Sweet For A SEAL

by Anne Marsh

  The ajiaco is a colorful beef stew with chunks of sweet potatoes and other things I don’t recognize. Doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy the fuck out of it. There are slices of corn on the cob, squash, and what looks like banana. She nudges a bowl of cut-up limes toward me.

  “Squeeze that,” she says, “over the top. And try the salsa.”

  The salsa is a hot pepper sauce that singes my tongue, but the limes are a revelation. I could marry her just to have salsa rights. She leaves me sitting at her table devouring my weight in beef while she disappears into the bedroom to grab her things. When my inner carnivore is finally sated—and that only happens when Vali eventually emerges and promises to send me home with the leftovers—we get going.

  The parasailing operation is owned by friends who run an excursion company catering to the tourist trade. They do parasailing, snorkeling, the usual fun stuff. We placed a dog with them, which means they check out as decent people and probably feel some sort of undying gratitude.

  Charlie St. Croix emerges from the shop when he hears the Jeep. He immediately starts complaining about the pair of rabbits I’d unloaded on him. He’s got a sometimes-girlfriend with a three-year-old daughter, so I did him a favor really. Little girls (and big ones) adore that shit, and bunnies need homes too. It’s not their fault some idiot bought a bunch of rabbits for Easter without thinking things through.

  Vali looks at me, pursing her lips. I’m pretty sure she’s trying not to laugh. “You’re a hazard. Is there anyone you haven’t re-homed an animal with?”

  I avoid the assholes, but she doesn’t need to hear that right now. She’s enjoying being mad at me too much.

  “Possibly.” I tug her toward the dock. “But you’re gonna love me anyhow.”

  “I’m checking my car whenever you’re around,” she warns me.

  “You should check your place,” I counter.

  She narrows her eyes. “You wouldn’t.”

  The way I look at it, no, I wouldn’t. You can’t just put animals in any home. I can kind of feel when it’s right though, and I’ve got rescues coming out my ears so I don’t show pity. Ro complains I’m a fucking animal matchmaker, but he’s just jealous. I haven’t found him furry love yet, after all. Give me enough time and I will.

  I’m a giver.

  While Vali makes sympathetic faces at Mr. I-Don’t-Want-To-Own-A-Bunny, I kneel down and slide her sandals off her feet. Shoes and boats don’t mix unless you’re wearing steel toes. When she looks down to check on what I’m doing, I explain. “Better to go barefoot.”

  It’s a good thing I work out, because when I grab her bag, it’s heavy. I’ve hefted go bags packed with weaponry that weighed less.

  “We’re only going out for about an hour,” I remind her. I could not tease her, but where’s the fun in that?

  She makes a face, but she doesn’t offer to leave the bag behind. “I like to be prepared.”

  She and Ro would make a good pair, except that where his preparation takes the form of numbered lists, labeled crates of supplies, and a ten-step plan, Vali seems to be going with a more is better approach—and she’s crammed it all into one bag. Personally, once I’m ass-deep in a situation, I can usually find or make what I need. Everything else is just baggage.

  I’m betting Charlie would agree with me. Our captain for today is a former SEAL platoon commander, and he’s used to rolling on a moment’s notice. Used to going in hot and getting the job done. I have no idea how he’s ended up in the Caribbean taking cruise ship passengers out on the water for fun, but his reasons are his own. Today I just plan to enjoy the ride. And the water’s incredible, that kind of blue that looks like it belongs in a crayon box. As Charlie and his second mate, Evan Silva, take us away from the dock and out into the gulf, I do enjoy myself.

  Too much.

  Vali whips off her shirt, pulls out a tube of sunscreen from her suitcase-bag, and starts applying lotion. Me, I’m okay with skin cancer because I’m pretty sure my jaw is somewhere on the deck of the boat. I mean, she’s still got clothing on. It’s not like she’s completely naked. Two strings hold her teeny-tiny red bikini top together over a kickass tattoo of a flower-covered vine. Two. Strings. It’s all I can do to resist the temptation to give her a good tug. She rubs lotion over the top of her tits, the generous curves not covered by the swimsuit, and I bite back a groan. We’re supposed to be dating here, and even I know that doesn’t mean “have sex in public on a moving boat.” I’ll bet neither of the former SEALs would complain though.

