Tossing It_A Navy SEAL and Secret Baby Romance

by Rachel Robinson

  I let the voicemail from Eva play on speaker while I shower—the shrill ring of her voice alerting me and anyone in listening distance that she’s upset I didn’t pick up her call. She tells me she’s coming over after work today and wants to talk about the details of our mother’s birthday.

  “Great,” I mutter, soaping my body.

  “You should have answered it,” Aidan replies, his body hidden by a wall. “You could have thwarted her attempts to rule your life.” Aidan is the king of comedy. He makes jokes or inserts humor any chance he gets. He also inserts his dick into anything in female form, anytime, any chance he gets. It gets him into trouble. He’s a good operator. A damn good one. When it’s time to work, he’s the one I want covering my back. I wouldn’t trust him with a girl for all the money in the world.

  “I know,” I growl. “They’re ruining my life. We can plan something for Mom’s birthday over the phone. I don’t get her need to be in my business constantly.” It’s not just my opinion, everyone around me agrees my sisters are over the top.

  “It’s not normal,” Aidan chirps, rounding the corner dragging a white towel over his head. We talk a little bit about how his family stays out of his way. He doesn’t have annoying sisters or my troubles of breaking free of his family’s clutches. If I were to tell them both to fuck off, I think that would drive them to hound me even more than they already do. At the end of the day, they’re all I have. I’ve had several romantic relationships. None of them ever lasted more than a few months. My schedule combined with their need for attention wasn’t something that ever worked out. I’ve been called cocky, self-centered, altruistic, and cynical. I’ve been called heartless, cold, smug, and inconsiderate. I can’t confirm or deny if there’s truth to any of it. I’ve never been attached long enough to self-evaluate. Moving on is what I’m good at.

  When Aidan brings up the fact my sisters are meddling with my sex life, I have to defend myself. “Listen. They thought me being reassigned to Bronze Bay meant I was going to settle down in all ways. They’re disappointed I haven’t yet. I can’t be sure if they really would be happy with any woman I chose. You have to admit the fact that everyone talks, and it seems everyone is friends here, halts a lot of our sex lives. I’m not like you, I’m not opposed to finding a girlfriend per se, because that would be sort of mandated if I don’t want to get Bay blacklisted, but it would come with so many strings, I’d trip up even the best of candidates.”

  Aidan laughs. “Candidate? This isn’t BUD/s man.” It would be easier if it were.

  I crank off the water. “It’s not, but I might as well treat it as such. It’s a small town. Can’t afford to not screen well.” The thought of having a girlfriend is utterly terrifying. I’ve got a long-term relationship with my job. That shows I’m commitment worthy, right?

  “Good luck with that. I’ll just continue my underground app trolling. Did you see the chick Tahoe’s talking to?”

  Drying off, I throw on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt, and slide into my flip-flops. “I’d stay away from her, man. That one has his name written all over her.” Tahoe is fucking smitten. We all know it, but we’re waiting for him to finally admit it to himself. Let him live with the turmoil a little while longer.

  Aidan scoffs. “Whatever. He hasn’t said anything to let me know otherwise, so I’ll do what I want.” There is the true Aidan. Rolling my eyes, I grab my bag and scold him over my shoulder. He waves me off, that challenging look in his eye. Tahoe is going to crush him. Aidan will undoubtedly earn it.

  ______________

  The gun range is a decent practice session. Keeping up with my skills feels good. It reminds me that I am, in fact, a SEAL regardless of where I’m situated geographically. Sutter kicks my ass via three different weapons, but it’s okay because I almost won once which makes him grumpy. We close the day with a meeting, which is an informal occasion—a bunch of dudes in civilian clothing sitting around a conference table. The updates stream into our system as we’re briefed on what’s going on in the world. Terrorist quads lurk everywhere, but they’ve stayed in hiding because we’ve gotten so good at rooting them out. For the first time in a long time, we can breathe a little easier—take our time in deciding our next course of action.

