“I think you’re still in love with Gen and I . . . I’m still screwed up over Nathan. I don’t want to lose your friendship. My relationship with you is one of the great things in my life,” I say.
“I hate to tell you this, but if a friendship with a guy you see twice a year is one of the great things in your life, you have a pretty sucky life.” I don’t deny it. He exhales. “Did you see Nathan recently?”
“A few hours ago,” I admit. “I think you can guess what happened. You don’t need to tell me I was being stupid. I know it already.”
“I would be the last person to berate you.” Colin laughs ruefully. “If Gen showed up, I’d throw her down on the bed and fuck her silly. After, I’d spend the next day drinking away my self-loathing. Since you’re not going to forget your sorrows on my dick, why not go down to your hotel bar and get smashed? Once you’re too drunk to stand up, you’ll forget all about the asshole. It works for me.”
“What happens when the alcohol wears off?”
“Rinse and repeat, Charlie. Rinse and repeat.” He sounds so tired.
“Come down here. Spend the week with me. We’ll go sailing or, hell, just lie on the beach together. And after, you and I can go somewhere. We could fly to Japan and eat at that sushi restaurant in that documentary you made me watch,” I suggest impulsively. We need to get away from the source of our hurts, and maybe if we were alone we could open ourselves up to finding something better than happiness. It would be less painful.
“If I do, I’m insisting on double beds. I don’t want you attacking me in the middle of the night because you’re lonely. I’m not a toy.”
He says this as a joke, but I think half of him is serious. He’s tired of being treated like a toy by women and, honestly, I wonder if I’m Nathan’s toy. Something to pick up, play with, and discard. Colin hangs up, saying that he has a few things to take care of before he can drive down. He’ll text me in a couple of days. I make another list of all the things I need to do for Christian and his family and buckle down to do my work. I manage to keep Nate out of my thoughts for thirty minutes at a time, which I figure is some kind of mild success. Work isn’t as numbing as alcohol, but it’s probably better for me.
I work through dinner, and it’s almost ten before I put away my phone and computer for the evening. When I crawl between the clean, crisp sheets, I nearly cry tears of relief that I’m not back at the Del in the room where Nate imprinted himself on every surface in the short time he was there.
But when I close my eyes, I can see him—and me. I can see me pressed up against the mirror in the bathroom, my hands making starfish prints as I brace myself against his thrusts. I can hear his harsh breathing, his commands to come, come now, Charlotte. There was that passage of time that felt endless when he was between my legs, licking me softly and leisurely as if there wasn’t anything in this world that gave him more pleasure than helping me find my own. I touch myself, but it’s useless. My body wants one thing: Nathan Jackson.
I’m on fire and the ache of want is so acute it’s like a knife in my chest. I’ve had multiple surgeries, chemo treatments, radiation but that’s nothing compared to what I feel now.
Time and distance had dulled my pain and that my desire and love for Nathan had actually started to ease only to be stoked into high, hot flames by his reappearance in my life.
He is the poison and the antidote.
32
Nathan
“What do you think you’re doing?” Cabby demands. He showed up at my doorstep thirty minutes ago and used his keys to come in when I refused to let him in. He’s watching me pack.
“I’m going after Charlotte.”
“The letter girl,” he says flatly.
Annoyed, I snap, “Will you stop calling her that? She has a name.”
“Really? Because for like years you’ve never said her name once to us. We’re your family, man. Your brothers who have fought with you, and all I know is that for a while you got a shitload of letters from Chicago, Switzerland, and sometimes LA.”
LA. I never understood why she was ever in LA. Charlotte wasn’t a LA sort of girl.
“You took your letters and hoarded them like the fucking dragon in The Hobbit.”
“I didn’t want any of you assholes jerking off to her. She’s not spank bank material,” I growl.
“Are you fucking kidding me? She’s top shelf spank bank material! She’s like the porn star in the girl-next-door movies with her shiny hair and puppy dog eyes.”
I know he’s baiting me, but shit I’d like to turn around and pummel him until whatever perverse images he’s created are drummed out of his head.
