Hollywood: SEAL Team Alpha

by Dawson, Zoe

  She scooped up the garment and held it out to him on her index finger.

  He smirked then straightened. “Naked?”

  “Almost,” she amended.

  He looked at the scrap of black cloth and snorted. His eyes were so dark and intense. “You’re going to paint me with wings…naked?” He stepped closer, her heart beating so hard. “Babe, I’m no freaking angel.”

  She clutched the jockstrap as he pulled his T-shirt over his head, revealing his wide chest, taut with muscle. Then he toed out of his boots, unsnapping and unzipping his jeans, pushing everything off his hips.

  She couldn’t help the way her eyes traveled. “Don’t start with that, or we’re not going to get through this.”

  Her eyes snapped back up to his smug smile. He took the jock and slipped it on. The man’s interior was as simply beautiful as his exterior. She had to take a deep breath. “I think June is going to be my favorite month.”

  “Where do you want me?” he asked, his voice low and husky.

  “Don’t you start.”

  “If you think I’m not going to milk this, babe, you’re sadly mistaken.”

  “You’ve just landed in hell. The war is raging around you. I would like to do several shots of you crouching.”

  He folded down, his thighs flexing with thick bands of muscle, setting his hands on the floor. “Like this?”

  “Perfect. Look off into the distance with a determined expression on your face, as if you see your brothers fighting, and you’re ready to take each demon apart like a chicken wing.”

  He laughed. “If you want me to be serious, stop being cute as hell.”

  “I don’t know how to do that.”

  “I’m freaking doomed.”

  “Just act.” She looked through her lens and couldn’t stop her mouth from watering. With men like this, they were going to clean up with this fundraiser and help a lot of people. That made her tremendously happy.

  She started her video camera so she could go through it frame by frame and capture everything he did so she could find the best shot to paint.

  Her breath caught in her throat as she told him to stand and get into and hold other poses, running through the gambit of holding a sword high to the heavens in triumph to leaning on it, weary from battle.

  In every shot, he was so serious, so meticulous in each of his movements.

  So fierce.

  It fascinated her, his fierceness, the way the high arch of his cheekbone fascinated her, the lean angle of his jaw. The sheer beauty of every angle of his face was breathtaking to photograph, and the camera loved him and his handsome features. His eyebrows were thick, dark lines, his skin flawless, something she seldom saw on anyone. His mouth was wide, firm and sensual. She could only imagine what he might look like in battle from his performance here in her studio, contained and pretend.

  But Jude Lock was the real deal. He portrayed the warrior so well because he was one. When she wanted despair, he pulled it off easily, and she had to wonder where he went to get that emotion.

  Everyone had their own personal hell.

  Willow pulled back from the lens, bringing more of him into view. Yes, she thought, he was the real deal, all right.

  Navy SEAL. Warrior. She could see those things in him so easily, the heightened awareness, the physical readiness and the predatory alertness of his expression. He was tuned for trouble—and he was not to be fooled with, not to be unwrapped for mere creative gratification.

  But she was thrilled to have the chance, through his graciousness on putting himself on display for the benefit of men and women who even now roamed the street, her own father only a few days ago.

  “That will do it,” she said then shuffled through the footage, way more than she’d taken of the other military models. As she moved through them, an electric current of attraction sizzled all the way down from her head to her toes. Her cheeks grew hot, her heart damn near stopped, and she looked up from the camera to the man standing there.

  She swore under her breath. Damn, these were so good.

  “Hey, babe,” he said, and she looked up at him. He was hard and that jock couldn’t contain him. “Come here.”

  With a sigh and her insides melting, she set her camera down and complied. He was right. He wasn’t a freaking angel. He was a warm-blooded, compassionate, sexy-as-hell, flesh-and-blood man.

  And for now, he was hers.

  12

  Downtown

  San Diego, California

  Willow hurried to the printer’s office. She had ten minutes to meet her deadline, and with Hollywood still at her house and in her bed, it hadn’t been an easy task. Thank God he had to go to the base every day, or she would have gotten nothing done.