  Civilians have no clue what really goes on in the name of keeping America safe. It’s easier that way. There would be panic and disbelief, conspiracy theories and outrage. Instead, our military has created a false sense of security—increasing our presence around the United States. Reports of incidents aren’t shared as effortlessly as they were at the beginning of the war. To preserve the sense that we have everything under control, it’s now a weekly recap that spews from the mouths of reporters late at night. We’re confirming reports of such incidents right now.

  The email flashes on the large overhead screen. “That one looks good. Send it on.” Someone brushes past me, in a hurry to wrap and get out of here for the weekend. The email is forwarded on and the last one pops up as I speed read expecting more of the usual. It’s not. It’s the name of a bad guy we’ve been going after for years. A name of a guy I personally missed by the hair on his chinny-chin-chin. The sole name on my list of bad guys I must dispose of before I die. He’s up to no good again, trying to recruit more sinister assholes to keep me gainfully employed. I nod at the guy working the laptop. “Email me that one. I’ll come back later tonight to finish up. Let’s get out of here.” The guys know the name—and my feelings about the fact he’s still at large.

  Adrenaline hits me, my fists clenching by my sides as I remember the last mission I was on. Nothing compares to the thrill of the chase and the close call that inevitably follows. They’re all close calls in one form or another. It’s why there’s no room for errors on the Teams. Every mission is a no-fail mission. Before we leave for an operation, we’re confident we’ll be successful. That mindset trickles into my everyday life, but I’m acutely aware of the difference. Bronze Bay has taught me that.

  Even if it’s hard to admit, the slow pace of life and the sleepy beach town has done wonders to detoxify my mind. I can ride my bicycle or moped most places. There’s plenty of water to wakeboard, fish, and boat. There’s time for me to have a life outside of the grind for the first time in a long ass time. From the day I graduated BUD/s to the day I landed in Bronze Bay, life has been one seamless work cycle with little blips of non-work experiences. I love my job. I loved being busy and making a difference, but there’s also something to be said about calm. I ride home on my shiny black moped on a deserted road. The scent of saltwater and sand clinging to every breath I take. Yes, it is indeed a love-hate relationship.

  I see Eva’s car pulling into her usual spot as soon as I turn into my small apartment complex that faces the bay. There are four large units, and we share a dock and a little slip of beach. Old Mr. Olsen is sitting in his lounge chair on his porch when I walk by. He tips his worn-out straw hat as I approach. “It’s a beautiful day, son. Stop and smell that breeze?” he chirps, voice hoarse from years of chain-smoking Marlboro Reds. He stopped a couple years ago when his pesky cough turned out to be cancer, or so he’s told me. Sometimes I smell cigarette smoke early in the morning, and I know I’m not imagining it.

  “All the way home, Mr. Olsen,” I reply, holding up my dorky helmet. If I’m going to die, I better be shot through the heart or blown to pieces. I refuse to be road kill in this town. That’s a hard line in the sand for me. Safety in all non-hazardous areas of my life, and caution to the wind when I’m downrange under fire. “Enjoy your night. Let me know if you need anything,” I say.

  “You do the same,” he croaks. “Though it looks like it may be difficult.” His sly gaze flicks to Eva pacing my tiny front porch, fingers laced behind her back.

  Shaking my head, I laugh. “Anyone ever tell you, you’re a smart old man?”

  “All the way home, Leif, my son.” With that, he tips his hat over his face and reclines all the way back for an evening nap.

  “Eva
,” I say, cursing under my breath. “While it’s always nice to see you” —I roll my eyes so she can see— “We could have discussed Mom’s birthday on the phone. You really need to butt out of my life. I have somewhere to be tonight. Plans with my friends, you know?”

  Eva huffs, tilts her head to the side and scrunches up her face in that bitchy way she’s ace at. “Why did you ignore my phone call?”

  Mr. Olsen snorts loudly, a laugh masked by a pretend snore. I grin when Eva peeks over my shoulder. “The heavy metal I was holding over my face prevented me from picking up my cell phone at that particular moment,” I fire back, unlocking the door and pushing it open.

  Eva flies in first and spins on me. One eyebrow raised she croons, “What, you’re so weak you can’t hold your gun up now?”