  Since I have to do something, have to move or I’ll go completely crazy, I pull off my own T-shirt. Vali’s setting such a good example that I have to follow, right? I’m nowhere near as pretty as Vali. I’ve got scars to go with my dog tags, souvenirs of near misses, bullets I failed to dodge, and a memorable encounter with a drunk and a knife in San Salvador on an undercover op. Vali doesn’t seem to mind, but maybe that’s because she has scars of her own. A faded red line streaks beneath the edge of her tits, and there’s another on the sweet curve of her belly. I’m kinda lost in the tattoo, though.

  Red and pink flowers, big, bold, bell-like flowers on a green vine, scroll over her boob. They start beneath her tit and above her rib cage, and then if I’m a lucky man and I’ve guessed right, they wrap around her nipple and stop just inches short of her shoulder. There are names inked into the plant life, dark slashes of ink that cut through the color. She doesn’t mind me looking, and she has to know I’m doing it. Christ, there’s nothing subtle about the boner I’m popping, but it’s the wrong reaction.

  I brush my fingers over the first name. Bella.

  “My sister,” she says, and I know she means the one who died from breast cancer.

  “Gotcha.” Her ink is gorgeous, but it’s like she’s a walking, talking tombstone. No. I think about that for a moment and realize she’s the memorial. She’s holding onto memories for three (or more, because there are a dozen names inked into tiny leaves on her skin), and I’ll bet she only keeps the happy thoughts for them.

  “Now what?” She eyes the sky nervously. Not sure how she expects this to work, but she’s the one who cut the picture out of the magazine. I’m used to working from the top down—drop my ass out of a plane or a Blackhawk, and I can handle a fifteen-thousand-foot plummet.

  I pat her shoulder. “I’m a parasailing virgin, too.”

  Charlie snorts loud enough to be heard over the motor’s rumble. “There’s a first.”

  It’s the right thing to say, though, because Vali’s smile gets easier. Probably because she’s trying not to laugh her ass off, but that’s okay. Charlie hands the wheel to Evan, who has being a strong silent type down to a science, and motions us to the back of the boat. “You take off and land from the back of the boat. Nice and easy.”

  Vali nods. Slowly. I half expect her to take notes. “Do we get wet?”

  Charlie flashes her a grin, and I mentally promote him to Captain Dick because he’s definitely thinking what I’m thinking. “Highly recommended but optional.”

  “Okay,” she says and follows up by shimmying out of those little denim shorts. Jesus. All I can think about now is getting her wet, and I don’t mean in the ocean. She’s curvy in all my favorite places, and I really, really want to touch her. Everywhere. Except she’s staring at the mountain of harness and chute like she’s Alice facing down the Jabberwocky.

  “Assume the position,” I tell her, earning myself another look. That’s okay. It’s cute, and now she’s not looking like she might blow chunks over the side of the boat. I’ve had to push more than one SEAL out of the chopper bay because some guys aren’t built for heights.

  We stand on the back of the boat facing Captain Dick, and it’s time to harness up. I take my gear seriously. Your gear and your boys—that and mother-fucking luck and training—are all that stand between you and going splat on the side of some godforsaken mountain full of hostiles. I’m not expecting trouble from the Gulf of Mexico, but it never hurts to be p
repared, so I double- and triple-check the buckles on my harness and Vali’s. When I’m satisfied I understand exactly how everything fits together and where the safeties are, I nod.

  “Paranoid much?” she whispers to me, but I won’t apologize for making her safety my priority.

  “I wear a condom too,” I whisper right back, my mouth against her ear. “I’m the king of safety, darling.”

  We slowly lift off the back of the boat, the chute snapping into the air above us. The whole process is definitely way more serene than HALO jumping, or maybe it’s just the lack of bullets and enemy hostiles. Charlie smirks at me and flashes a two-finger salute.

  Parasailing is like feeding the animals at the zoo with that dried up, kibble-looking crap you buy for a quarter a handful from a machine. It gets the job done, you see a few things you don’t see walking down the street, but it’s not like you’re on safari in Africa or seeing a polar bear in his natural habitat. After freefalling twenty-five thousand feet from a C-160 sucking oxygen because otherwise you’d pass out after about thirty seconds, this is nothing. It’s like swimming in the kiddie pool when the last time you hit the water, you were shooting a class six rapid.

