Legacy: A Salvation Society Novel

by Rachel Robinson

  I point to my parents. “If that’s what you’re worried about giving up, you don’t have anything to worry about. It will happen if you want it to. It’s unconventional in arriving, but that door isn’t closed. Our line of work makes it more challenging. Not impossible though.” She seems to be listening, and I’m not sure what else to add so I default. “Who is the guy?”

  She looks at me, a sadness evident in the way her eyes fall. “Henry Durnin.” She laughs, a caustic sound. “At least one person doesn’t know my horrible exploited secret.”

  Wait, what? I saw headlines but never put two and two together. “You dated that douchebag?” I snap. “You were the woman before Aurora? The dumpee? That got cheated on?”

  “Shut up, Hart. I can’t believe you follow celeb gossip. He was…charming. I’m not an idiot, he was just that good. You have to trust me. The pinnacle of a player. The level all players hope to reach one day.”

  Scoffing, I retort, “Please tell me it wasn’t his accent. That’s so cliché, Little Dempsey.”

  “Please. Hell no. That’s the thing. The bastard is actually charming. I think it’s how he cheated on me so effortlessly. Unsuspecting. Manipulative. Secretive. Suave.”

  “Like a damn terrorist, huh?” I add.

  “Exactly. Maybe even more sleazy.”

  “And this bastard is why you’re questioning your life decisions?”

  “Well, I guess he merely opened my eyes to the possibility of loving someone more than I loved my life choices. It took a year for the SEAL Teams to agree to let me try out. During that time, I questioned everything.” She blows out a breath. “I don’t take myself that seriously, but I gave up an entire life for this. It’s a big deal.”

  “You wouldn’t be human if you weren’t sad about it. You did give up a life for the Teams. For America. That’s why we’re here for each other. No one understands like we do. The guys will come around eventually. Especially when they know you dated Durnin.” I smile wide as I notice her neck getting red again. She doesn’t like talking about this stuff.

  “If you bring that up in front of anyone, I’ll kill you.”

  I wink. “It’d be a fair fight to the death, Little Dempsey. You want to have a breath-holding competition? Promise not to drown you.”

  “You can’t make those jokes to normal people, you know?”

  “You’re not normal people, are you?”

  Aarabelle stands, shaking her head. “Nope,” she says as she takes off the shirt exposing nearly her entire body mere inches from me, in grabbing distance, and steps toward the rocky edge of the pool. And I thought Chantal’s body was perfect. Sorely mistaken doesn’t cover the comparison to the female specimen standing in front of me. Her muscles are sculpted and defined. Glutes are perfect, triceps curving in flawlessly to biceps that are tight mounds next to defined shoulders. She works for it. Another thing I know for a fact. This isn’t good genes at play where she gets to eat whatever she wants because she was born with a high metabolism. Holy fuck. The fact that I find Aarabelle’s body this appealing surprises the fuck out of me. I have to stand to cover the massive boner rising in my swim trunks.

  She looks over her shoulder in time to see me readjust my dick. Damn it. “You’re a little more on the normal side aren’t you, Hart?” Aarabelle winks and walks to the shallow side of the pool. She says something to my parents, and then to Marley, and I don’t move for fear of exposing my X-rated thoughts to my damn family in the form of my cock.

  A few deep breaths is all it takes to get my thoughts under control. That’s enough though. Both of my parents are staring at me. Mom in particular has an eagle-eyed view locked on my face. I play it off by bombing into the pool and swimming over to the shallow end, but when I surface, they’re still looking at me. Accusatory gleams in their eyes.

  I shake my head and brush my hands through my hair. “You’re in a better mood, Pukey Lukey,” Marley says, sneering from where she and her friend are perched on the edge of the pool. I got carsick relentlessly as a child and the damn nickname stuck. “Maybe I should be Aara’s personal shopper, huh?” Her smile is wide and taunting.

  I push a wave of water at them and Marley squeals, kicking water back at me. “The suit looks good on you,” my sister says to Little Dempsey. “My brother thinks so, too.”

  “Come on, Marley,” Mom hisses. “Don’t stir the pot.”

