Four Billionaires for St. Patrick's Day

by Sierra Sparks

  I push myself up against her ass and whisper into her ear, “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. You sold me your body, but you stole my heart.”

  She hangs her head down and pants, completely and utterly exhausted.

  “I’m so glad I did too,” she says. “I can’t wait to spend the rest of my life with you.”

  As I stand up and begin to untie her, she can’t help but get one more joke in.

  “It’ll cost you a pretty penny though.”

  I look down at my pretty green-eyed, funny fiancée, and laugh the laugh she says she loves so much.

  “You’re worth every cent.”

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  Just Pretend – A Navy SEAL Fake Fiancé Romance

  Copyright © 2017 by Juliana Conners; All Rights Reserved.

  Published by Sizzling Hot Reads.

  Chapter 1 – Harlow

  8 Months Ago

  Our Boeing CH-47 Chinook is barely off the ground before all of us within it begin celebrating.

  “Yeah buddy!” My brother Jensen shouts, high- fiving everyone around before swooping me up in an exuberant hug.

  “We did it!” shouts my other brother Ramsey, but the smoke that still fills his lungs forces him to cough out the last part of the exclamation.

  We’ve just successfully extracted eight downed servicemen from behind enemy lines in southeastern Afghanistan. Their plane had been shot down by a surface-to-air missile. Without us rescuing them from hostile territory they’d likely have been captured and taken as prisoners as war.

  “And this is why we do the things we do!” shouts Brian, a team member who isn’t my literal, blood brother like Jensen and Ramsey are, but one who has become a figurative brother— just as all the men in my unit have become.

  Then Brian yells out: “Leave no man behind!”

  Several other men begin chanting one of our mantras along with him and then calling out others.

  “Failure is not an option!”

  “The only easy day was yesterday!”

  As Navy SEALs, we spend years training for rescue missions such as these. We’re stealth and covert; we sneak in when there’s danger and fucking clean up the place and rescue anyone left behind.

  We do whatever it takes to rescue even one service member who may be at risk. It’s nice to know that our hard work and perseverance have paid off, and that once again we’ve rescued American lives.

  And yet…

  As my brothers in arms continue to celebrate, and I chant along with them, I can’t help but feel a sense of foreboding. I hear shots being fired in the distance, and think of how we’ve been warned that rescue helicopters and their crews often come under fire during or immediately after their rescue efforts.

  “Are we completely in the clear yet?” I ask Jensen, looking out the window at the smoldering scene below us.

  It’s only getting more dangerous out here: insurgents lay ambushes and place bombs or other devices that specifically target our missions and those of search and rescue teams who also help rescue downed servicemembers. We call these “SAR traps”: Search and Rescue traps.

  “Lighten up, little brother,” Jensen, jokingly punching me on the shoulder.

  He’s always been the playful one out of the three of us. As the middle brother, although to the outside world he’s had his share of drama and problems—as all of us Bradford boys have— within our family he’s lived up to the stereotypical reputation of a peacekeeper, a “fixer,” a friendly face who is always eager to make us smile, a listening ear when we’re going through anything. And we love him for it.

  “Shut up, spoilsport!” Brian shouts, and a few other people chant, “Shut up Harlow! Shut up Harlow!” in a teasing manner.

  “Seriously, Harlow,” says Ramsey, always the voice of reason. “You did well, and it’s time to celebrate.”

  As the oldest of us three brothers, he’s always Mr. No-Nonsense, dispensing advice even when it’s unsolicited and sometimes downright unwelcome, but always being the firm yet somehow still gentle hand that guides us.

  Fuck it. If everyone else is in good spirits, I might as well make sure to shift my own mood to match theirs. If even Ramsey says it’s okay to cut back and have a little fun for once, I’d better listen. As the youngest brother, I have the reputation for being the prankster, the fun-loving free spirit among us— even if this external demeanor is only a mask for the internal worries and constant anxiety I keep shoved deep down within myself.

  “Leave no man behind! Failure is not an option!” I shout, beginning some of the chants anew that they had all been stuck on before they started telling me to shut up.

  They soon join me but my voice is louder and stronger than the others, since they had been repeating the phrases for quite a while now, while I had only been quietly brooding. I’m on a roll, swept up by the momentum and exhilaration we’re all feeling.

  I’m giving into my brothers’ and team members’ advice. I’m celebrating our victory instead of worrying about what will happen next, as I too often do. I’m going with the flow, feeling great for once.

  And then it happens.

  Our helicopter is spinning out of control, being downed just as certainly as the one from which we just rescued the eight other men.

  “We’ve been shot down!” someone yells.

  This obvious statement is the last thing I hear for a while. As I drift into unconsciousness, I’m wondering if it will be the last thing I ever hear.

  I come to in the aircraft that is now flaming and downed. I see an uncountable number of unconscious people in the helicopter, so I spring to action, extricating them from the burning wreckage.

  Where’s Jensen?

  Where’s Ramsey?

  Where are my other team members?

