by Kate Kinsley
“Uh, yeah. This is Jason. Jason, this is Shea, Jillian, and Sierra.” She motions to each as she names them.
As hot as her friends are, I don’t really care who is who. I have the attention span of a flea – I’ll forget in ten minutes.
“Nice to meet you ladies,” I say as politely as I can while I take a seat. I hope my ambivalent attitude isn’t obvious.
“So, mystery man. Where are you staying?” Sierra asks. She seems to be the leader of this little pack, her hand still on her hip as she sips a glass of wine.
I’ll oblige her with an answer.
“I’m here with some friends, and we have a villa just up the beach.”
“Oh! So do we!” Jillian squeals, excitement oozing from her pores.
And I thought I didn’t get out much.
“Maybe we’re neighbors,” Shea mutters to Beca with a sly smile, her eyes dancing with mischief.
I know that look.
Dalton’s famous for it.
It’s the “let me help you out with that chick” look – but in this case, she’s referencing me.
Beca sips her frozen beverage and seems to ignore Shea’s comment.
“Whatever. We’re going to go down to the beach. You coming?” Sierra asks.
“I think I’m going to stay here for a bit, I’ll meet you in a little while,” Beca answers, her eyes glued to me.
“Alright,” Sierra sighs, then saunters toward the wooden steps leading back down to the beach.
“Good choice,” Shea whispers as she follows the two girls.
“Don’t let me keep you from going with them,” I blurt, knowing damn well she’s not going anywhere.
She shakes her head. “I’ll see them all week. A few hours apart won’t kill them.” Her eyes sparkled like a bright, clear emerald lit by the flames of beauty itself. She shifts so she’s sitting upright. As the top of their heads disappear down the stairs, she asks, “So, where are you from?”
That’s a really good question since I don’t have a place to call home. Most of the time, it’s the desert. Other times, it’s the naval base in Coronado where I have a house. I guess technically since I get mail at the base… “California.”
A waiter sidles up behind me like a ninja. “Would you care for a drink, sir?”
I turn my head toward his voice. “Oh. Yeah. What kind of beer do you have?”
“Some of the local beers are Kalik, Bahamian Ale, and Pirate Republic. American beer, we carry Heineken, Bud—”
“I’ll stop you right there. I’ll have a Heineken, please.”
“Yes sir,” he says, then walks away.
I turn my attention back to the goddess in front of me. “California? Wow. You couldn’t be farther from me. I’m in Connecticut,” she says, disappointment laced through her words.
“It’s a temporary residence. I’m not sure where I’ll land after I retire,” I mention, not wanting to scare her off.
She takes another sip of her drink. Her lips purse in the sexiest way as she sucks on the straw. I need to get my mind out of the gutter. “Retire? You look too young to retire,” she says, furrowing her brow.
Chuckling, I answer, “I’m in the military. Technically I have one more tour to finish. After that, I’m not sure if I’ll stay on or do something else.”
Her eyes light up. “My dad was a Marine. What branch are you?” Marines are hardcore. We pretty much do the same job with one difference – the Marines are the guys who kick in your front door, rush in, and blast everything in sight to hell and gone. The SEALs quietly slip around the back, pick the lock, tiptoe into your room, put a single round from a suppressed weapon into your brain, and tiptoe back out without disturbing a soul. We do share a unified distaste for the Army, although we used their bases more times than we’d like to admit.
“I’m a SEAL.”
“Oh. A SEAL,” she mocks, her lips twitching as she tries to hide a smile.
“Yeah, a SEAL. Is that a problem?”
She giggles. “No. My dad used to come home and tell us stories. But at the end, he’d always say that even though there was a good amount of shit talking going on between the SEALs and Marines, there was a great amount of respect for the jobs that both sides did.”
Now, I’m intrigued. “Oh yeah? Like what kind of stories?” I ask, leaning forward.
