“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. Hooter 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.