  I groan, turning my face to the ceiling. “Bench press, Eva. I was working out when you called. It makes answering the phone hard. What do you have in mind for the party? What do you need me to do? Is your husband gone again?”

  Her face changes, and the guilt hits. Eva veers into the kitchen and opens the fridge. “I’ll just make you some dinner before you go out, okay?”

  Biting my tongue, I set my bag and helmet on the rack by the door and throw the switches to illuminate the living room. “Why did you marry the guy if you were going to be constantly lonely?” And in my fucking business.

  “Why would you marry a woman if you were going to be constantly deployed?” she shoots back, turning on the stove. I glance at the ingredients, the ones she bought earlier this week and can’t deny I’m excited to eat what she’s making. It’s one of my favorites.

  Leaning on the island bar, I watch her work for a couple of silent moments. “That’s why I haven’t committed to anyone, Eva. That logic doesn’t work. Flipping the argument doesn’t win this time.” She sniffles once and tucks her fair blonde hair behind one ear. It’s almost the same shade as mine, except hers is a touch darker. I’m in the sun more frequently, and she lives in an office all day long. “Are you happy?” I ask.

  She’s quiet for a few moments, and an outsider might think it’s one of those awkward silences that happen when you’re not sure what to say, but when you have siblings like Eva, it’s never awkward. There’s nothing I can say that would offend her and vice versa. She’s calculating how her response is going to be taken, weighing whether it’s worth telling the truth. Basically we’re having the conversation in her mind before she begins it. “I’m as happy as I can be given the circumstances.” She slides a bottle of water to me over the counter. “He is busy with his life. I’m busy with mine. When we’re together, it works well and we’re happy. Mundane, maybe, but that’s what it looks like for most people.” She casts a glance letting me know I don’t reside in that category.

  It sounds fucking awful and I’d tell her so if I felt like arguing. “Here’s the thing,” I start, clearing my voice. “You here all the time isn’t good for business. Even the guys at work think it’s weird. I moved here to start a life of my own.”

  “Shut up. You aren’t a child. Why do you care what they think about your family?” Because it’s interfering with my life. “We are your family. That means we’ll always be a part of your life no matter where you move.”

  “Can we limit visits to weekends only?” I ask, opening the water and drinking half. “The food and cooking is appreciated. Your ugly mug in my kitchen is fantastic, but Sundays only? That’s fair.”

  Her eyes go wild. After countless hours of training in interrogating suspects, I know what the feral look in her eye means. “We are adults, Eva. You’re married. My house,” I say, waving an arm around the room. “Your house,” I add, pointing at the door. “Please.” Manners might get me out of a fight with Celia, but Eva is a fucking shark so I steel my nerves.

  She shakes her head and starts muttering under her breath. “You don’t even ask about me. How I’m doing. You move right in to how I’m making you feel. It’s not always about you, Leif. Despite what the rest of the world leads you to believe.”

  My cell phone vibrates in my pocket and as subtly as possible, I slide it out and read the text from Sutter. They’re heading to Bobby’s Bar and want to know when I’ll be there. Swallowing hard, I look at my sister, her back facing me. “If you want my friendship and for me to wonder how you’re doing you probably need to go away for a while. Absence makes the heart grow fonder and all that. You call me every day. You come over uninvited. There’s no guesswork involved.”

  She spins, the frying pan in her hands. “The IVF didn’t take. Again,” she says, eyes glassing over. My breath lodges in my throat. “I’m bleeding out $19,500 worth of fertilized eggs that won’t attach to my uterus right now.” Oh, fuck.

  Where the fuck is Celia? She’s good at this. She’s the sincere sibling. A lump of dread lodges in my throat, and I work to clear it. “I’m sorry,” I reply, voice low. “That must be tough.” She can’t expect more than that from me. When it comes to emotions, I’m stunted. I block out everything in favor of feeling nothing. I’d blame my job and what I sometimes have to do, but I think I’ve always been like this. An emotional robot. I round the island and pull my sister into my arms. “I’m sorry, Eva. Maybe next time?”