“You and everyone else need to excise her from your memory. She doesn’t exist for you in that fashion. She’s more pure than the Virgin fucking Mary.”
“Does the Virgin Mary like to bite? Because those are one hell of a set of bites around the top of your shoulder.”
I clap my hand over the offending marks—not because I’m ashamed of them, but because I want a reminder of how hot it was. After nine years, it was understandable that we’d have a good night, but it wasn’t good, it was epic. All my fantasies had failed to prepare me for how explosive sex with Charlotte would be. How tight her pussy was. How sweet she tasted. How willing she was to do anything.
“Treat her like your sister, and we won’t have problems,” I mutter, rubbing the teeth marks. Did she bite me that time in the shower? Or was it when she was riding me on the chair? Maybe it was both.
“I can’t even talk about her?”
“No.”
“She’s got you wired tighter than a guitar string, son.”
Cabby is disappointed. While I never took girls home with me, I had no problem playing wingman for him, and I could understand his disgruntlement at how his life would be changing.
“You might as well go to OTS since you’re leaving us single, enlisted schmucks behind.”
“Officer Training School? Since when are only officers married? What about Toller, Wright, and Barovsky?”
“Exceptions, dude. You got to be an LT pay grade or above to afford the wife and kids.” He pauses and laughs a little self consciously. “Although money’s not a problem for you.”
I shift uncomfortably. Most of the guys I serve with don’t have family money like me. There are a few here or there but it’s mostly men living paycheck to paycheck. You earn more as a SEAL because of Dive Pay, Jump Pay, Special Duty Assignment Pay, special bonuses to retain members but it still doesn’t come close to what my trust fund generates in interest in a month. It’s why so many SEALs violate the oath to avoid publicity or seek personal glory. They want cash.
Cabby throws himself on the bed, tipping over a pile of clothes. “How long are you going to be gone? You’re packing like you’re going on a six month mission.” He picks up a pair of shorts and tosses them up. I grab them out of the air, roll them up, and stick them in my seabag.
Should I buy a set of luggage? I’ve been so used to carrying my gear around even when I visit my family, but Charlotte might not like the reminder of what I’ve been doing for the last nine years. Will she be able to be a seaman’s wife? Or worse, a SEALs wife? We are gone a lot, either on training or missions. I won’t be able to talk about my work with her, and I’d leave at a drop of a hat. The only positive was that, unlike a lot of other military guys, I’ve been stationed at the same base since I got my Trident pounded into my chest. The Trident is a gold pin that marks as us SEALs, elite warriors.
SEALs are stationed either on the West coast or East coast unless they get transferred to Joint Task Force or some other ultra-specialized Special Forces team. There’ve been nibbles around the edges of my service to test my interest, and I’ve always turned away because I like my brothers on the team. I trust them implicitly, even if we don’t all have the same outlook on life.
Although if Cabby had a Charlotte in his past, he’d be chasing her down like a gazelle on the plain. He just hasn�
��t met the one. “I’m going to spend however long it takes to convince her to take me back.”
“Maybe you outta have written her, and she’d be standing on the dock willing to lay a big wet one on you when you stepped off the ship.”
I ignore him and roll up the rest of my clothes. I have a lot of work out gear, uniforms, and jeans. Charlotte looked polished, and so did her friend. They both could have been models on a building ad along the Magnificent Mile back in Chicago. I haven’t ever looked like that—even when I lived in my parents’ multimillion dollar penthouse. My edges are rough, and the time in service has only made them sharper and more jagged.
“Shit.” I scratch my head. “I’m going to have to shop. You think Elison’s sister would buy me some clothes?”
“Just wear your dress blues. You know the ladies cream their panties over the sight of a man in uniform.”
“Why should I be taking advice from a guy who thinks dressing up is wearing something other than flip-flops on his feet?”
“Do you know that they call them thongs in Australia? That girl I almost hooked up with the other night kept telling she was going to bring her thongs as in plural. Scared me silly, and I left her at the bar. Bride told me the next day that she probably wanted to take her heels off and put on the flip flops. I turned her down because of a language problem. Fucking tragic as all hell. She had the nicest tits too.” Cabby holds up his hands as if remembering the feel of them. “I’m an idiot.”
