He wanted to make his birthday extra special, because it was the first time he’d celebrated since his ex had left years before. She’d always insisted on cakes and presents. God, she cared for him. Even when he couldn’t reciprocate. She was always there, always home when he got back.
But she’d left. She’d gotten fed up with the military-girlfriend thing and shacked up with some accountant in Chicago.
Good riddance.
He meant it. She deserved better than a boyfriend who was always away, and who was just as absent when he got home. Nah, it was best for everyone involved if he just enjoyed the company of friends in celebratory times like this. He waited for his cock to harden at the thought of a multi-friend shower.
Chicks getting wet and hanging off him. Naked. Skin to skin.
He waited.
And waited.
He sat down on the edge of his bed, with its high-end white sheets, and looked down at his pants. He didn’t feel anything. Not even in his groin. Not even at the thought of three naked women all over him.
He finally admitted to himself what he’d known all along: he’d changed for good. He wasn’t a young man anymore. And he wasn’t boyfriend material either.
But the reality of what he had become was harder to grasp. Harder to accept. What had he become? A sailor? A machine? A workaholic?
The word coward danced briefly through his mind before he stuffed it away. He wasn’t a coward. He was just following orders: shut up and stay quiet. Don’t talk about what you do, what you’ve done. What you’ve seen.
A shudder ran up his back, and Mason threw the hotel brochure on the floor. He didn’t fucking care. About anything.
Back-to-back-to-back tours. Hard operation after hard operation. There was nothing left inside him except drills and orders and obedience. All he wanted to do was pass out on the bed and sleep all day. Pretend Mali had never happened.
Mason looked out over the never-ending horizon. He could get lost in that. The view was breathtaking. Divers in the distance searched for wildlife in underwater corals. He could hear soft laughter from nearby. Even children. People were out there, enjoying life. Having fun.
The type of fun he should be having. The type of fun a normal person would have on their birthday.
Fuck it.
Even if he didn’t have it, he needed to fake it.
He slammed back another whisky shot, wishing someone would make him a coffee. Unzipping his black duffel bag, he whipped on the beach shorts he’d bought at the airport and pushed his way out the door to the beach club.
He could sleep in the sand.
And that’s how he’d ended up sitting at the edge of the Indian Ocean on a scorching hot day, digging his heels into molten white sand that was killing off at least a few layers of skin. If it weren’t for the years’ worth of built-up calluses on his operator’s feet, he’d probably have been burnt. But he could damn near walk on fire without problems.
A DJ was spinning dance tracks nearby, giving the beach club a fun, social feel. The music settled into his bones, and he felt something lift. He had this connection with music. It was like an animal instinct to him. He loved electronic music, and had been an avid festival goer before the Navy got the better of him.
Mason grabbed a bottle of coconut lotion beside him. He didn’t give a fuck if it was sunscreen or not. His skin was as dark as it could get from months of baking in Mali. He could barely discern his full left sleeve and creeping chest tattoos from the darkness of his skin. His tan looked almost comical juxtaposed with his wavy, golden-brown hair.
The dark tan served him well when he had to blend with the locals in Timbuktu, but he had to keep his hair covered constantly, or else the rebels could see him from a mile away.
As he slathered on the lotion, he inhaled the sweet coconut scent. Heaven. Nothing like aromatherapy to bring you back to the present.
He promised himself never to think about Mali again. At least not on his birthday.
No. Fucking. More.
He squeezed the bottle again and again until half the product came out. His skin was dry from lack of care in the Sahel and soaked it all up, covering his wide expanse of muscle.
SEAL selection got him into intense shape. Working in DEVRGU got him into killer shape—like, assassin shape.
The staff and other hotel patrons milled about in the background. A broad rectangular infinity pool sat to his left, up from the beach. A beautiful Indian woman dipped in and out of the blue pool water, gold jewelry dripping from her neck and wrists. She looked over at him and smiled.
It was a wicked, “come join me” smile.
She seemed friendly, he thought, knowing full well what she was up to. Her husband wasn’t far off, so Mason quickly averted his eyes. He didn’t want a lick of trouble on his only vacation. The thought of socializing began to feel daunting, and he wondered if he was subconsciously avoiding it.
Birds overhead sang a sweet song, and it brought him back to the moment. Music was his great equalizer. Nature soothed him. The local fauna framed the beach and the pool, creating a tropical prism. Everything felt so goddamn exotic.
The singing birds moved into the lush trees framing the beach. Waves crashed soothingly against the sand. Dance music continued to play, mingling with the distant laughter of men and women.
He breathed in coconut and salt and ocean. And booze.
He could hear loud talking nearby that threatened to burst into his private bubble.
He needed more booze.
He almost laughed. His dad, a carpenter, would have gotten a kick out of seeing him here. Mason looked like someone had stained him and glossed him, like a table being refinished. If only it were really possible to be refinished, he thought.
When work became shit, he realized that it was the only thing he had in his life. He needed some serious personal do-overs.
Whisky could help with that. He reached to his side and grabbed a cold cup filled with delicious liquid. The only thing better than the paradise all around him was the fact that the resort staff constantly brought him drinks. Exclusive luxury whiskies, sakes. Imports from Asia, Europe, everywhere. Everything and anything.