I've been on operations where Marines were working in conjunction with SEALs. When we were outside the wire, it was all business and we acted accordingly. Back inside the wire, it was just like brothers that have to share a room – a lot of shit talking and fuckery with each thinking they're superior. When you get a bunch of Type A personalities near each other, combined with being in phenomenal shape and a drive that won't admit defeat, hopscotch can get violent. But at the end of the day, we’re still brothers.
The waiter comes back and hands me the bottle. I thank him and pour it into the frosted glass it came with. Taking a long sip, I wait for her answer.
“Alright. The one I remember the clearest was when he was in Desert Storm. They had landed on an island and were supposed to find hostile Iraqis. There was no one there. The Marines blamed the SEALs for inaccurate information, the SEALs blamed the Marines for dragging their feet and taking too long. So, when they got back to the ship, they decided the only way to settle whose fault it was, was to arm wrestle. They took the strongest Marine and pitted them against the strongest SEAL.” As she tells her story, she becomes more animated.
“Who won?”
She laughs. “My dad never said.”
“Was probably a SEAL then,” I tease. Green tendrils circle her pupil, intoxicating me with their depth.
“The only thing he did repeat with every story, was that they were like small children who needed constant supervision.”
He’s not wrong.
I’ve done some really stupid shit in my life, and almost all the things I’ve done happened after i became a SEAL.
“So now that you know what I do, tell me a little bit about what it is that you do,” I coax, trying to shift the subject.
“My life is boring compared to yours, I’m sure,” she giggles. “I work for the New York Times.”
“A reporter, huh?”
“We prefer news journalist,” she corrects me, then takes a sip of her now melted frozen drink.
I chuckle. “That sounds exciting.”
“Not really. I report on mundane things. Mostly politics – but sometimes I dabble in more pressing news.”
Damn.
A redheaded reporter.
What am I getting myself into?
“More pressing than politics?”
“Yeah. Like I know they’re trying to cut funding to the military. That would affect your job. Right?”
Do I tell her that I’m at the top of the food chain? That I’m part of a special unit that goes in where other units wouldn’t dare? While I contemplate my answer, she pulls her sunglasses from the top of her head and places one of the temples between her lips, then gently bites down.
Holy fuck, that’s hot.
I swallow hard before answering.
“It could, yes,” I admit, deciding not to divulge too much. “But let’s not talk shop. Tell me about you. The fun you.”
She laughs again. The sound is like magic – radiating through the air like ripples in a still pond after a stone has been thrown in. “The fun me…alright. What do you want to know?”
“Anything you want to tell me.”
“Okay. Any time I have off, which is rare as of late, I try to decompress. I’ll go to the beach and meditate.”
“You consider that fun?” I tease.
“For me…yeah, I guess.”
“Haven’t you ever done anything wild and crazy?” I challenge, raising an eyebrow.
“Yeah,” she huffs as she crosses her arms. My lips twitch, but I refuse to show how entertaining this line of questioning is.
“Like?”
“Like…” She trails off. Her
eyes drift up and to the right.
There are seven basic types of eye movements, each of which corresponds to the use of a particular sensory apparatus. When grappling with finding the answer to a question, most people use one of the three dominant senses to seek the solution. The movement of her eyes tells me she’s trying to remember something, and trying hard.
“Just give me the first thing that pops into your head,” I coax, not wanting her to stress out. This is supposed to be fun, not work.
She uncrosses her arms and sits back against the lounger. “Fine. My first year of college, I had sex on the top of the Ferris wheel at Six Flags New England.” She raises a brow, almost as a challenge. I open my mouth to speak, but think better and quickly close it. “What. No witty comeback?” Every time she blinks, her long, dark lashes brush against her perfect cheeks and I fall farther under her spell.
“I got nothing,” I answer with a shrug of my shoulders.
“You wanted the first thing I thought of,” she challenges.
“I did, and that’s definitely wild and crazy.” An exhibitionist. My dick is getting hard just thinking about all the things I can show her.