  Aarabelle sinks into the water and walks to stand in front of me. “On the count of three. Whoever stays down longer wins.” She looks at Marley. “Time us,” she commands.

  Marley rubs her hands together, agreeing vigorously, opening an app on her Apple watch. Mav chuckles loudly and moves in for a closer look, perching next to the pool saying he’ll be second referee.

  Aarabelle bites her lip, eyes flicking up to mine. She counts, pausing long between each number, and then right before she says three, she whispers, “This bikini has nothing on my lungs.”

  And then she kicks my ass. Beating me by a full four seconds. Her eyes were locked with mine the entire time we were under. I saw the satisfaction in them when I had to surface, my lungs screaming for relief. Aarabelle has reached a new level of taboo. She was getting under my skin before, but now she is nothing like I thought I desired and everything I can’t have.

  But fuck do I want it anyway.

  Chapter Seven

  Aarabelle

  A friendship with Luke Hart is easy, like Sunday morning. If Sunday morning was lava meant to melt your skin off if you touch it. The best way to explain it is the way he looks at me gives me a combination of butterflies and hives. I want to challenge him to an arm-wrestling match and lick his dimples at the same time. Calling what I feel for Luke confusing would be misleading. What I feel for him is disingenuous, deceitful…incendiary.

  Luke’s family left about fifteen minutes ago, after dinner and dessert was over. I tried to leave at the same time, but he asked me to stay. I did. That’s why I’m torn. I put myself in this position. Gave him the power by saying yes. That’s a singular thing that wouldn’t be a big deal for most, but I am not in the category with most. I have rules now. Ones that are supposed to protect me from the men I’ll be surrounded by near constantly.

  We’re sitting in this weird glass hallway that connects one side of the house to the kitchen, a bowl of pistachios between us, watching the sunset. You can hear a pin drop, or rather, every single crunch as we chew. I dispose of a shell into a second bowl and take another. I focus on the edges, rubbing my thumb across them. I need to leave now.

  “Listen, Hart. Thanks for having me over today. I appreciate it. It’s probably best if I get going now. There’s no way the wankers are still waiting to take a picture now.” I uncross and cross my legs and pop the pistachio in my mouth.

  “Best for who if you leave?”

  He knows the rules. Probably better than I know them. Lt. Williams had signs made. Permanent ones that expressed the new code of ethics. I had my own female housing section on base during training. Ideally one day, it will be filled with women, but I was the only one in the huge space. There’s a target on my back. Everyone is looking for a reason to trip me up. How ironic would it be if they didn’t need a reason? If I couldn’t keep my emotions in check around a stupid man? I can’t be the reason future women are frowned upon. “Oh, you know?” I leave it open-ended because maybe he is just being friendly, and I’m the one twisting this into something it’s not.

  “I’d invite any other Team guy over. This isn’t weird. Unless it’s weird for you,” he says, giving me a pointed look. His eyes are this icy blue color that’s hard to describe without seeing them in person. I’d call them White Walker eyes, but they crinkle when he smiles, so they’re friendlier.

  Again, I remind myself of hot lava, and clear my throat. “Of course, it’s not. Just a learning curve, I guess. There are so many guidelines, I’m not sure if me being here, alone with you, breaks one.”

  “We aren’t alone,” Hart growls. “I alwa
ys have security on-premises. Jonas has been running security at this house for years.” He shrugs like it settles the conversation. He eats a few at once and misses the bowl when he tosses the shells. I pick them up and drop them in.

  “Tell me something about the Teams that you think I wouldn’t know.” The least I can do is drive this back into familiar territory. Shed the professional light back onto a man that appears in a new, more attractive, oh-shit-what-is-wrong-with-me way.

  “You asking me to tell you secrets?” Hart smiles widely, too wide. I turn my face up. The glass is above us, too. Like a long fish tank.

  Hugging my knees, I pull them as close to my body as I can. He loaned me a pair of sweatpants, or rather, I found them in the room I took the bathing suit off in. The word “NAVY” is down one side in gold. My chin on my knees, I turn to look at him.