  Honestly? It’s not bad.

  In fact, it’s kinda nice.

  I lean back and get comfortable. Maybe this is the SEAL version of massage, letting someone else do all the heavy lifting? The view is real nice. Although the tandem harness is designed to give us each our own, separate space, Vali manages to press up against me, and I wrap an arm around her shoulders. I’m no hero, but I’m happy to pretend to be one for her.

  VALI

  The deck of the boat is a long, long way below us. I squeeze my eyes shut, because denial is my friend. Captain Charlie mentioned he’d run us up the maximum. I’m pretty sure I heard the words five hundred feet bandied about. Right now, that’s about four hundred and ninety feet too many. Maybe four hundred and ninety-eight.

  If I fall two feet, I maybe sprain an ankle or skin a knee.

  From up here? I’m pretty sure I’m looking death in the face, and I’ve already cheated the bitch once.

  It’s just that Tía Mina always talked about wanting to fly, and this seemed like the best way to go about it short of taking pilot lessons. Maybe I should have put that on the dream board. Maybe having a few tons of steel around me would make this feet-not-on-ground thing better.

  Or not.

  “The view’s better if you open your eyes, sweetheart,” Finn drawls beside me. He drapes an arm around my shoulder, and it’s funny how warm he feels—and how much like an anchor. He shucked his shirt while we were still on the boat, and I open my eyes because, if nothing else, he’s worth looking at.

  I’m sidetracked, however, by the ocean beneath us. We seem to rise endlessly, the chute snapping and creaking cheerfully above us as it fills with air. The cable connecting us to the motorboat appears smaller than I’m comfortable with, but a quick look at Finn’s face is reassuring. If the man were any more relaxed, he’d be asleep. Possibly snoring.

  The boat is tiny now, chewing through the water and leaving a trail of foamy, white wake behind it. I spot darker patches of reef in the turquoise water, and there’s a creamy stretch of sand hugging our right. Dry land isn’t too far away, not that I want to crash land into a palm tree. From up here, the ocean seems almost rounded, reminding me that the earth isn’t flat, no matter how much it seems like it is when I’ve got my feet on the ground.

  I never imagined it would be like this. No wonder Tía Mina wanted to fly. What else did she know that I don’t?

  For a minute my heart aches, because wherever she is, she’s not here. The ocean and the beach get a little blurry, but I push that aside. Crying isn’t living. I learned that months ago. So instead, I focus on the ocean and the way the air feels so impossibly clean. It’s nothing like Miami.

  Finn’s thumb strokes over my shoulder, drawing small circles. “You doing okay?”

  There are so many different ways to answer that question. I don’t take my eyes off the spectacular, glorious, scary-as-shit view when I answer him, although I can practically hear my sister cackling that I shouldn’t waste my time on the ocean when I’ve got former SEAL badass man candy sitting next to me. I’ll get to Finn next, I promise her silently.

  “I’m good,” I say, the wind half-whipping my words away. Because up here there’s wind in my face and ears. Guess the parachute wouldn’t work otherwise, but it’s both prettier and, well, noisier than I expected.

  The thing I’ve already learned about Finn? The man has an excellent bullshit meter and no filter. He squeezes my shoulder. “I’ve got ghost riders.”

  The unspoken too hangs in the air between us for a moment before the wind drags it playfully away.

  “Ghost riders?”

  “Yeah. Some of the guys in my unit didn’t make it back, but I’ve brought them with me, riding on my shoulder. Kinda looking on, watching me.” He doesn’t look at me so much as through me. His head’s somewhere else, and it’s not some place in the Florida Keys. I’m pretty certain it’s not on this planet even. He’s got memories, and he’s lost people. His voice softens, the rough burr easing as he remembers his dead. It didn’t occur to me when I met him that we’d have this in common.

  So I give him the truth. “That’s it exactly. I’ve got Bella and my Tía with me.”

  “Ride-alongs,” he says. He taps his shoulder and then reaches over and runs the back of his big fingers over the spot between my breasts. “Right here.”