  There are many limp bodies, but I don’t see Jensen or Ramsey among them. Although amidst the flames I can barely make out who’s who, I’m certain I could recognize my own brothers, whom I’ve known since I was born. I can only hope the fact that I don’t see them in this pile of wreckage means that they’re among the men helping to rescue others, as I myself begin doing.

  Those of us who are conscious work to remove those who are unconscious, without looking at or talking to each other. We’re simply determined to save lives before we run out of time. Time until the aircraft explodes. Time until the enemy shows up…

  In the back of my mind I fear captivity and torture, and I can’t help but hope that someone just like me is on the way to save us. A backup team of SEALs, although I know that those of us assigned to this mission were all contained in the downed helicopter. There’s not much time for fear, though, and pure adrenaline keeps me working like a madmen to scoop up the bodies out of the plane before…

  … boom.

  Our helicopter explodes.

  I’m trapped, I can feel that my flesh is on fire, and I’m certain I’m headed to hell. Guys like me aren’t likely to be welcome in heaven. Sure, I’m a hero for what I do professionally, but the same can’t be said about my personal life.

  I blink and call out my brothers’ names, desperately searching for them in the hopes that I can find them before I lose consciousness… perhaps before I lose my very life…

  Chapter 2 – Whitney

  Present Day

  My patient stretches lengthwise across the ballet barre in the physical therapy session room. He’s a young Airman Basic who was injured when an IED blew up his caravan. Normally he wears a uniform or fatigues, but for our sessions he changes into gym clothes.

  “You can do it, Jim,” I assure him, feeling more like a cheerleader than a physical therapist intern.

  He stretches a bit further, and now he’s supposed to remove his foot
from the barre, but his position looks so precarious that I doubt he can make it. I glance nervously at Lance, who is lingering in the corner of the room, politely pretending not to be observing me as closely as I know he actually is.

  He’s the proctor for my internship— and therefore technically my boss— but ever since we’ve worked closely together during my internship, he’s become my friend as well. I’m so grateful for a good working relationship between us, which makes my job a lot easier.

  He nods at me, so I know I have to continue to encourage the patient, even though I myself feel a bit doubtful.

  “Just a little further,” I tell Jim. “Now let go.”

  He lifts his foot off the barre and plunges downward, about to fall face-first onto the floor.

  Great, I think, doing my best to try to catch him or at least break his fall.

  “It’s okay,” Lance says, as he somehow miraculously appears by my side.

  He holds onto Jim while I steady his arms.

  He doesn’t fall. But it was close.

  “You told me I could do it,” Jim says, glaring at me accusingly. “She told me—” he begins to complain to my superior, switching his glare to Lance’s direction now.

  “You can do it,” Lance tells Jim, easing the knot that had gathered in my stomach. “If not today, then tomorrow. You just have to keep trying. It’s part of your treatment.”

  Whew.

  I’m glad that Lance always has my back.

  Jim doesn’t look convinced, but he gathers his things and begins to leave.

  “See you at this same time on Monday!” I call out after him, but he just scowls.

  Most of our patients hate us for the work that we do, even though it’s for their own good.

  Once he’s gone, I head to the computer to clock out, since Jim was my last client for the day. I also turn on my cell phone.

  While there’s no official rule that I can’t have my phone on or with me at work, I don’t want to take any chances. I was so happy when I scored this rather prestigious internship, and I would hate to screw up such a good opportunity. I don’t want to take advantage of Lance and I being friends, and think that I’m above the rules due to that fact.

  Many of my co-workers have already left for the day, and the weekend. Like Lance, they’re in the Air Force. But I’m only doing an unpaid internship here.

  Most of my classmates had to look for paid internships but I receive a non- profit grant that pays for a portion of my college credits, which include this internship. So, in that way I’m lucky I’m able to do this internship without additional financial hardship, although money is already tight.

  “Thank you for helping me catch him!” I say to Lance.

  “No worries. Although you did look a bit worried, Girl!” He chuckles.

  “I knew I was doing the right thing, and following the protocol you taught me, and I could tell you were backing me by the look on your face. Yet I also knew he was going to fall. I could just tell he wasn’t quite there yet.”

  I look down at my cell phone, expecting a text from my boyfriend Tony, but there isn’t one.

  “Sometimes it has to do with the patient’s own level of self-confidence,” Lance says. “It’s our job to push them as much as we think they’re capable of handling, and their job to figure out if they can handle it. Kind of like a metaphor for life in general, right?”

  He laughs, but I’m preoccupied.

  “What’s wrong?” he asks. “You always laugh at my jokes. Because they’re so damn funny, of course.”

  “Ha. I’m sorry, Lance. I have to admit I’d kind of stopped listening, so I didn’t really get the joke.”

  I’m staring in annoyance at my cell phone, which is devoid of text messages from Tony.

  “What did Mr. Moochie McMoocherson do now?” Lance asks.

  That’s his “nickname” for my boyfriend.

  “He just… completely ignored me, I guess,” I say. “Before my shift started, I’d texted him asking if he wants to go out tonight.”