  He’s staring at me. Again, in one of those ‘swallow you whole’ kind of ways. Like no one else has looked at me before. Not even Henry, I think. But then I chastise myself for thinking about my ex and for lumping Luke Hart into the same category as a former relationship.

  “You got nothing for me?”

  He smiles and looks up to the glass ceiling and back to me. “Did you know that SEALs aren’t real seals?”

  “Har, har, har,” I retort, rolling my eyes. “Clever. You don’t think I’ve heard that a million times since birth?”

  He sighs long and violently, not taking his gaze from mine. “No matter what happens. I need you to know I have your back.”

  I avoid telling him, because he has to. It’s part of the SEAL creed and nod instead.

  “Because the hard part is just beginning,” he adds, tone lower.

  Groaning, I lay back and look up at the sky. “I’m well aware that most of the guys think I’m a charity case to satisfy the masses.” He stays seated but turns his head to look at me. “Which is why being here alone with you probably isn’t a good idea.”

  He swallows hard. “Offering friendship, Little Dempsey. Friendship. No one is going to think I touched a hair on your head. Trust me.” He stands. My heart sinks.

  “Yeah, yeah. I’m not your type,” I mutter, half hoping he doesn’t hear me. I hate that I spoke the self-conscious words because I’m not that kind of girl. This is what Henry Durnin has done to me. I crack my neck and adjust the oversized t-shirt he also lent me. It says The deeper you fish, the more they wiggle. It has King Neptune and a busty mermaid screen printed on the back.

  Hart turns on his heel, leans in close, mouth so close I can feel his breaths on my cheek. He’s not smiling, and he does look like a White Walker right now. My heart pounds, and I feel my lungs restricting, not from my held breath but anticipation. “No, Little Dempsey. Because my life depends on not touching a hair on your head.”

  Well, that’s theatrical. True, but spoken in a melodramatic way. One reason I’ve always felt I fit in better with men than women is because I have a no-nonsense attitude. I’m the least dramatic woman I know. I cut it straight. Clearing my throat, I try to think of how I deal with my friends who like to play dramatics as sport. “Hart,” I whisper. “You don’t have to pretend for my ego. I’m good at taking criticism. It would actually make it easier if you said I wasn’t your type.”

  He backs up a step, brow wrinkled. “Good one,” he says, but confusion softens his features. “Wait, you’re being serious?”

  I huff. “I mean, I know I’m not your type because everyone talks and well, look at me.”

  He tilts his head to the side, like a confused dog. “I’m looking, not sure how you wouldn’t be my type.” He furrows his brow. “And what exactly do people say about me?”

  “You want the long version or the short version?” I ask, ignoring his first statement and honing in on the actual question.

  “Short.” Hart folds his arms, and I try not to look at his biceps.

  I lift and lower one shoulder, and suck in a breath. “Well, you drive an obnoxious, loud, fancy sports car, which I’m not offended by as an aside. Personally I love cars, but evidently it helps you pick up club chicks who you dump the next day because you don’t want girlfriends.” I clear my throat and look anywhere except his face. “Which is why my assessment that I’m not your type of girl would be an accurate assumption.”

  He smiles widely, pleased with my assessment. “You like cars?”

  He’s not denying the other shit which makes me think a little less of him, because it likens him to Durnin, and well, there’s nothing pleasant about that kind of man. But he did bring up cars. “All of them. The faster the better.”

  “You’re bullshitting,” Hart says, eyes narrowed, trying to read me.

  I open my arms to the side. “Try me. My degree from the academy is in mechanical engineering.”

  He clears his throat. “Okay, then. Follow me.”

  As we make the trek to his garage, which I’m sure is where he’s bringing me, because I saw it on that side of this palatial estate when I drove in, my nerves calm. Cars. This is completely neutral. The butler’s kitchen leads to a door that opens to an enormous space that is the same temperature as the house. Four vehicles and shiny showroom lights illuminate the space at the press of a button. It’s devoid of clutter, like most garages, and honestly as I peer around, I think it might lack actual dust.

