by B. B. Hamel
“Cute?” her friend answered. “He’s a freaking hunk. I’d let him do anything to me.”
“Lisa! You’re so bad.”
“What? Wouldn’t you? I bet he could make me feel things I’ve never dreamed about.”
“Oh my god!”
I frowned, looking away, trying to tune them out. I wanted to pretend like they were an anomaly, but the truth was, most of the women in that line were thinking the same thing.
Slowly I got closer and closer to him, and I found myself suddenly nervous. I was only a few spots away, and I could see him clearly from where I was standing. Sure, he was surrounded by a bunch of people, probably bodyguards and publicists, but they seemed to fade into the background around him.
Nash Bell, Navy SEAL, American hero, and probably the hottest thing around at the moment. His mega bestselling book about his time in the military was being optioned for a movie, and everyone wanted a piece of him
Including, apparently, every woman within a twenty-block radius.
I watched him talk to his fans, smiling at them, cracking jokes. He seemed somehow both bored and totally engaged with every person that came near him. It was almost magnetic the way he spoke and looked at everyone, even if he was just asking their name and writing in their book.
I inched my way forward, more and more nervous with each step. I didn’t understand why, since I had no real interest in this man. He was just an assignment, just one more topic I needed to write about. But for some reason, he was intimidating. I’d gotten my books signed by other famous people, even spoken to a few for interviews, but I had never felt so strange before meeting someone.
And then it was my turn. Nash Bell looked up at me and smiled. My stomach twisted itself into knots.
“Don’t be shy, girl,” he said, grinning. “Come over here.”
I walked over, frowning at him. “Uh, hi. My name is Selena Wood. I’m a journalist for the Penn Daily, the student newspaper here at the University of Pennsylvania.”
He nodded. “Okay, Selena. Want me to sign your book?”
I put it down on the table. “I was hoping I could get an interview with you, Mr. Bell.”
He flinched. “Call me Nash.” He looked back up at me, cocking his head to the side. “Now, why would I give you an interview?”
I paused. “It’d be good exposure. Every student here reads it.”
His smile curled into a suggestive grin. “You’re going to give me exposure, Selena?”
“My newspaper will,” I said quickly. “We can do it later, or even just a few quick questions right now.”
He paused for a second, staring at me. I suddenly felt completely alone in that huge room, like I was the only person he had any interest in. It was almost exhilarating the way his attention suddenly honed in on me and made me feel so absolutely looked at.
“You want to do it later? I’m not sure you could handle me, Selena.”
“The interview, I meant,” I said quickly, blushing deeply. “Sorry. I meant the interview.”
He laughed, shaking his head. “I know what you meant. I like your dirty mind though.”
“So, uh, any interest?”
He stared at me for another second and then motioned for me to come closer. I leaned in toward him. “Are you sure you want to be alone with me?” he said softly.
“It’d be an honor to interview you.” I regretted the words as soon as they came out.
“An honor,” he grunted. “We’ll see.” He wrote something in my book and passed it to me. There was the name of a restaurant and a time.
“Know the place?” he asked.
“Sure,” I said. “It’s pretty fancy, over in Old City.”
“Meet me there at eleven. Wear something nice.”
I opened my mouth, surprised, but he was already looking away. Slowly I turned and walked away as another set of undergrads came over, obviously making lewd sexual jokes that he easily batted back at them.
I walked away, back through the crowds, but I felt a million miles away.
What the hell had just happened?
I looked in my book and, sure enough, the name of the restaurant and the time were both still written there, plain as day.
Nash Bell wanted to meet me at eleven at the type of place I’d never be able to get inside of, let alone afford. I couldn’t tell if he wanted me to interview him or if I was meeting him for something else.
As I walked back out into the cool night air, I couldn’t help but think about his reputation. Nash Bell wasn’t exactly known as a wholesome guy in the media. There were rumors of drinking, partying, whoring, and drug use, all the sort of things I tried to avoid. He apparently went through women like sticks of gum, chewing them up and spitting them back out. He left wakes of destruction behind him, all because he could.
And I was supposed to meet him alone for a drink?
I made my way back toward my apartment, still in shock over the whole episode. It almost felt like a strange, bad dream.
Why the heck would Nash Bell want to meet with some undergraduate girl in her senior year? It couldn’t be because he was interested in trying to seduce me or something like that. The man could get any woman he wanted; I doubted he would bother with someone like me.
And it couldn’t be for the tiny bit of exposure I could give him. I had fully expected him to say no, to maybe give me a quick quote before kicking me out. Instead, he was offering me some serious one-on-one face time.
It was the sort of access some journalists would dream about. Nash Bell was the hot thing, and if I got an exclusive interview with him, I could seriously get my name out there.
I made my way up to my tiny third-floor apartment, unlocking the door and pushing my way inside. Once there, I instantly started Googling him, searching for every little bit of dirt I possible could.
And as I did it, I found myself formulating a list of questions. I didn’t even realize I was doing it, but for some reason some part of my brain must have assumed I was going to go through with the meeting.