Mason shook his head, wondering how Senior Chief Blackshot had gotten this decompression approved. He must have dipped into some sort of slush fund. Then again, the troop commander seemed to go along with everything the senior chief said.
Mason didn’t want to think about how he was being bribed and manipulated into silence. As he tried to forget, the whisky continued to find its way into his mouth. The flavor was incredible, and the alcohol burned nicely on his tongue.
He was a tall guy with significant mass, so it took a lot to feel the effects of alcohol. He never got drunk. He could drink all day, and—hell, yes—he planned on it.
He wished he had someone to enjoy it with. Someone he could actually talk to. He hadn’t seen his troop mate Jake in four or five months—not since Jake flat-out quit the SEALs when he saw what the senior chief did.
Mason had never questioned his own principles before, but maybe Jake had a stronger moral compass than he did.
Mason sucked back the rest of the drink and left the cup beside him. A nearby waiter scurried away, presumably to fetch another. Maybe it was the sun, maybe it was the alcohol, but Mason was starting to feel that glow. The heat crept into his bones and taunted the ball of ice he held inside. It had frozen sometime in the last year and wouldn’t melt.
To distract himself again, he grabbed his smartphone from his pocket, thanking god that it was water resistant as his sweaty hands grappled with the unbreakable case.
He slid open the screen and hit up his apps. No new mail. No new messages. Nothing. Didn’t people realize it was his birthday? He couldn’t blame them. He didn’t use social media. Didn’t advertise his birthday.
The only person who knew and cared was his dad. Since his mom had passed away, it was just the two of them. Give the old man a break, Mason thought. He’s probab
ly busy being a productive member of society.
Mason flipped again through his apps, browsing around for something fun. His finger hovered over the dating app he’d downloaded the year before. He hadn’t yet made a profile, but occasionally he cruised around to see what was out there.
There were certainly lots of great candidates. But no one he cared to hurt and ruin. His ex had taught him not to date someone if he wasn’t willing to give it his all. It was a one-way ticket to accidentally hurting someone. And no guy wanted to think of himself as a dick.
He was just a workaholic. He was dedicated to DEVGRU and the mission, wholesale. When he’d completed his SEAL training, the troop commander had talked about cultivating character and putting the needs of the country above your own. Mason thought of those words often, especially when he was lonely.
But he liked to think that if the right girl came along, he’d make it work. Of course he would. One day he wanted little kids running around, and loads of guys in the troop had wives and children. One day, Mason wanted to flip burgers on the barbecue while he stole kisses from his wife behind the shrubs.
He felt himself grinning at the thought—and at fond memories of his mom and dad when he was very, very young.
With the happy memory rattling around his mind, he found himself absently syncing his location to the app and flipping around the “who’s available” column. Surprisingly, lots of resort goers along the stretch were advertising themselves.
But he was still incognito. Still in private mode. Unreachable.
Not surprisingly, the Beach Rouge club was practically overflowing with people looking to mingle.
He clicked on an athletic brunette, twenty-seven. She was on vacation with her girlfriends. A bachelorette party. Looking for someone to escape with. Not bad, he thought. She was a nice-looking girl. British.
He kept flipping. Electronically spying on hot chicks was probably the closest he’d get to socializing with any of them.
Next profile: a blonde, thirty-three, visiting with her brother’s family. Trying to escape the kids, he figured. She wasn’t shy with her pics and revealed some nice long legs topped with a bright yellow bikini. German.
She was beautiful, but he felt nothing when he looked at her nearly naked body.
Next: a beautiful Vietnamese woman vacationing with her husband, looking for a third to spice up their holiday. Mason chuckled to himself but cruised past. Good for them.
Four, five, ten profiles later, he decided to put away his phone. He wasn’t going to message anyone anyway, and he could see how flipping could quickly become addictive.
His dad would tell him to get off the fucking Internet and try being a human in real life.
But Mason just liked to look. Fantasizing was about as far as he’d go these days.
He didn’t hunt for tail on tour, which was true for most of the guys in his troop. Sex, a huge distraction, wasn’t allowed or tolerated in theatre, although there were always a few guys who managed to find a way.
As lowered his phone to turn it off, another profile slipped onscreen. He couldn’t resist taking one last look.
Bringing the phone up to his face, he lifted his sunglasses. What the hell? He’d just discovered exactly what it would take to get him to set up a profile. To send a message.
Within seconds, he was scrambling to open a profile. How the fuck did this app work? How could he message someone? He felt old-fashioned and technologically challenged, even though he was only twenty-six.
That’s what happens when your job forces you to stay off social media, Mason grumbled silently—you fall behind the times.
But, god, that chick. That profile. Of course, she was ten-out-of-ten hot. Those icy blue eyes screamed trouble—the type of trouble he couldn’t get enough of. But they weren’t the only reason he wanted to connect with her.
Something about her look intrigued him. Like she knew something that she wasn’t going to tell anyone. She stood out completely. He couldn’t put his finger on why, but he wanted to find out.
When he finished filling out the profile form, a window popped up on the screen. Error. He hadn’t filled something in right.