“No argument from me.”
I pull out my phone and text Sam. She’s a friend of my mom’s and has been married to a Marine for over twenty years. She’d help me. Her husband, Gray, had helped me join up before I even told my parents.
What does Gray wear on a date?
Who is this? Just kidding, honey. Gray wears jeans!
“Sam says her husband wears jeans.” I flash the phone face to Cabby.
“You’re asking a married woman for clothing advice? Shouldn’t you be asking a hot single chick?”
“Sam’s hot,” I say. As far as older women go, she’s a good-looking broad. I flick up a picture of her and Gray and their brood to show Cabby.
“I remember her. Shit, yeah, she’s a MILF. Her husband is your Marine friend, right?”
“Right. Why not ask a married woman? You don’t ask the guy who’s still tracking his prey for advice on how to make your capture. You ask the guy who’s got the wall of stuffed animal heads.”
Cabby mulls this over for a moment. “I guess that makes sense. So she says jeans. You got jeans. You got flip-flops. T-shirts. If all else fails, pull out the damn ceremonial service uniform. Or stick your Trident pin on your chest.” For some women, that’s all that they need to see and they’re ready to go home with you.
“Charlotte isn’t going to be impressed by some pin or the fact I can hold my breath underwater for ten minutes.”
“Are you sure? Because the whole breath-holding thing was why the Australian chick wanted in my pants. Technically I think she wanted me in her pants, but one thing would lead to the other.”
“Cabby, while talking about your failed bedroom exploits might be entertaining for some, I’ve got shit to do.” I stuff the last of my crap into the bag. Hoisting it over my shoulder, I grab my keys and head for the front door.
“Why don’t you let me come with you? That way it doesn’t look like you’re stalking her.”
“Instead it looks like two guys are stalking her?” I ask incredulously. “No thanks.”
“Come on, man. Help a brother out. I got shit all to do today,” he whines.
“Shore leave is killing you, isn’t it?” I say, pausing at the door.
He groans and rubs a hand over his face. “You have no idea. I fucking hate it. Why can’t we go rafting in Colorado? I got a buddy up there who runs an adventure service—”
I open the door and walk out, not waiting for him to say another word. “Lock up when you’re done in there.”
He runs after me. “How about this? I’ll drop you off and take your Jeep back here. She’ll be forced to at least drive you home if she turns you down.”
Again is the unspoken word. I hesitate because that’s not a bad plan. “Fine, but drop me off and leave right away.” The last thing Charlotte needs is two of us on her doorstep when she’s already spooked.
“You don’t even want me to wait and see if she lets you in?”
“She’s at a hotel. You going to wait in the hallway to see if I get shot down again?”
“Nah, I don’t like horror shows. Gives me nightmares that my moves might someday be rejected,” he jokes.
Cabby spends some time detailing the lost girl from Australia on the ride over to the Del, but I tune him out, watching the ocean bang up on the sand as we speed along the road. His voice blends with the road noise until it’s all one sound. When he pulls into the Del, I’m out the door like a flash.
“You’re welcome, shithead,” he yells after me. I flick him off but don’t stop moving forward. When I arrive on Charlotte’s floor, I take a moment to straighten my T-shirt. I should have put a collared shirt on at least. Fuck it. If she doesn’t like me in a T-shirt, she’s not going to like me wearing buttons. I knock on her door, but it goes unanswered.
I pound on the door a few more times and then rattle the doorknob. “I’m going to stand outside until you let me in.”
“Sir. Sir!” A maid rounds the corner with her cleaning cart. “There’s no one there. It’s empty.”
“Empty?” My mind doesn’t process her words well.
She nods. “Si, the lady checked out today. Room is vacant.” She pulls a key card from her pocket and opens the door. “See.”
I do see. The room is completely empty and but for a coaster on the coffee table, it is hard to tell that anyone was staying here.
“Thanks.” I slip the maid a tip and run toward the elevator calling Cabby.
“I need a pick up.”
“She already turned you down?” He sounds impressed.
