“You’re scheduled to report for Close Quarter Combat training on Monday at o six hundred hours.”
“I’m here now.” His heavy brow furrowed over beady eyes, the man spread his glare over the entire group before aiming it at Castillo again. “Do you have an issue with that?”
“Now why would anyone have an issue with that?” Fingers hooked through his belt, Castillo rocked back on the heels of his combat boots and grinned. “We’re trained to deal with ambushes.”
“Trained, my ass.” Murdock bent at the waist to stare into Castillo’s face. “You call that dancing around you were doing training?”
“You’re welcome to join us,” Thorne called out with a tilt of his head toward the field. “Show us how it’s really done.”
“You think I’m afraid of your big bad club?” Murdock’s laugh dripped with enough insult that Laramie felt as if he should shake it off his boots. “What makes you think you’re all so special?”
“We’re SEALs,” sixteen voices chanted together.
“Whatever. I’m here to teach you pansies how to really fight.” His words sneered down the extensive combat training and battle experience that each and every man there had under his special-ops belt. “The kind of fighting that requires more than guns or knives hidden in your socks.”
The sidelong looks of amusement slanted his way made Laramie smile. Hell, that move had won the battle. Like the others, he began unbuckling and shrugging out of the vest that held the various laser sensors for their mock battle. Being the last man standing, Laramie’s laser-engagement sensors were the only ones not lit, indicating he hadn’t taken any hits.
As if seeing that as a negative, Murdock pointed at the flashing lights.
“You bubble-blowing babies don’t even play with live ammo? What’s the matter with you? Lasers all you can handle?”
All that earned him was an eye roll since the SEALs were known to regularly train with live ammo. It was rare enough that they hauled out the MILES gear that a few of them had had to be briefed on how to use it. But the commander expected them to train with all available resources, and laser practice was considered a resource. Something Murdock probably knew if the disappointment on his face at not getting a reaction was anything to go by.
Still, while the platoon continued to silently strip down, Murdock continued his insult-laden introduction.
“The more you sweat in training, the less you bleed in combat.”
“At least he’s got his clichés down,” Scavenger muttered with a laugh as he joined them. The bag of MILES gear he dropped at his feet muffled his words, but from the glare on Murdock’s face, the warrant officer had a good enough radar to know he was being mocked.
“So...” He took a slow look at them, his eyes shifting from man to man with a look of distaste that reminded Laramie fondly of boot camp. “Let’s see if one of you sissies can handle this new move. Any of you got the balls to step up here and take me on?”
That got him a slew of laughter and a few pats between the legs as some of the team checked their personal equipment.
“How about you, Anchor Clanker?” Murdock gestured to Laramie, using the derogatory reference to the anchors on the petty officer insignia visible on the collar of Laramie’s camouflage jacket. “You think you can take me on?”
This time the laughter was aimed at Murdock. The guy was forty if he was a day, and those eleven years he had on Laramie weren’t any kind of advantage in a physical contest. The guy might have skills when it came to close combat fighting, but they weren’t likely to pay off in this situation.
Because Laramie was good. Maybe not competition form, but he held a second-degree black belt in jujitsu, he was fast on his feet and he had big hands. Big enough that it usually only took one punch to put a guy down.
Still, it was never smart to underestimate an enemy. Laramie rocked back on his heels, assessing. The guy was older, smaller, but too cocky not to have some tricks up his sleeve. He was also fresh, whereas Laramie was coming off three hours of intense maneuvers.
So the minute the guy jumped down from his rock, knees bent and fists high, Laramie did a jump scissor kick, knocking him sideways. As soon as Murdock regained his balance and swung, Laramie blocked the punch with his forearm, launched a spring hip throw, then pinned him with a double arm lock.
And grinned down at Murdock’s furious expression.
“Point?” he asked, wanting his pin acknowledged before he let the guy up.
When Murdock shoved, Laramie waited a moment just to make sure the guy knew he was letting him up, then pushed to his feet.
As he did, Murdock kicked Laramie’s feet out from under him, sending him ass-down on the hard sandy ground.