  Her face buried in my chest, she shakes her head. “We’re out of fertilized eggs. I don’t want to go through all of that again and he told me he doesn’t want to use someone else’s. I haven’t told him it didn’t take yet. He had an important business dinner tonight. It would have upset him.” Eva is rarely emotional. In fact, this whole process with her infertility is the only time I’ve seen her upset to this degree. Probably because she always gets what she wants, and for the first time she can’t control the outcome. I’m not completely sure she doesn’t want a baby so bad because it’s harder for her to have one. While we were growing up, she always waxed poetic about never having kids because they’re messy and take up too much time. We were all shocked when she announced that not only were she and her husband trying to have a baby, but they were going through fertility treatments to give them the best chance possible. Celia called her a liar and a massive fight broke out. Our parents were happy at the prospect of grandchildren, but even they were wary of her drastically altered plans.

  Sighing, I try to be sympathetic because I know how hard she’s been trying to have a baby, but in the same breath, personally, I think she’s fucking insane for wanting a family. A baby. A child. An actual human being that depends on you in all ways. If you’re lucky it’s eighteen years, if you’re not it’s forever and ever. That tether is something I never want. Parenting isn’t a no-fail mission, and that’s a risk I’m not willing to take.

  Ever.

  Chapter Two

  Malena

  “I saw Caroline and Tahoe in the parking lot,” I tell Shirley after taking a large swallow of my tonic water. The lime is just for looks. I have to sleep with one eye open tonight. The night nurse called in sick and the last thing I need is to have my mind clouded by alcohol. No one has time for that. I have a couple of hours before I need to get back to relieve Mom’s daytime caretaker. “That man is really something to look at, isn’t he? Caroline was all flushed,” I add. Shirley loves to talk men. She likes to talk about them in any form. Even if they belong to someone else. From what I’ve seen, it’s mostly harmless. Everyone knows she’s secretly hung up on Caleb, the cook from the diner she is a waitress at. They have torrid sex, see other people, and end up back in bed together.

  Shirley shakes her head while gulping down her beer. She wipes her mouth on the sleeve of her fishnet sweater and shakes her head before saying. “His name is Tahoe for fuck’s sake. That girl isn’t going to know what to do when he kicks that thing into four-wheel drive.”

  I giggle. “She’ll manage I’m sure.” It will be a relief if she finally loses her virginity. Maybe the appeal of Caroline May will dull a touch. We all reside inside of Caroline’s shadow of innocence. After this long, you can’t help but think she’s doing
something right.

  Alternatively, Shirley tells me a story about a fling last night, all the while casting glances at the bartender slinging drinks to customers—his pants baggy and his shirt wet with sweat. Shirley’s bleached blonde hair has black roots creeping up a few inches from her scalp, and her makeup looks like she put it on three days ago and forgot it needs to be washed off or redone on a daily basis. I love her, but the woman doesn’t love herself. Not enough, anyway. But isn’t that the problem every woman faces in different aspects?

  “His friends are here,” she says, flying from one subject to another as I nod along. “The SEALs.”

  I’m not sure who she means until I glance in the direction she tilts her empty glass. Bronze Bay has some handsome locals, don’t get me wrong, but these small town waters don’t produce the type of handsome that the SEALs rolled into town with. They look out of place in surroundings so quaint. Their muscles on display without being ostentatious. It’s not like they’ve cut the sleeves off of T-shirts or something, they have serious bulk and there’s no hiding it regardless of what they are wearing. I’ve seen them sulking around in uniforms, and from a distance in their wetsuits getting off their boats and heading up the docks. Every time it takes me back a bit. It’s one thing to hear about the SEALs and what they’re doing on the news, it’s another thing completely to view them up close, in our local bar, infiltrating our world in all ways. I hone in on one guy in particular, right away, because of the color of his hair.

  It’s blond. Light blond. Like the surfers in my favorite movies from years ago. He’s broad and tall like the rest of his friends, but he’s leaner—a self-confident swagger to his walk as he surveys the bar in a wide sweeping glance, not taking in any one thing or person longer than another. He’s indifferent, and little does he know, that’s one of the main qualities I’m looking for right now.