“She’s not here. She left.”
“I’m on my way.”
It takes Cabby ten minutes to turn around and pick me up.
“You look like someone is going to have a bad day,” he says when I hop into the passenger seat.
I grunt, not looking up from my phone. I’m waiting for Nick to call me back.
“Where are we going?” Cabby asks.
“Not sure. Drive toward . . . La Jolla.” La Jolla is one of the wealthiest places along the coast. Charlotte’s used to living well, and if she isn’t going to stay at the Del, then my guess is she’s headed to La Jolla.
My phone vibrates, and I answer before the first ring fully plays. “Hey, Nick.”
“You owe me so hard,” he growls. “I had to talk to Lainey, who hates me and thinks I’m a walking, talking penishead. Her description, not mine.”
Lainey is probably right. My brother is a dog with a capital D. I don’t know why, and my parents aren’t very impressed with his inability to settle down, but Nick’s always been one to sample the world. As a pro quarterback, the world has offered itself to him too. I guess it’s a perfect match. Me? I’ve been a one-woman man all of my life. “She give you the info?”
“No. So I was reduced to stealing her phone and reading her text messages.” His voice sounds weird. I can’t figure it out, but I’m too worried about Charlotte to spend time deciphering his tone.
“So where is she?”
“I’m texting it to you. I can’t keep doing this for you, so either close the deal or leave her alone because Lainey isn’t going to let me near her phone again.”
“Did you break it?”
“I threw it into the toilet and then had to fish it out to read it.”
Ah, that explained the weirdness.
“Thanks, bro.”
“I’ll be thinking of how you can pay me off.”
“It’s yours, whatever you want.”
“Oh, really? Like the sig
ned ball from Walter Peyton?”
“Yes,” I say without hesitation.
He laughs. “I don’t want it then. I want what I can’t have. Isn’t that a pisser?”
He hangs up before I can ask what the hell that was all about.
“She’s at Tower23 off of Grand Avenue,” I inform Cabby.
“ETA would be five minutes then. Want me to stick around?”
I twist my mouth and reluctantly agree. “Yeah, just in case my intel is wrong.”
But my intel isn’t wrong because as we pull into the hotel property, I see her crossing the street. She’s wearing a short sundress, so short I wonder if it’s just a shirt and she forgot her shorts in her hotel room. On her feet are straw-colored shoes with thick wedges. Her legs seem endless, and for a moment, I’m struck dumb by the vision of them wrapped around my waist.
“Goddamn.” Cabby whistles. “I’ll be in my bunk.”
Fucking Cabby. I get out of the car before it rolls to a full stop. She sees me immediately and glares, which does nothing to diminish her jaw-dropping, knee-bending beauty. I suck in a breath and hold it, trying to gather some control.
“What are you doing here?” she asks accusingly.
I say the first thing that comes to mind. “I’m here for you.”
She opens her mouth to spit out a response when we hear her name called. Relief wipes away her glare, and she turns toward the voice.
I see some guy looking expensive. His white shirt is unbuttoned down to his waist, and underneath he’s wearing a wife beater. He makes shorts and sandals look like a magazine come to life on the street. His gaze flicks to me and then back to Charlotte’s drawn expression. And like a light switch, something shifts on for him. Holding out his arms, wide, he says in a loud, almost shout, “Charlotte Randolph, as I live and breathe. How the hell are you? Jesus Christ, is it possible that you’ve gotten more beautiful?”
She turns slightly and in the small space she makes in the movement, his arm slips in. As deftly as any SEAL, he cut me out. She moves into his embrace, burrowing her face into his chest as if she is freezing and he is her only source of warmth. Another two steps and they are in the street. He holds up his hand like a traffic cop, and everyone obeys him. I’m slack jawed and frozen at this spectacle, just like the cars. I give myself a hard shake and put my feet in motion only to get my toes nearly run over by a passing car. Because he’s done holding traffic back. Before I can take another breath, they are in a sports car that costs more than Cabby and I will earn from our U.S. government paychecks in ten years, combined.
The Charlotte Chronicles Page 21