“How’s that for a point?” Murdock spat, lumbering to his own feet and slapping at the sand covering his uniform. “You didn’t give me a chance to show the move.”
“That,” Laramie said bouncing back to his feet, his easy tone a vivid contrast to the other man’s breathless one, “is how we do it.”
“You mean by cheating?”
“If we ain’t cheatin’, we ain’t trying,” Laramie paraphrased. It was known among the SEALs that the larger force set the rules, and the team was always the smaller force. Therefore, to win, they broke those rules. “Bottom line, I won.”
Which shouldn’t be a surprise.
Because Laramie was a SEAL.
He made it a point to always win.
* * *
FOUR HOURS, A SHOWER and a hot oil massage from a talented blonde named Hilda, and Laramie was back in fighting condition. He strode into Olive Oyl’s bar, his Stetson taking the place of his battle helmet, jeans instead of combat gear and his cowboy boots knife-free.
The Navy hangout located a few miles away from the base in Coronado, California, was loud. Music and laughter rolled over the top of the conversations, hitting Laramie in an inviting wave as he stepped through the double doors. Bodies were packed from one end of the long building to the other, proving why the bar’s proprietor hadn’t wasted a lot of time prettying up the decor. It was a man’s bar. A sailor’s bar.
The grayed wood floors were nicked, the whitewashed walls punctuated here and there with anchors, rustic ship wheels and a faded nautical compass painted over the bar itself. Neon bounced off rope-trimmed stools and the roving waitstaff wore wide-legged white pants, striped cotton nautical shirts and classic sailor caps.
Olive Oyl’s was the go-to place for the SEAL teams. It was also the embodiment of all of Laramie’s childhood visions of the seafaring world. He grinned. And a damned welcoming place.
He moved easily though the crowd, his rolling gait as much from spending his formative years on the back of a horse as spending many of his adult years on the deck of a ship.
He returned greetings and waves with ease, but didn’t slow on his way toward the back rooms where the team usually met. At least, not until one particular greeting.
“Laramie!”
The breathy greeting was accented by a loud giggle and a bouncy little wave to get his attention. Laramie chuckled, appreciating what the bouncing did for the tiny strips of bright blue fabric masquerading as the blonde’s dress.
Okay, he thought as he changed his heading, sauntering toward the woman. So he’d had a lot of sailor visions as a kid, but he’d bet the sexy side of those visions, the ones with naked mermaids and nubile port warmers, hadn’t hit until he was at least thirteen. Maybe twelve.
As he approached the blonde, it only took a couple of flips through the little black book he kept in his mind to come up with a name. Terri, who worked as a cocktail waitress but wanted to be a movie star. She liked her chardonnay with ice, preferred Froot Loops for breakfast and had a penchant for doing it doggy-style.
“Hey, sweetheart,” he greeted with a warm smile as he leaned in to prop one hand on the bar behind her. “How’ve you been?”
“Lonely.” She batted her heavily lined brown eyes, the slight bloodshot hue clu
ing him in to the fact that she wasn’t on her first drink of the night. “I’ve missed you.”
“Is that a fact?”
Before he could even begin the mental debate over whether he was going to help her get over missing him tonight or not, another slender hand smoothed up his back, then tickled its way down.
He glanced to the right to see the sultry brunette, her short cap of hair and the little mole above her lip immediately clicking open the file. Stella, flight attendant with a penchant for leather, beer on tap and midnight sushi.
“Hey, sweetheart,” he greeted, shifting his body so he was positioned directly and evenly between the two women.
“Hi, Laramie. I’ve been waiting for your phone call.” She tiptoed her fingers up his back, wetting her bottom lip and sliding a dismissive look toward Terri.
Terri, however, wasn’t easily dismissed.
“You’ll just have to keep waiting,” the blonde said, wrapping her arm through Laramie’s and leaning in to his body so her breasts almost engulfed his arm. “He’s with me right now.”
“Why would he be with you when he has me?” Stella countered, her hand now tiptoeing down Laramie’s front, as well.