“What about you, Mr. Navy SEAL. What have you done that’s crazy?”
“The list is so long, we’d be here for months if I started going down that road,” I tease.
“So, just give me one.” Finishing her thawed slushy, she leans forward and waits for my response.
“Alright. After I graduated SEAL training, a bunch of us guys went out to the local bar that most of the SEALs frequent to celebrate. We were drinking and having a good time, not really paying attention to what was going on around us. It turns out that a bunch of martial arts guys walked into the bar looking for a fight. They knew the bar was a local SEAL haunt – what they didn’t realize is that the bar was predominantly SEALs. Like, one out of every six people in the bar were civilians, which wasn’t normal.” I finish my beer, then continue my story. “Anyway, one of the morons grabbed a full beer bottle and cracked me across the side of my face, breaking my maxillary sinus and lower orbital ridge.” Her eyebrows furrow, and I forget I’m talking to a civilian. “Broken cheekbone and eye socket,” I add, motioning to my right cheek and eye.
“Oh,” she mutters.
“Getting hit with a full bottle of beer,” I mention as I hold up my empty bottle, “is like getting hit with a baseball bat.”
“Ohmigod,” she breathes, her eyes wide.
“Yeah. It’s extremely painful.”
“I bet,” she murmurs, still entranced with the story.
“So, I saw stars for a few seconds. I’m lucky I didn’t get knocked out. That shit really hurt.” I rub the side of my face, remembering it like it was yesterday. “But, I didn’t see who did it. I was blinded for a few minutes.”
The awe in her features contort into anger. “Someone must have seen something!”
“Oh, they did,” I chuckle, my face breaking into a smile. “I had a friend across the bar who saw the whole thing.”
“Good,” she huffs.
“So, me and a few guys gather together and the moron who hit me sees us regrouping, and he and his three friends fly out of the bar. My buddy manages to grab one just as we exit the bar and catches him with a flying elbow to the back of his head. He goes down like a ton of bricks. But before we could have any real fun, the bouncers catch up to us.”
“So, he got away?” she asks appalled.
“For the moment. We found him a few weeks later and taught him a lesson. Let’s just say, he won’t be attending martial arts classes anymore.”
“Why, what happened?”
“The arm that he used to hit me with the bottle, well it was broken in multiple places. I’m sure he thinks of me every time it rains.”
“Wow. Are bar fights common?”
“No, not at all,” I answer, shaking my head. “As a matter of fact, that’s the only civilian altercation I’ve ever had. And if he wasn’t trying to be such a tough guy, I would have let it go and chalked it up to stupidity.”
“Holy crap,” she mutters.
“Yup. That’s a hard lesson learned.” I finish my beer.
She looks down at her watch and grimaces. “I promised my friends I’d go down to the beach.” Standing, she places her empty drink on the table next to the lounge and places her book back in her bag. I can’t let her just walk out of my life, so I try a desperate attempt to see her again.
“What are you doing for dinner later?” I ask as I stand, still holding my empty glass.
“I’m not sure. I haven’t seen my friends in years, and this is our week to spend together. They live all over the United States,” she confesses, a sadness in her voice.
Good.
There’s still hope.
“Well, why don’t we meet up for drinks later this evening. Say, nine o’clock?”
She thinks for a second, then her lips twitch. “I think I could arrange that,” she admits, her face beaming.
She has the kind of smile that makes you feel happy about being alive.
It’s infectious – starting with her eyes then touching her lips.
And that dimple…that perfect dimple that crinkles at the corner of her mouth makes my heart skip a beat.
“Excellent. Meet me at The Martini Bar,” I inform her. “It’s apropos that we have martinis since Casino Royale was filmed here, and the martini is a James Bond favorite.”
“I do enjoy a good martini,” she mentions as she walks toward the steps to the beach. “I’ll be there.” With that, she descends the staircase.
Beca
I can’t stop thinking about him.
