing. I don’t say that out loud. I don’t say much to Chantal, if I’m being honest. It’s all physical. She tears across my room for the ensuite bathroom. “We went out multiple times,” Chantal hisses. “I don’t understand.”

  Approaching from behind, I set my hand on her bare shoulder and she curls out of my grasp. Even though women say they know going into it, they don’t. Not really. Women think they can change me or my ways. That their golden pussy, or their perfect body, or their ability to cook is that much more alluring than the women who came before them. It’s always the same at the end. Fury. Confusion. Sadness. A reminder I really need to start dating a different type of woman, or not any at all until I’m ready for more.

  “I can’t believe you’re giving me that it’s not me line, either.” She drops the sheet, giving me the perfect view of her sculpted ass. Sucking in a breath, I calm my dick. “It’s lame,” she deadpans.

  Leaning down, I pick up the sheet from the floor, ball it up and toss it into the laundry hamper behind me. “It’s the truth. I’m sorry. I’m just…better single.” At least that’s what I tell myself. That, or I like the game of catch and release too much to give it up.

  She opens her arms wide, turning to face me.
“I’m not enough for you?”

  Ah, her body. The sole reason I’ve been on more than one date with her. Usually I keep it to a single date before moving on. It’s easier to break up before it starts. C was more persistent…in the bedroom.

  Gulping hard, I drag my gaze to her face. “You are.” Not. “Workups are about to start and I’ll be gone most of the time on long trips. What did I tell you during dinner last weekend?”

  Chantal folds her arms across her chest. Sighing heavily, she repeats my mantra, “No expectations means no disappointment.” Her voice is petulant. Like a child having a toy taken away.

  “To avoid exactly this scenario,” I say, reaching a hand out to lean on one of the thick, marble columns next to me. Stretching out with my free arm, I run my fingers through her silky, dark hair. “This isn’t working, C. I should have told you last night. You’re beautiful. Thank you for the time we shared together.”

  Her eyes widen and her forehead doesn’t move an inch. Finally, something new to focus on instead of her goddamn body. A frozen forehead. “I’m still sore from sex and that’s it?”

  Yep, it’s actually happening. As expected, she storms out of the bathroom and picks up her dress from a chaise in the corner, aggressively pulling it on.

  “No apologies. No reasons or hard excuses. Just that it’s not working. You really are a piece of work, Luke Hart.” Stooping to grab her heels, she spins to face me. “Karma is going to catch up to you one day soon. It’s going to eat you alive. Deliver you everything you deserve.” She holds out a red bottomed shoe in front of her, like a magic wand. “Mark me, Hart. You’re going to writhe with pain. With heartbreak.”

  I hope she doesn’t have a voodoo doll at home. Chantal spins on her toe, brown hair flying, and walks out of my bedroom toward the front foyer. She jerks on the handle, forgetting I have to put in a code to unlock the door and disarm my high-tech security system. Still naked, I walk up to the touch screen panel on a wall adjacent to the entrance and tap in 2514. She doesn’t take her hand off the handle as she waits, and when it clicks open she storms out into the large circular driveway. I watch through an expansive window as she gets into her car and disappears down the long, winding driveway.