A few hours passed that way, and what I learned about Nash Bell didn’t really help.
Nash was known as one of the best successful SEAL commanders in Afghanistan history. What exactly that meant was in his book, and apparently a lot more had happened that was highly classified. He’d done three tours of the desert, spent countless hours out in the field, and had a huge number of confirmed kills.
And he was barely a few years older than me, which was surprising. The man had a grizzled, veteran look about him, but he was only twenty-eight.
After he got back from his last tour, he went on a leave of absence for an unspecified amount of time and for an unknown reason. Around that time, he came out with his book, and the rest was history.
People loved his story. It was full of action, violence, and excitement. He was a small-town boy from the Midwest that went on to do incredible things with the military, a true American hero. He had saved his company numerous times, put his own life in danger for his comrades, and more; he was everything we were told military men were supposed to be.
And yet he was a drunk and a womanizer. He liked expensive cars, expensive dinners, and expensive parties. The man was a living hurricane, blowing through town after town. There were rumors that his publisher wasn’t happy with his behavior, but there was no sign he was going to slow down.
By the time I came up to breathe, it was already ten o’clock and I had a decision to make.
I could take what seemed like an impossibly lucky opportunity, suck it up, and go meet the man, or I could chalk this one up to a strange celebrity’s practical joke and decide to ignore it.
But I had already made up my mind hours ago. Really, I had made up my mind the second he’d invited me. When he’d looked at me with that intense stare, I had known I was going to do what he said.
Stomach flipping from nerves, I stood up and began to root through my closet for something appropriate to wear.
Something
dressy and classy, but not too inviting for him.
This was strictly business, after all.
I had to keep telling myself that. With Nash Bell, everything had to be strictly business.
He was just too dangerous to get involved with.
2
Nash
Two Weeks Earlier
I woke up, hangover pulsing through my skull.
Another fucking hangover. I could barely even remember the night before. I had a vague idea of some fucking club, loud music, plenty of sluts throwing themselves at me.
I looked across the sheets and, sure enough, some blond stranger was wrapped up in the comforter.
I groaned, rolling out of bed. What a fucking shit storm. I walked into the bathroom, rinsed my mouth out, and drank a cup of water.
“Baby?”
I looked back into the main room. The blond thing was sitting up, her thick hair spilling down around her shoulders, her bare tits standing firm and ripe.
“Not your baby,” I grunted at her.
“Whatever.” She smiled, crawling across the bed. “That was fun last night.”
“Sure,” I said. “I bet it was.”
“Are you going somewhere?”
“Eventually.” I looked at the time. “Got a fucking flight in a few hours.”
She stopped at the edge of the bed and motioned for me. I sighed, walking over to her.
She reached out and grabbed my cock through my thin boxers. “You have a few extra minutes, right?”
Another pussy, another city, another night. I stared at the girl and tried to remember her name, but I was drawing up a blank. Frankly, I couldn’t even remember what city I was in, let alone what club slut I had brought home the night before.
What the fuck was happening to my life? One day I was at the top of my game, killing fucking scumbag terrorists in one of the most dangerous places in the world, and the next I was rolling around the country getting my cock sucked by horny fans.
“Maybe another time,” I grunted to her, turning away.
“What?” she pouted. “Come on.”
I looked back at her. “Get your shit and get out.”
She stared at me, not sure if I was joking. “Come back here,” she said. “I’ll suck your cock, make you feel better.”
“Guess I wasn’t clear,” I said. “I’m taking a shower. Get the fuck out.”
I turned and walked into the bathroom, shutting the door and locking it.
I heard something thump against it. “Asshole!” she yelled.
Just another normal morning in my fucked up whirlwind of a life.
“You’re late.”
I frowned at my watch. “Two minutes.”
“Still late.”
“What’d you sleep on, a fucking rock?”
“You know I like to be punctual, Nash.”
I grinned at her. “Yeah, I know that, Livy.”
She sighed and looked down at her phone’s calendar. Livy Green was my publicist and handler, and basically the bane of my fucking existence. If something was fun and felt good, Livy wanted to destroy it with fucking fire. The woman was a professional at keeping me on schedule and keeping me bored out of my fucking mind.
“Look,” she said, “we need to talk.”
“Can we talk on the way?”
She nodded and stalked off. I followed her, my skull pounding. I wasn’t looking forward to another lecture about my “conduct” and my “professionalism,” but it would be over soon enough.
Thing was, I didn’t exactly disagree with her. Yeah, I was partying too much, drinking too much, fucking too much. Yeah, I was enjoying the fucking fruits of my labor. Could anyone blame me? I had a thousand female fans that all wanted a piece of my cock and a thousand dollars in the bank begging to get blown on the next bullshit attraction.
I had just spent the better part of my life in the fucking desert, my balls owned by Uncle Sam. Didn’t the world owe me a tiny bit of fun?
