“Yeah, I’m not sure Ilikedhim,” Pete said. “But I liked that I was wrong about him. Or that I thought I was wrong about him. I don’t like that this proves I was right, you know, from the start—and yeah, you’re right, I’m lying. I liked the asshole.Fuck.” His stomach hurt.
“You’re an extremely interesting man,” Shay said with a laugh but then asked, “What exactly did he do? Hans.”
“He requested to be medically rolled, to keep Boat Squad John intact.” Pete knew she had no clue what that meant, so as he braked to a stop at yet another endless red light, he expounded. “One of his squadmates got hurt, so he pretended he was hurt, too. When a SEAL candidate gets injured, he’s not kicked out of the program, he’s rolled back, into a newer class, so he’s allowed to heal before he continues with the training. The catch is that he’s got to do Hell Week all over again. So if a man gets rolled on the last day of Hell Week, he’s particularly screwed. That’s what happened to Timebomb. And the entire rest of Squad John—led by Seagull, but including Hans—they asked to be rolled, too. They were all willing to do Hell Week again, simply to keep Boat Squad John together. That’s a pretty huge thing.”
Shayla nodded. “I can only imagine.”
“It’s what we want—what we’re looking for during BUD/S,” Pete told her as the light finally went green. “Men who understand what it means to be part of a team. That kind of loyalty is…” He shook his head. “Hard to find.”
“Loyalty’s a lot like love,” Shay murmured. “And love is…crazy. It happens or it doesn’t. You can’t force it—or control it. Love justis.Trust me, I’m a romance writer—I’ve given this a great deal of thought. People can’t make themselves fall in love, and they also can’t stop themselves from falling in love. And sometimes it’s awkward and inappropriate—like if one person’s only fifteen and the other’s twentysomething. But that age difference is pretty meaningless if they’re twenty-five and thirtysomething.”
“So you think it’s okay for Maddie to date a grown man?”
“Of course not,” she said. “There’s a reason we have laws about age of consent. She’s a child in the eyes of the law. But truthfully, neither one of us knows her very well. It’s possible she’s mature beyond her years. It’s also possible that she’s completely messed up, and using sex for power, or as a way to prove to herself that she’s of value. But whatever the case, it’s also possible that she truly loves this guy. And if she does, if it’s real, then she’ll still love him when she’s eighteen. And if he’s got any kind of moral compass, he’ll recognize that and behave accordingly.”
As Pete signaled to make the left turn into the parking lot for the Grill—it was nearly full, but there were a few spots near the Dumpster—Shayla continued, “Remember Dingo’s reaction to finding out Maddie’s only fifteen. If telling people—men—that she’s older is part of her MO, it’s entirely possible thatsheapproached Hans. Which brings us back to your personal experiences as a young man, asking for ID when a pretty girl implied that she wanted to get busy with you in the back of your car.”
He smiled grimly as he pulled into the lot and backed into the space. “I’ve never had sex in the back of anyone’s car.”
She rolled her eyes, thinking he was being cute with semantics. “In the back of your truck, then.”
“Car, truck, motor vehicle,” he said. “Nope. Well, an RV once, but it had a king-size bed, so I don’t think that counts.”
“Definitely not,” she said. “So, wait. You had a car, but you and Lisa really never…?” She quickly backpedaled. “I don’t mean to pry or be creepy. She just seemed like…” She started again. “Her character, at least in the way you’ve been telling the story, with her just showing up in your car—taking what she wants…I just thought…”
Pete shook his head. “We didn’t hook up until we were both in college, and by then, we lived in dorms. And after Lisa, I was…well, careful. And older. Sex in cars is a teenaged thing.”
“Yeah, you don’t read enough romance novels,” Shayla told him. “It’s not just a teen thing. It’s a symbol ofI want you and I can’t wait. It’s hot.”
“Yeah, but that’s fiction,” he argued. “In real life, don’t you get, like, a cop shining his flashlight through the car window, which—maybe it’s me—feels like a mood killer.”
She laughed and her eyes sparkled, and she even blushed a little, and his body shifted—just slightly with aHello, I’m alive—as he realized they were sitting here talking about sex. And he’d forgotten for that brief moment that they’d come to the Grill to find out if Hans fucking Schlossman was sleeping with Maddie.
But then Timebomb Jackson’s pale blue late-model sedan—a remarkably sedate method of transport, considering Jackson’s love of both state-of-the-art weaponry and technology—pulled into the parking lot and took the spot on the other side of the Dumpster.
And Shayla reached over and grabbed Pete’s hand.
Her fingers were cool against his heat, but her grip was strong. “You know, I could be the bad cop,” she said, surprising him. He actually laughed.
“I could,” she insisted. “That way, you could just hang back. No risk of accidentally punching him in the face.”
“I promise I won’t punch him,” Pete said, and kissed the back of her hand, which surprised her in turn. He then got out of the truck.
Boom.
Izzy looked up from signing his credit card receipt as the noise echoed through the Grill. He leaned over to look out the window and into the parking lot….
Boom.When it happened again he saw that it was the sound of SEAL candidate and Petty Officer Third Class Hansie Schlossman getting thrown up against the Dumpster. Hans was a big boy—tall, strapping, square-jawed, blond, like a movie poster forDas Bootcome to life—and therefore made a loud noise upon impact.
But the shocker wasn’t that Hans would piss someone off to the point of them throwing him against a Dumpster—twice. The shocker was that the Hans-toward-the-Dumpster thrower was none other than Grunge, aka Lieutenant Peter Greene. Who was wearing his gleaming dress whites and looking every inch the officer and gentleman. Except for the throwing-Hans-at-the-Dumpster part, which could, in some circles, be construed as rude.
What thefuck?
Izzy was on his feet and heading for the door, even before Timebomb Jackson—as tall, strapping, and handsomely square-jawed as Hans, but black, so no room for him on any boat commanded by Nazis—launched himself in full sprint toward the restaurant, presumably to come fetch Izzy to help.
The third currently present member of Boat Squad John was Seagull—brilliant but height-challenged and usually rendered invisible by his two giant, handsome, muscle-bound besties. Seagull was standing near Hans and Grunge doing what he did best, i.e., talking everyone down. The Gull’s body language was pure referee, but he was keeping his distance, smart boy. Grunge was, after all, an officer. And enlisted guys didn’t shove back even when hitting a Dumpster was involved.
Grunge’s new pretty “friend” Shayla was there, too. Unlike the Gull, she wasn’t enlisted so she’d grabbed on to Grunge and was holding him back—not that she had the size or strength to stop him from doing whatever he damned pleased. But she’d wrapped her arms around him and seemed to be speaking directly into his ear. She, too, had cleaned up nicely since last night. She was pretty and shapely, and Izzy made a mental note to text Eden later:Grunge and the neighbor lady are definitely doing it.