Laramie tilted his head to one side, loosening the stiffness in his neck, then to the other. As the two women hissed at each other, he debated his options. Option one, pull them both close and suggest the three of them make a night of it. Option two, let them both down easy before either thought they had any rights to claim.
Even as his body suggested option two, because dammit, massage or not he was still sporting a corral full of bruises, he automatically slid into option one. Because, well, hey, two women and hot sex? Why not?
But just as he slid an arm around each slender woman, he heard a call.
“Ride ’em, Cowboy.”
Laramie glanced down at the laughing comment, noting with amusement that three of his teammates were grinning at the show from their perch at the end of the bar.
“Need help?” another asked.
And just like that, the moment of peace between the two women exploded into a catfight. Laramie didn’t know what set them off. Hell, he figured it wouldn’t make sense to him even if he did know. The only thing he understood about women was how to pleasure one and how to walk away. Usually unscathed.
But as the blonde dived across his body, nails extended toward the brunette’s face, he arched backward. Not in time to miss the brunette’s response, which was a lousily aimed fist that missed the blonde and skimmed Laramie’s chin.
“Okay, that’s enough,” he snapped with enough force to stop them both so that they stared, breasts heaving dangerously over the tops of their skimpy outfits and their eyes hot enough to fry rattlesnakes.
“Laramie—”
“But she—”
“Ladies.” He angled a charming smile from one to the other, then despite the pain shuddering through his shoulder from the impact of the angry dive, wrapped his arms around the women again. He looked into brown eyes, then blue, keeping his expression easy and his tone as soothing as he would toward a skittish mare. “Two gorgeous women, both wanting my attention? I’m a lucky man. But as much as I would love to spend the evening with both of you, I’m due to meet my friends. So what d’ya say? How about we all kiss and say good-night for now. I’ll catch up with both of you when I’m back in town.”
It took a little more soothing, and more than a couple of kisses each, but Laramie was soon able to ease himself away. And, he noted as he made his way down the bar, he left the women happily chatting away.
“Impressive,” intoned a Nordic giant most of the team called Ice. Ensign Dag Eckhart was six-five and built like one of the mountains from his homeland.
“Were you coming to save me?” Laramie asked with a grin, noting that the large man was on full alert, something he’d come to recognize from the way Ice’s white-blond hair stood on end.
Ice was relatively new to the team, having only joined before their last mission. They’d just come off a two-month deployment that’d involved training foreign counterparts in strategic defense in a country that didn’t believe in hamburgers, beer or fraternizing with women.
So he knew the man wasn’t trying to be insulting. But the idea that there was any situation that involved the fairer sex that Laramie couldn’t handle?
He’d thought his reputation was stronger than that.
Laramie tilted his Stetson back a little farther on his forehead and sighed.
Damn, he wanted a beer.
He didn’t get two feet before he was surrounded by laughing teammates.
“Dude, why’d you stop them? They hadn’t got to the hair-pulling and clothes-shredding part of the fight.” Mick Samuels, aka Blackjack, looked as if he was going to cry in his beer. “You know that’s the part I like best.”
“You’re a sad little man,” Ice deemed, shaking his head in dismayed judgment.
“Everyone’s little to you.” Blackjack shrugged. “I’ll bet you have plenty of dirty little thoughts, there, Dag.”
Looking as offended as if Mick had just suggested his mama did dirty times with polar bears, Dag shifted his stance, looming over the smaller man.
Laramie just kept moving toward the room at the back of the bar reserved for the SEAL team. There, he lifted a finger to the roving waitress, then angled it toward Castillo’s table. She responded with a wink and a look of interest that he debated while he took his seat.
“Looks like you might have plans for tonight,” Castillo said by way of a greeting.
“Nah,” Laramie decided. That didn’t stop him from giving the leggy brunette a slow smile of thanks when she leaned close to bring him his order. He did a quick inventory, noting the bare ring finger, easy smile and hot appreciation in her eyes, then slid his hand over hers on the glass of beer. “I’ve got plans tonight.”