This damn book. Truth was, I didn’t even write the thing. The stories were all more or less accurate, though some of them were fucked up a bit because of security reasons. I’d had a ghostwriter who actually did all the hard work, though. I told him what happened to me, the shit I did out there, and he made me look like some kind of fucking hero.
Which I wasn’t. I was just some asshole with a lot of particular skills that did his job. I wasn’t a hero, never asked to be one.
Didn’t matter anymore, though. Wasn’t like I could somehow go back in time and change things. The book was out, the world was fucking crazy for me, and I was stuck dealing with all the shit. Orders were fucking orders, even if they were some weird fucking orders.
I followed Livy outside. The guy working for the hotel out front wanted to take my bags, but I shrugged him off. I hated being treated like a celebrity. I could carry my own fucking luggage.
Soon we were in the back of a private car and speeding out toward Midway, one of Chicago’s airports.
“I spoke with Chuck this morning,” Livy said.
“Who?” I grunted.
“Chuck Davis. Your publisher.”
“Oh. Okay.” I stared out the window, barely listening.
“He’s the man that owns you now, Nash.”
That got my attention. I looked back at her. “What did you say?”
“Nash, I’ve been warning you for weeks now. I’ve been warning you that your behavior has been deplorable, that you couldn’t keep acting like a drunken idiot all the time.”
I narrowed my eyes at her. “What are you getting at?”
“You’re supposed to be the face of this war, Nash. You’re an all-American boy.”
“I never asked for any of that.”
“Too bad,” she said, sighing. “You’re supposed to be a moral, upstanding person.”
“And yet I’m the depraved asshole we both know and love.”
She smiled slightly. Livy wasn’t so bad looking. She was in her mid-thirties, incredibly tightly wound, with dark hair always kept in a bun, thin red lips, and a thin, tall body.
“Yes, exactly,” she said. She paused and sighed again, her smile disappearing. “You’re not going to like this.”
“Just say it, damn it,” I said. “Quit playing around.”
“Do you know what a morality clause is?”
“Not really.”
“It’s a clause in your contract. It basically means you have to be a moral, good person, the kind of hero the American people want and need. Otherwise, you’re in breach.”
“How the fuck can a contract control my actions?” I said, annoyed.
“It can’t. But if Chuck and the board decide that you’re antics are getting out of hand, they can invoke the morality clause and take everything away from you.”
I stared at her for a second as that sank in. “You’re fucking threatening me,” I said slowly.
“I’m not threatening,” she said. “This isn’t coming from me.”
“I know what a threat sounds like.”
She shook her head. “Listen to me, Nash. Threat or no threat, you have to get your shit together. Otherwise, Chuck is going to cut you out of any future deals regarding your book.”
“He can’t do that,” I said. “I’m the damn face of this whole fucking thing.”
“He can and he will.” She paused, looking at her phone again. “They’re optioning the book into a movie, you know. Lots of money you won’t get if you don’t get yourself together.”
I stared at her silently, raging on the inside. I wanted to smash something, scream in her face, but I knew that throwing a tantrum wasn’t going to fix shit.
Fact of the matter was, I was tied to these fucking corporate suits whether I liked it or not. I didn’t much care about their money, but I needed it anyway. I couldn’t let them cut me out, otherwise I’d be fucked on too many levels to count.
“Looks like I’m screwed,” I said.
“Just behave and you’ll be fine.”
She looked back at her phone. “Now, let’s go over the itinerary.”
I half paid attention as she ran through what we were doing for the rest of the day. The book tour was still on-going, but I was ready to call it quits then and there. Suddenly, I had some assholes in a boardroom telling me how to act, telling me what I could and couldn’t do. I could break their spines with my bare hands, kill them all without blinking an eye, and yet I was supposed to be their proper little fucking American hero.
I hated that shit.
I was my own person, my own man. Maybe I’d gotten tangled up in this book business shit, but I’d never really asked for it.
Fucking bastards had me by the balls and they knew it.
I shook my head, staring out the window, plotting my next move.
I wasn’t going to be cowed, made to bow down.
I’d play their game. But I’d play it my way, and to fucking win.
3
Selena
I climbed out of the Uber, feeling incredibly out of place.
It wasn’t often that I put on one of my most expensive dresses and went to meet a stranger at a nice bar. Actually, as far as I could remember, I hadn’t worn this dress since a wedding a few years earlier. It was short, black, and tight, showing off way too much cleavage, but it was the best I had on such short notice.
I frowned as I walked into the restaurant. Butcher And Singer was an upscale steak house, the sort of place where I couldn’t afford a drink, let alone an actual meal. The place was quiet inside, dimly lit and expensive looking. The woman standing at the hostess station looked like she could have been a model, all angular thin lines and tall legs.
“Can I help you?” she asked pleasantly.
“Yes, hi. I’m supposed to meet someone here.”
“Name?”
“Nash.”
She glanced up at me, and I couldn’t help but notice the brief moment of surprise that crossed her face. She quickly looked back down at her book and nodded. “Right this way.”
I followed her into the main space. She led me through the main dining room, around a corner, and into a small private booth.