  “Sure,” he agrees. “I mean, it is Friday night.”

  “Right. So I was expecting him to text me back. Maybe he’d decline, like he usually does, but at least he should get back to me, right?”

  “Right again.”

  “But he didn’t. There’s nothing. No texts at all.”

  I sit down at the computer chair, feeling defeated.

  “Further proving my theory…” Lance begins.

  “Stop it!”

  “Oh, come on, you need to hear it again. You need to believe it. Just like Jim needs to believe he can stretch that far and still take his foot off the barre. Or he’ll be stuck there, upset at you for supposedly making him fall, forever. You don’t want to be like Jim, do you?”

  I laugh, but I can’t take my mind off my current predicament.

  “You really think Tony just uses me?” I ask Lance, with a pout.

  It’s an often-repeated theory of Lance’s, which I don’t want to believe. But it’s becoming increasingly difficult to ignore.

  “Whitney. He only talks to you when he needs money. He’s probably sitting at home in his boxer-briefs, too busy playing video games to look at your text message, let alone respond.”

  “He wears boxers!” I protest.

  But otherwise his description of what Tony is probably doing right now sounds entirely too realistic.

  “Even worse,” he says in disgust. “Sounds like the perfect stereotype of every lazy heterosexual man mooching off his girlfriend that I’ve ever heard of.”

  I have no idea how Lance accurately knows what my boyfriend does— or doesn’t do— all day. I suppose I’ve complained about him one too many times.

  “Well, I guess I have nothing else to do now except go home and hear about his progress in Call of Duty,” I say, with a sigh.

  “Does he spend any time looking for a job?” he asks.

  I shrug. “Probably not.”

  “And it’s been how many months now since he lost his?”

  “Too many. But Lance, I know it sounds like an excuse— that I’m giving him, not even that he’s giving himself, which might be part of the problem— but I really think he’s depressed. He just mopes around all day and gets so irritated over nothing.”

  “That could be, but it doesn’t change the fact that I hate to see you like this. You are such a go-getter and so ambitious, and he’s admittedly a pessimist who intentionally or unintentionally mooches off you.”

  “Well, when you put it like that…”

  I slump down further in the chair, not at all excited about going home. I guess I can’t argue with Lance. Reality is in his favor.

  “Well, Love, I would take you out for a drink to drown your sorrows and cheer your spirits, but I’m doing something much more exciting,” Lance says.

  From the tilt of his head and the smile that he’s obviously trying to hide, I know he doesn’t really believe it.

  “Oh yeah?”

  “There’s a conference and seminar for physical therapists,” he says. “The military is presenting an award to a hot shot doctor who has worked with some of the same patients we do and who is going to start sending us even more referrals.”

  “What kind of a doctor?”

  “A reconstructive surgeon or some other such fancy title,” he says. “But that’s about all I know. Apparently his work is fascinating. I know it’s no hot date with your Studmuffin Moochie, but it really could be interesting. And enlightening for your career. You should come.”

  I look at him dubiously. I’m not sure what reconstructive surgery has to do with physical therapy, but I am intrigued by anything that can help my career.

  “Why not?” I look down at my phone one more time, but there’s been no new activity. No sudden bursts of apologetic text messages from Tony. And I was stupid to think that such texts would come. “What else do I have to do?”

  “Exactly,” says Lance.

  I slide my phone into my
back pocket as I follow him out the door. I’m not sure that this conference sounds very exciting but I figure it beats going home to find Tony in his boxers playing Call of Duty.

  Chapter 3 – Whitney

  The conference is in a different part of the base than our clinic is located, so Lance and I arrive there a little late. We have no choice but to sit in some folding chairs in a makeshift row that someone obviously set up when they realized there would be more people here than anticipated. It’s a bit too close to the front for my comfort but at least we don’t have to climb over too many people’s laps.

  “Excuse me, pardon me,” Lance says as we make our way to the empty seats.

  I admire his confident way of not caring that people always turn around and inspect him. I guess he’s used to it by now. Even though it’s become officially okay to be a gay member of the military, that never stops people from staring.

  The doctor on stage is already speaking.

  “I would like to present my finest example of these techniques of which I’ve been speaking,” he tells the crowd. “Let me first introduce him by showing some photos. This is Harlow Bradford, eight months ago.”

  A slide show begins, featuring photos of military servicemen in uniform, in diving and jumping gear, on a mountain, in front of and inside a helicopter, and more. It’s a picturesque scene of camaraderie and heroism.

  “Look at that hunk of military man meat,” Lance whispers, pointing at the face that appears in each of the slideshow pictures, while knocking his knee against my own.

  “Shhhhh!” I tell him, but I can’t help but stifle a giggle.

  “I’d definitely be asking him, now that we’re allowed to ask and tell…” Lance continues, and I look away from him so that I don’t laugh out loud.

  The Harlow guy featured in all the photos is definitely a looker— as are many of the men in the pictures, including two guys in the majority of the photos who look as if they could be his brothers.