  “Holy shit,” I say, eyes wide. He definitely only drives one of these. I take the stairs down one at a time, aware that Hart is following behind me, but I’m too focused on the cars. “You have a thing for cars too. Except you can actually afford to drool over them at home instead of online,” I exclaim, my heart racing at the sight of the rare Ferrari in the corner.

  “Tell me then,” Hart says, voice so close, I tremble.

  I swallow hard and stoop next to the beautiful, red piece of machinery. “A 1954 Ferrari 500 Mondial Spider Series. There’s only nine of these left in existence, none probably as pristine as this one. It’s only four cylinders, but what it lacks in power, it makes up for in looks.” Closing my mouth to keep in the drool, I ask, “How in the world did you get this?”

  When he doesn’t answer, I stand and turn to look at him. He’s doing that staring thing again. “You really did think I was bullshitting, didn’t you? That I wasn’t a car person?”

  He clears his throat. “I guess I did. You’re full of surprises, Little Dempsey.”

  The rest of his cars are modern. The yellow Lambo I’ve seen zooming around is next to me, so I check that one out next. I spit out a few facts about the engine just to watch his face pale a bit more. He has a Tesla as well, because duh, Southern California. It’s not the common one, though. Because duh, it’s Luke Hart who has one of the rarest cars in the world. It’s the performance model with ludicrous mode and every option available. On the end, he has a truck which looks sort of average in comparison to the rest of his garage, but even still, it has a Viper engine and a stunning paint job.

  “Okay, you win the garage tour, Hart. One question,” I say, spinning to meet his gaze.

  “After you schooled me on my own vehicles, I’d say it’s the least I can do.”

  I point to the red Ferrari. “Do you ever drive that?”

  He smiles, and for a second I’m transfixed by the symmetry of his face under the perfect lighting. Like the man is on display instead of the automobiles. “Never,” he replies, shaking his head. “There’s nothing I’d risk that car for. Like you said, there’s only nine left in the world!”

  Like I suspected. “Well, it’s beautiful. All of these are.” I spin around like I’m in an episode of The Price is Right. “I could sleep here.”

  Hart laughs. When I finally control my excitement, he’s shaking his head, one hand grabbing his chin. “You really are…something. Aren’t you? How did you learn so much about cars?”

  “Just an interest. Always has been. I can work on them, too. Just so you know. I think it was the first sign I was meant to be an engineer of sorts.”

  “Most people would assu
me that meant you should be a car mechanic, Aara.” He used my first name, and it stills me. He corrects himself. “I mean, Dempsey.”

  I blow out a breath. “It’s okay. You can call me Aara. When we’re talking about cars,” I add, because honestly, I don’t know if I can deal with my body’s reaction in mixed company if he were to use my name all the time. A horrifying fact.

  “I just bought a slightly used Camry, and I was happy with it until I saw your garage.”

  Hart laughs, but his smile isn’t as wide as it was before. “Maybe you should get going, Dempsey.” Back to professionals. I lose my breath.

  “Yeah, yeah. You’re right. Thanks for showing me your garage. I can say with confidence, I will never see anything like it in my life again.” It’s meant in jest, but he’s not smiling any longer. He looks uncomfortable as he moves his weight from foot to foot.

  “Let me grab my stuff and I’ll get out of here.” I offer a bright smile and he returns it.

  It takes a full three minutes to walk back to the downstairs room where my stuff is. There’s a gym across the hall that rivals a Gold’s. Something else I’ll probably never see in person again. The thing is, Hart doesn’t strike me as the rich, snobby, egotistical chode that you’d suspect when this much money is involved. You’d never know if he didn’t drive around in vehicles that cost more than most people’s houses. I commit the marble hallway to memory as I walk back up the stairs to where the foyer is. He’s waiting there, but he’s not alone. He’s talking to another man, about a woman named Chantal.

  “Ah,” the other guy says, nodding at me. “You’re the reason he’s trying to get me out of here fast.” He approaches quickly, extending his hand like an overzealous salesman. “I’m Chase,” he says. “What might your lovely name be?”

  Ew.

  I grasp his hand oddly because my arms are filled with clothes and my large handbag. “I’m Aarabelle,” I reply, awkwardly, eyeing this dude with skepticism.