I don’t know how he has gotten into my head.
No, that’s a lie.
I know exactly how.
He’s gorgeous, he’s polite to my friends, he’s super sweet…and he’s a Navy SEAL. If I’ve learned anything from my father, it’s that military men are loyal to a fault. And that is sexy as hell.
I hit the bottom of the wooden steps and stroll toward my friends. As I make my approach, Shea sees me out of the corner of her eye and turns. “Where’s the hunk with the gorgeous eyes?” she asks, raising a brow.
“Yeah. Holy shit, he was hot!” Jillian squeals as I pass Shea and sit on the empty chaise lounge next to her. “You didn’t just leave him up there, did you?”
“Tell me you at least got his number,” Sierra quips.
“For Christ’s sake,” I mutter as I swing my feet up. Sliding my sunglasses to the top of my head, I turn to the three sets of eyes staring at me as they wait for an answer. “No, I didn’t get his number.” They groan in unison, so I decide to put them out of their misery. “But…we’re meeting for drinks later tonight.”
I can’t help but smile from ear to ear when I think about Jason. It might be that cheesy ass pick-up line that sold him. Or the fact that he has amazing abs.
“That’s my girl!” Sierra giggles.
“You could have brought him down here,” Shea insists.
“Nope. This is our time. I missed you guys, and want to spend as much time with you as I can. Who knows when we’ll do this again.”
“I agree. We need to make more of an effort to see each other. I miss our brunch chats,” Jillian sighs as she reminisces. “My girls and mimosas, what could be better?”
“Jillian’s right. Now that we’re here, I remember how much fun we’d have together.” Sierra stands and unties her sarong. “Now, I’m going for a dip. Who’s coming with?”
“I’ll race you!” Jillian squeals as she rips off her sarong and sprints toward the water. The rest of us try and catch her, but she’s the quickest of the group and is splashing before we’re even near the water.
Back at our villa, I shower off the sand that’s found a home in every crevice of my body. I’ve often wondered how there’s still a beach left with the amount of sand that’s at the bottom of my tub every time I make a trip to the ocean. I can’t be the only one
with this problem.
I wrap a towel around me and shuffle into my room. I didn’t pack “meet a hot guy at the bar” clothes, so I rummage through the closet and try to find the perfect outfit. The more I look, the more frustrated I become. I have nothing that screams sexy, and that’s what I want.
I decide I need help. As a last-ditch effort, I go find Sierra. She’s the best dressed out of the four of us, and I’m praying she packed like she normally did.
In excess.
As long as I’ve known her, she’s overpacked for every time we’ve traveled. Didn’t matter where we went, she had four times the amount of clothing the rest of us had.
I find her in the kitchen pouring herself a glass of wine. “Want one?” she asks as I approach the island.
“Most definitely,” I answer.
“You okay?” she asks as she turns to the glass rack, pulling down another wine glass.
“No. I didn’t expect to have drinks with the hottest guy on the island, and I don’t have anything to wear.” Leaning on the counter, I place my elbows on the granite and my chin on my entwined fingers.
She spins around, a huge smile plastered across her face. “You know I have something.”
“I figured you might,” I quip.
She hands me a full glass and says, “Come with me.”
I follow her to her room and watch her dive into her closet. The screeching of metal hangers sliding across the rod fills the room as she searches. After a few minutes, I hear her gasp. “This.” Pulling out an article of clothing, she repeats, “This would be perfect.”
She turns and holds the dress out in front of her. It’s beautiful. A black keyhole dress with a halter neckline and beaded waist. Best of all – it will fall just above the knee. “You’re still a size seven shoe?”
“Yeah. Why?”
She places the dress onto the bed, then drops to her knees and reaches underneath. “Because,” she says as she rises. “These would go perfectly.” In her hands are a pair of silver heels with red bottoms.
“No,” I choke. “If I break a heel or—”
“Stop it,” she cuts me off. “You’re wearing them.”