  She hit the reception desk with one minute to go. The woman looked up as she came in. “Hello there.”

  “Hi, I’m Willow Blackmoon, and I’ve got the copy for the printing of a calendar. Rachel, through Heart and Hand made the reservation, and you should have a purchase order from them.”

  The woman manipulated her mouse and said with a smile, “We sure do.” She took the USB drive and the mock up that was enclosed in a large envelope. “Thanks.” She opened the envelope and pulled out Willow’s copy. Her lips parted as she started to flip through the calendar. “Wow, June he’s…”

  She trailed off, and Willow couldn’t hide her smile. She had chosen well when it came to showcasing Hollywood.

  Willow had chosen the photo with him fully facing the camera, ready to do battle. His sword was at his side, demons lay at his feet, and blood and grit covered his body. He was bare-chested, his skin glistening with sweat, reflecting red in the fire’s glow. His armor was Roman-inspired metal bands ending in a point. White and silver was all that covered him. His sword was tempered steel, red in the flames, but a shine of silver sheened the blade. His wings were thick and white, pristine even in battle, fully unfurled and glowing with divine light. It was a magnificent image.

  The woman looked up. “Is there any way to get this as a print?”

  Willow was taken aback for a moment then said, “I hadn’t planned on that, but let me see what I can do. I’ll be in touch.”

  The woman nodded. “We’ll have the calendars printed in time for them to be available for sale. You’re going to sell a lot of them.”

  Willow lit from the inside at the woman’s praise. “Thank you.”

  She left the printer, and her phone chimed. She looked down to see it was Emma. “Hey, you. What’s up?”

  “Where are you right now?”

  “Downtown dropping the calendar to the printer, why?”

  “Sweet, where is that?”

  Willow told Emma the address, and she squealed. “That’s only a block away.” She rattled off an address. “That’s the address for my friend’s gallery. She’s seen the image of Hollywood, and she wants to talk to you about an exhibition. How cool is that?”

  Floored, Willow couldn’t breathe for a moment, every ugly thing every critic had said about her work rushing at her like barbs. She closed her eyes, working past that rejection and negativity. Emma had been right. She’d been trying to be like her mom, but she wasn’t her mom. She was her own woman, and she would be bold in her own art. “I can be there in ten minutes.”

  When she pulled up outside, Emma was standing next to the alley. She waved as a familiar black sedan pulled up to the curb. Willow hurried over, dropping her keys into her purse. She hugged Emma, and they started toward the back of the alley. “The front door is locked. She’s in her office, and we can enter through the side door.”

  Suddenly, a man grabbed her from behind, covering her mouth. But she bit him and shouted, “What do you think you’re doing? Let me go!” One of them also grabbed Emma, and before Willow could do anything, they injected Emma with something. She went limp in his arms. She bucked against her attacker, everything her father had taught her coming back to her in one fell swoop, just like in the All In parking lot when she’d fo
ught those three drunks.

  She stomped on his instep, and when he let her go, she swung with her purse and hit him a stunning blow to his jaw. He staggered away, and she ran for Emma who was being dragged to the open trunk of the sedan.

  “Let her go,” Willow shouted, “Someone help us!”

  The man she’d hit had recovered, and he bellowed as he barreled toward her. The other man had already thrown Emma’s body into the trunk. He came at her with another syringe, and Willow ran down the street.

  But the guy she’d hit caught her again. He was too strong, and the sharp point of the needle sank into her neck. With a soft cry, she fought as the gray fog covered her awareness, and soon the darkness took her.

  * * *

  Naval Base Coronado

  Coronado, California

  Dragon used his code to enter the area where their gear was stored behind metal cage doors. Every time he passed Speed’s empty cage, he felt the man’s loss all over again. So far, there was no one to take up residence, and he wondered about the guy who would have what it took to replace the man they all remembered. He entered as the guys filed in.