  I like it. His SEALs are part of him, just like my aunt and my sister are part of me. Of course, I also like the sensation of his callused fingers brushing my skin. Can he tell my girls are fakes? My doctor was good—the best—so I’m betting he can’t. At the very least, he just thinks I wanted bigger, better boobs and Dr. Cosmetic Surgery delivered.

  He tugs on the string holding my skimpy top in place. There’s a little too much of me above and below for a bikini, but it’s comfortable and makes me feel sexy. His knuckle slips under the fabric, and my breath catches. I haven’t had sex since B.C. Before Cancer.

  “You’re gorgeous,” he growls in a rough voice that makes me wish we weren’t floating through the air. My mother brought a word with her from Cuba for amusing untruths—not the lies that hurt, but the facile compliments people give each other to charm and amuse. Those are guavas, sweet and purple like the fruit. Finn serves them up to me, and I devour them. For him, I’d like to be the most beautiful, the sexiest woman.

  “Do I get a reward for being good?” His voice is rough and low and sexy as hell.

  And then somehow before I can even answer him, we’re kissing. Or almost kissing. He cradles my face in those big palms, tugging me closer. He fascinates me, and not just because he’s big, built, and mostly naked. I absolutely enjoy that—parasailing has unexpected benefits—but it’s the way he’s so confident in his skin, relaxed and sure even though we’re five hundred feet above the water—and he makes me feel safe and confident, too.

  I lean into his touch, meeting him halfway. Possibly I get there first because I’m that eager to put my mouth on his, to find out if he can possibly taste as good as he looks. And because he fascinates me, I keep my eyes open. I want to see as well as touch, as much as possible, so I squeeze closer.

  “I do get a reward,” he says huskily. He’s so close now that I can smell the mint of his toothpaste. I inhale, and his grin gets wider. “Yes?” He almost purrs the word. He knows what he does to me. And that’s okay, because he wants me, too. I can see the evidence of that when I look down at his lap, and it’s impressive.

  “Hurry up,” I say because I have to say something, and I might as well be honest.

  His mouth closes over mine, and now there’s no space, no distance, no great big empty hole in me. Oye. Finn isn’t in any rush. He kisses me slowly, gently, like he’s learning me with his lips and he has all the time in the world. And even though I know that’s not true—peop
le die, people leave, and no parachute can keep us aloft forever—it’s the sweetest lie.

  I link my hands around the back of his neck, pulling him closer. He’s all I can see, and my eyes drift shut despite my best intentions. Finn. Best thing I ever did was land in a ditch. Funny how sometimes accidents turn out to be the right thing after all. He feels right. Present in the moment with me. Like he’s as desperate to lose himself in our kiss as I am. I can’t get close enough, deep enough, and that’s not just because we’re high in the sky and some things are just flat out impossible.

  I’d feel the same way kissing Finn if we were horizontal.

  He wraps his arms around me, holding me tighter as he angles his mouth on mine. Yes. He can get deeper. I open up, take him all the way. He fucks my mouth with his tongue, licking, exploring, making me feel good in a way I’ve forgotten I can.

  Finn is so addictive.

  I kiss him and kiss him, and he returns each touch with interest. It’s so good that I don’t even notice our altitude change. My feet hit the water, and we bounce apart. Descend lower still. Warm ocean water washes over our knees, and my butt skims the surface. I’m grinning like a loon when Captain Charlie and his silent companion reel us back into his boat.

  Best. Day. Ever.

  T-7 days

  VALI

  The girlfiends come over every Saturday morning, and we make candy. Ava and Marlee are more demon than innocent, and they love trouble, mischief-making, and a strong margarita. They also love my pastelitos, which means I can expect them to appear in my doorway sometime in the next thirty minutes because I make them every Friday night and they don’t keep. Just to help me out, they bring coffee and booze every Saturday morning, and we gorge ourselves on sugar.

  Saturday is my fun day, the day I say fuck off to all the responsibilities, the to do lists, and the mature adult activities that are supposed to fill up my week and instead make it overflow. I sleep in. I eat a zillion calories (and none of them come from the fruits and vegetable family). I basically lie around like a happy, sunbathing sloth, alternating between binge reading my favorite authors and online shopping. Mainlining pastelitos with friends fits right in with my plans. Hey—at least I’m honest with myself.