“What the fuck?” he grumbled at his phone. “What the hell did I do wrong?”
He slammed a few more buttons, looking for the error.
“Fuck.”
Error.
“How the hell does this shit work?” His voice was rising. He was almost yelling—yelling!—at his phone.
Incorrect, the app scolded him. He needed to add a face shot. Another error message appeared. He needed to validate a phone number.
“Dumb fucking thing.”
He wasn’t going to put his face on a dating app. He was careful as hell with his identity. But as he exhaled a frustrated “aaaaaargh,” he heard a sweet songbird voice coming from five feet above.
This time, it wasn’t an exotic bird. It was a real live human being—a woman, at that.
“Need a hand?”
He looked up, then back at his phone, and then he snapped his gaze up again.
Holy fuck.
Also by Zoë Normandie
Link to Kindle edition:
HUNTING AVERY
Book One
Fighting For Olivia
Book Two
Olivia Forbes’s plane began its final descent into Modibo Keita International Airport in Bamako, the capital city of Mali. As the haze of the morning West African sun burned through her window, sweat dewed on the back of her neck, curling the loose brunette strands.
She’d gone from late-winter snowflakes in Washington to African heat. And that heat that would only intensify as she continued her trek north to the Sahara. Or so she had read—she’d never been to Mali before.
The aircraft jolted up and down, driving fear through her veins.
The pilot’s muffled voice sounded through the radio. “Sorry, folks—just a touch of turbulence as we land.”
She began to feel sick. Whipping off her scarf, she put her cold aluminum water bottle on the back of her neck. The coolness was only a momentary distraction. She peered out the window, but the sight of the brown, muddy river that ran through Bamako only made her more nauseated.
After a hellacious few minutes, the wheels touched pavement, and the passengers clapped and cheered. Gazing out the tiny window at her seat, she drank in the landscape, which was markedly different from home—and anything she’d seen before. Thick red dirt lined the runway, and patches of emerald-green grass framed the area. A cityscape loomed in the background with tall gray towers of urban infrastructure.
As they taxied to the airport, Olivia grabbed her cell out of the seat-back compartment in front of her. She absently cruised through the last messages she’d received at the Paris airport and reread the message from her boss, Jacqueline Hart, a partner at In Context.
You are my client relationship ambassador here—you are going to rock it! I’m jumping, just thinking of all the future work for the firm…
Olivia released a slow breath, letting out the tension. She was excited and proud to be leading such an important account. It was incredible how much faith the firm had put in her—an entire client relationship hinged on her! And she had every intention of keeping the client happy by any means necessary.
Out on the tarmac, the passengers were escorted through the traffic and into the airport. It was a low building with interesting modern architecture and colorful decorations that spoke to the multi-tribal culture of the region. Inside, the airport was chaotic, as she’d expected. Bamako was a busy hub in West Africa.
Customs and bag check went by without incident, though she was given a funny look when she told her immigration officer that she was consulting for the American military. She didn’t say Navy SEALs. She didn’t say Naval Special Warfare Development Group, DEVGRU, or SEAL Team Six. She didn’t say counterterrorism. She knew better than that, even before the CIA security briefing in Washington the week prior.
Rule num
ber one: Don’t make your job sound too exciting.
That wasn’t the only rule she’d received in her briefing. They read her the riot act, to the point where she questioned the Navy’s faith in civilians to follow orders. At the end of the day, she was a big girl, and she understood the importance of rules in theater and the Naval code of conduct.
Olivia waited inside the lobby of the airport, knowing it wasn’t a good idea to stand alone curbside in Mali’s capital city. Years and years of conflict had rattled the country, creating a tense atmosphere for foreigners. She was well aware that visitors were regular victims of petty and violent crime, sometimes by criminals and sometimes by extremists.
So Olivia stood firm and waited for her driver inside.
She took off her dark-rimmed, tortoiseshell glasses and wiped a layer of filth off the lenses. Something about traveling made everything need a pressure wash. She had transferred in France to get there, and the whole trip had taken almost a full twenty-four hours.
She was tired.
Jacqueline had told her that the lieutenant commander was arranging her transport to the compound as well as every detail of her movement and security. And Olivia made no mistake—every move she made needed to be planned and monitored. Up north was a fucking war zone. Westerners and white people were regularly kidnapped and killed.
Her firm and the Navy had approved her visit only because the rebels were falling in the north and Timbuktu had been reclaimed. She’d be well inside the safety zone, they said. Well inside.
Rule number two: Stay ‘inside the wire’ of the compound.
She wasn’t even sure how long it would take to get to the compound, five hundred miles northeast of her ultimate destination. As it was, she was a sitting duck. A young, white woman with a perky brunette ponytail and rosy cheeks would be a prime target.
The Navy had assured them that once she got there, of course, there was no need for additional security to follow her around. The SEALs on the compound would offer the best possible security while she worked on her project. Whether or not the commander was thrilled about babysitting her remained to be seen. She had every reason to hope for his cooperation—the Navy had commissioned her firm, after all—but she wasn’t so sure how it would go down in reality… well away from DC’s watchful eyes.
Guarding Aisha Page 23