  His team was comprised of most of the original team before Speed had been killed by the Kirikhanistan rebel leaders: their LT, a gearhead who was built like a Mack truck, Pitbull, the most tenacious man Dragon had ever met, and Oliver “Artful Dodger” Graham. He was a blond-haired, blue-eyed naturalized U.S. citizen who’d moved from the UK and a former Royal Marine and elite member of the Special Boat Service, the British equivalent of the SEALs.

  Dragon rolled his shoulders after the strenuous training they’d gone through. The three newest members of the team were Maximillian “Mad Max” Keegan, a big man with the gentlest touch, shoulder-length dark hair he wore back and piercing blue eyes. His military working dog, Juggernaut, was a lively Belgian Malinois. He had dark markings on his head and ears, a thick muscled body and a smattering of black over a tan coat. He was as unique as hell and smarter than the average human. MWD’s were considered part of the team.

  Keegan had replaced Pitbull’s brother Flynn “Pirate” Ballentine. The next guy in the door, Neo “2-Stroke” Teller, a motorcycle enthusiast, with a deep chestnut pageboy haircut, and deep green eyes. He could operate any kind of vehicle. He’d replaced Robin “Hood” Ballentine, their corpsman. He was one competent SOB in the field, and finally Zach “Saint” Bartholomew, a man with the strongest moral compass, even in light of the sketchy things they did sometimes. His needle was always pointed to what was right. He was tough though, and Dragon trusted him with his back. His ash brown hair was cut short, his eyes a deep blue.

  Even after several deployments and working together, they hadn’t fully integrated into the team. They drank separately and worked out separately when they weren’t training together. Dragon often tried to get them together, but they just weren’t gelling.

  It bothered the hell out of him that his close-knit team was now terribly fragmented. Fast Lane had told him repeatedly to stop worrying about it, that they would get there, but Dragon just felt the loss of Speed and his absent teammates even more.

  Max had been on Dodger’s butt all day, how he ran like a girl, his fancy accent, his slow approach to sniping. Dragon wasn’t sure why Max was picking on him, maybe to rile them up, to get them to interact even in a tough, roughhousing sort of way. But when he passed Dodger, Max hit him “accidently” with his shoulder and shoved him into his cage. The guy had fifty pounds on Dodger, who was leaner and meaner. It looked like an accident, but it was clear it wasn’t.

  “What is your problem, mate?” Dodger said.

  Max calmly opened his cage. “No problem, little man.”

  Dodger’s face screwed up. He wasn’t a hothead, but they had all been feeling the pressure of getting along ever since Max joined the team with his brash attitude and out-there personality. The problem was Max liked to fight. Dodger did too. But he was a tricky devil, and no doubt, he could take the bigger man.

  Dragon believed that Darwinian explanations for human behavior was a cop-out. He thought men were in constant conflict with their primary programming and that conflict was the defining trait of being human. But on a SEAL team where alpha dogs roamed, it was a constant battle to know when to back down and when to stand up for yourself. Dodger had gotten to that point.

  Dodger shoved Max just as Fast Lane walked through the door, testosterone exploding and adrenaline surging. They all had the love of a battle in their blood, and things devolved into a lot of shoving and yelling until Fast Lane’s piercing whistle broke them all apart.

  In the ensuing quiet, where they all could have heard a pin drop, Mad Max lived up to his name. “So you’re British, but man, you got stones. Sparring with you will be interesting.”

  “He’s a tricky bastard,” Pitbull said.

  “Yeah,” Dodger said, mimicking a cockney accent. “Check yourself, you bloody knob.”

  “Translation,” Pitbull said, “Watch yourself, you fucking dick.”

  Everyone chuckled, and the tension was broken as Mad Max laughed and clapped Dodger on the back.

  That’s when Dragon saw the overturned box in the corner. It had been stacked with other gear. He walked over as a quiet hushed over the room. He crouched down, and when he saw the names on the Christmas presents, his gut clenched, and his throat constricted.

