Page 19 of Down and Dirty

But MacLean put up a halting hand at both of their sputtered protests and said, “Since you two are so fond of each other, maybe you’d both like to work out together tomorrow. Let’s say, oh four hundred for surf appreciation.”

“Surf appreciation” was a SEAL exercise meant to be hated, not appreciated. It involved the icy waters of the Pacific Ocean, where victims were required to sit, arms locked, in water up to their shoulders as waves crashed over them. It usually only lasted six minutes, but it felt like six hours. Occasionally they were ordered to run into the waves, then run back to shore where push-ups in shallow water were de rigueur. Each time the body lowered, the person would be covered with water.

“And Ms. Asado,” MacLean added, stepping around them and walking into the room, then returning with Britta’s bra and panties dangling from each forefinger, “could these be yours?”

Britta glared at Zach.

MacLean glared at Zach.

Zach was in deep shit, even deeper than before, and now he’d dragged Britta down there with him.

Could life get any better than this?

MEMO

From: Captain Lenore Feldman

To: Commander Ian MacLean

Subject: WEALS

Discourage flirting. Article 83b.

Chapter 4

Beer: A clueless man’s answer to any of life’s problems…

Zach was sitting at a table, sipping suds, in the Wet and Wild, an off-base bar that catered to SEALs and other Navy personnel.

It was early, so the usual nighttime crowd wasn’t around. No band. No sprinklers at the entrance to wet the female T-shirts. No horny men, well not too horny yet. And no wild women. Mostly old or married fuddy-duddies on their way home. Like him. Except he was only thirty-two, and he sure as hell wasn’t married.

He checked his watch for the fifth time since they’d arrived. It was only five thirty, but he needed to relieve Madrene pretty soon or Lean Mean would be after his butt. He wasn’t worried about any immediate danger to Madrene or Sammy. Hell, his town house had been made more secure than a virgin with a chastity belt, and more help was on the way. Nah, it was his kid who worried him. The boy had more than earned the nickname Sammy the Snot after only two weeks in this country, and he was probably revving up his engines to pull more mischief on him the minute he got home. He had news for the brat. He was in a foul mood. One false move, and he was wrapping him in duct tape, especially his mouth.

His buddies, Cage, Sly, and Jacob Alvarez “JAM” Mendozo were sipping suds, too, and grinning at him. Geek, their resident genius on the team, was on base trying to teach some four-star generals how to use a computer. Omar was at home nursing a bruised shin, on top of his prior bruised hamstring. Slick was in a Malibu court trying to fight his ex-wife’s latest effort to empty his bank account. Max was on liberty for two weeks while his wife Hilda opened her new women’s shelter up near Hog Heaven, a motorcyclists’ trailer park, of all things.

“What?” he inquired at their continuing grins.

“It’s jist hard ta believe, cher, that a player like you could be so… domesticated.” Cage, named for his Cajun heritage, enjoyed poking fun at him. They all did.

“I am not domesticated,” Zach protested.

“Oh, yeah? What time do ya have to be home, Mr. Pussy-whipped… I mean, Kid-whipped?” Sly asked. Sly was a big black dude who once modeled tighty whities for Esquire and other hoity-toity magazines.

“A half hour ago.” He grimaced as the truth hit home.

They all gave him a pitying shake of their heads.

JAM, who used to be a Jesuit priest, or at least he had studied in a Jesuit seminary, wasn’t any more sympathetic. Too many years of yours truly rubbing my sexual conquests in their faces. “You are so screwed. You’ve suddenly got a kid, you’re on the Taliban shit list, and now a thousand-year-old girlfriend shows up. How lucky can one guy get?”

That’s all I need, a reminder that an eleventh-century Viking woman has landed in my lap. A sexy-as-sin Viking woman, thank you very much.

“Were you really nailing a female tadpole in the rehab center on the first day of training? And what the hell is this thousand-year-old reference?” Sly asked. Sly hadn’t been with them on that ill-fated trip to Norway.

“Even fer you, first day hanky-panky, thass remarkable,” Cage observed. “Talk about!”

“I wasn’t nailing anybody.” Although the thought did enter my mind. “I was just helping Britta to shower and get rid of first-day kinks.”

“Kinky. Did ya say kinky?” Cage grinned at him.