The brunette looked disappointed, but slipped a folded napkin into his hand before sauntering away. He took a second to enjoy the swing of her hips, then tucked the paper into his pocket. He didn’t have to glance at it. He knew it’d be her phone number.
“Nice of you to put Murdock on his ass,” Castillo said. “Nothing like a little welcoming humiliation to cement his hard-on to outdo the SEALs.”
“You’re welcome.” Laramie grinned, twisting the chair around to straddle it. “I’m only sorry I didn’t put him on it a lot faster.”
Castillo chuckled as he reached for his own beer.
“Guaranteed, that guy is gonna be a pain in our asses for the next four weeks.”
“If you’re lucky.” At Castillo’s questioning look, Laramie reminded him, “He reported for duty four days early. What d’ya wanna bet he’ll try to extend training a week or three longer than scheduled?”
“Damn.” Castillo’s scowl only lasted a second before his grin busted it up. “We’re due for predeployment as soon as Donovan and Thorne get back the first of the month. Murdock can stick around if he wants, but that’s his expiration date.”
“I ran into Murdock on my way off the island,” Blackjack said, referring to the location of the Naval Amphibious Base Coronado, as he joined them. He knocked a chair back with one foot, then slid into it in one smooth move. “Crazy bastard was going on about how he was going to put us in our place. He’s aiming hard for you, Cowboy.”
“That’s just fine. I’ll be happy to kick his ass again when I get back,” Laramie said in a slow drawl. “Guys like Murdock, they’ve always got things to prove.”
“He keeps calling us girls, we might want to make it our business,” Blackjack muttered into his beer.
Poor guy, he was still so green. Laramie shared a look with Castillo. They were gonna have to rub some of that shine off Samuels, PDQ.
“He keeps calling you girls, then as soon as I get back, we’ll all just drop our drawers and crush his ego once and for all,” Laramie told the new SEAL, downing the last of his beer as the others burst out laughing.
“My wife w
ill vouch for mine,” Castillo said with a smile. Laramie figured Genna would vouch for anything when it came to Castillo. Poor girl was crazy in love.
“What’re your plans for the next three weeks?” Castillo asked, propping his size thirteen boots on the opposite chair. “You heading back to Texas?”
“First flight out.”
“What d’you do there?” Blackjack grinned. “You working your way through a harem or two?”
As if.
“My plans for leave include three weeks of peace and quiet,” he said, his words a little dreamy. “I’m heading for a small cabin in the Guadalupe Mountains. No traffic, no neighbors, not even a television.”
“Seriously?”
At Laramie’s nod, Blackjack’s face fell like a three-year-old being told that Santa was a big fat myth.
“And the women?” Castillo asked, looking much less disappointed than the other man.
“I said peace. That means no women.” Then, because his reputation demanded it, he added, “Most of these guys, they use leave to get all the women they can. Me? I get them all the time. I use leave to recoup.”
“One of these days, Cowboy, you’re going to find the right woman.” Castillo’s smile was wicked enough to assure Laramie that he wasn’t offering a friendly assurance so much as wishing retribution. “And she’s going to have you hog-tied and branded while you just sit there.”
“I’m a tactical warfare specialist trained in recognizing, analyzing and neutralizing threats.” Laramie shook his head. “In other words, that ain’t never gonna happen.”
No way in hell. He’d seen up close and personal what loving a man who put his career first did to a woman. And sure, some of the team might have found women who could deal with the pressures and demands—or so they thought. But Laramie was his old man’s son. He had the same looks, the same thirst for adventure, the same kick-ass skills. It stood to reason he’d have the same talent for ruining the life of any woman crazy enough to love him.
“No way,” Blackjack echoed, looking as offended as if Murdock had just come in and threw down pictures to prove the entire team was as dickless as he kept implying. “Cowboy is a legend. His reputation is unparalleled. Don’t even jinx it.”
Cowboy All Night (Thunder Mountain Brotherhood, Book 5) Page 20