  “Annabelle,” he read, picking up a medium-sized box. This one was for Speed’s oldest daughter, a feisty little angel with the cutest damn face and sassy little mouth. “Dorian,” the largest box was for his second daughter named after his wife’s family name. He picked up the long, obvious jewelry box and the smallest of the three. He read her name, “Melissa.”

  He turned to look up. Pitbull hit the side of his cage with the flat of his hand, LT’s expression was grim and solemn, and Dodger leaned his shoulder into the wire mesh. “I forgot. He said he was hiding the presents here.”

  Dragon set them back in the larger box and carried them to his cage, setting them down inside.

  “I’ll make sure they get them,” he said, looking at Fast Lane, who nodded.

  Everyone filtered out, heading for the galley and lunch before they began training again in the afternoon. Dragon lingered, working on the emotions that swamped him, mainly guilt.

  “I know you’re struggling with Speed’s death. Have you spoken to someone?”

  “No. I don’t need to, LT.”

  “How about you take some time off? A week isn’t going to kill you. Take those presents to his family and regroup.”

  “You worried I’ll screw up overwatch, missions?”

  “No, I sent you to Ruckus’s team and got glowing remarks from him, so that’s not my worry. This can eat you up from the inside out, man. I would be a piss poor leader if I didn’t recognize the signs of stress in my team members. Take some time and mourn, Dragon. Let him go, and let your guilt go.”

  “Is that an order?” Dragon asked.

  “Yes, it is.”

  Fast Lane squeezed his shoulder and left, the door making a reverberating noise as it closed behind him. Dragon sat down and took a few quick breaths as he looked at the box, the presents Speed had never given his family. He gouged at his eyes. The nightmares hadn’t abated, and he knew he had to do something. He’d been avoiding going to Speed’s family, talking to Melissa, seeing the girls. He should have gone after it happened, but just kept putting it off. Now he had a reason, but it would be hard, especially with this box full of presents. Maybe LT was right.

  He had to find a way, or this would destroy him from the inside out.

  * * *

  Hollywood was just walking into Willow’s house when his phone chimed. He smiled when he saw it was his sister, but then frowned when there was no message, just a video.

  He unlocked his phone and pressed the message icon. The screen came up and Hollywood stopped walking and stared as the video played out.

  Then Eze’s face appeared, standing next to a blac
k sedan’s trunk with Emma’s and Willow’s bodies inside, both women unconscious.

  “You will do as I say. You will come to Panama with the man who helped you kill my brother, and you two will come alone. Once you reach Panama, I will give you further instructions. If you contact your command or the authorities, I will know, and I will kill them both.”

  “What the fuck?” Will said, his voice loud and alarmed. “That’s Willow. Who is that man?”

  “That’s Vyncent Eze,” Hollywood ground out. This was his fault. His sister and the woman he was falling for—hell, had already fallen for—were in his psychotic hands. He knew what Eze was capable of, and he had no doubt that he would kill both his sister and Willow without hesitation. He took a breath, calm, steady, and his anger curbed on a tight leash. He was a SEAL, a seasoned veteran, and hell would have to freeze over twice before he’d let Vyncent Eze rattle his cage. That didn’t stop the fear unlike anything he had ever known to grip him in a viselike hold.

  “What the hell are you going to do about this?” The rage and fear for his daughter’s life was bright in Will’s eyes.

  Hollywood narrowed his eyes and said, his voice as rough as a chainsaw, “I’m going to go get them.”

  “Not without me, you’re not.”

  “Will,” he said, “it has to be me and Dozer. You can’t—”

  “Don’t you damn well tell me what I can and can’t do, you wet-behind-the-ears rookie. I’m going, with or without you.”

  It was best if he kept Will close, and even as he knew this was a bad idea, he nodded. “All right. You go. But don’t slow me down, old man.”

  I’m coming for you, Emma. Hold on, sweetheart. He closed his eyes. Willow, babe, I’ll get you out of this, and you’ll never have to worry again. He was going to hunt down Vyncent Eze and kill him—no matter how far he had to go, no matter what he had to do, no matter what consequences he had to face with the Navy, no matter if it cost him everything.