SEAL'd Legacy (Brotherhood of SEAL'd Hearts)
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SEAL’d Legacy
Brotherhood Of SEAL’d Hearts
Gabi Moore
Contents
About the Author
SEAL’d Legacy
Blurb
1. Chapter 1 - David
2. Chapter 2 - David
3. Chapter 3 - Ally
4. Chapter 4 - David
5. Chapter 5 - Ally
6. Chapter 6 - David
7. Chapter 7 - Ally
8. Chapter 8 - David
9. Chapter 9 - Ally
10. Chapter 10 - David
11. Chapter 11 - Ally
12. Chapter 12 - David
13. Chapter 13 - Ally
14. Chapter 14 - David
15. Chapter 15 - Ally
16. Chapter 16 - David
MINDFUCK
Blurb
1. Prologue
2. Chapter 1
3. Chapter 2
4. Chapter 3
5. Chapter 4
6. Chapter 5
7. Chapter 6
8. Chapter 7
9. Chapter 8
10. Chapter 9
11. Chapter 10
12. Chapter 11
13. Chapter 12
14. Chapter 13
15. Chapter 14
16. Chapter 15
WRECKED & YOURS
1. Blurb
2. Chapter 1 - Anthony
3. Chapter 2 - Ellie
4. Chapter 3 - Todd
5. Chapter 4 - Charlie
6. Chapter 5 - Ellie
7. Chapter 6 - Todd
8. Chapter 7 - Anthony
9. Chapter 8 - Ellie
10. Chapter 9 - Charlie
11. Chapter 10 - Anthony
12. Chapter 11 - Todd
13. Chapter 12 - Ellie
14. Chapter 13 - Charlie
15. Chapter 14 - Anthony
16. Chapter 15 - Todd
17. Chapter 16 - Ellie
18. Chapter 17 - Anthony
19. Chapter 18 - Todd
20. Chapter 19 - Charlie
21. Chapter 20 - Ellie
22. Chapter 21 - Todd
23. Chapter 22 - Ellie
24. Chapter 23 - Todd
25. Epilogue - Ellie
SEAL’d TRUST
Steamy Short Stories
BAD BOYS AFTER DARK - The Complete Boxed Set
MIND GAMES - The Complete Boxed Set
Gabi’s Naughty Newsletter
Back Page Confession: “That Kind of Girl”
Copyright
Copyright © 2017 by Gabi Moore. All rights reserved.
In no way is it legal to reproduce, duplicate, or transmit any part of this document in either electronic means or in printed format. Recording of this publication is strictly prohibited and any storage of this document is not allowed unless with written permission from the publisher. All rights reserved. Respective authors own all copyrights not held by the publisher.
Cover photo licensed from Andrew England
Created with Vellum
About the Author
Hey there! I’m Gabi Moore and I’m on a mission to love like I’ve never been hurt, dance like nobody’s watching, and write sex scenes like my mother didn’t raise me right.
I've been told that you need a few things before picking up any of my books, including, but not limited to, clean panties, a hot man and/or vibrator, and blocks of uninterrupted time.
I write about some of the naughty things I’ve done, and some of the naughty things I still wish I could do. Some days, I forget which is which.
I like coffee and men with accents. And lately, I’ve been trying to give up dirty puns …but it’s hard.
So hard.
To connect with me on a more intimate level, I suggest joining my Naughty Newsletter.
Brace yourself for bad sex puns, pervy observations about innocent strangers in my real life (and yes, I’m a real, living, breathing woman) and whatever other raunchy things pop up in my day-to-day life as a secret undercover smut writer.
I can’t promise that everything you read will be tasteful, but I hope at the very least it will be entertaining! ;)
Gabi’s Naughty Newsletter
Join me on Facebook:
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“Our greatest desire is someone who will inspire us to be what we know we could be.”
- Ralph Waldo Emerson
SEAL’d Legacy
Blurb
ALLY:
He clearly doesn’t know what he’s getting himself into…
I’ve got kids, debt, and an ex who’s more dangerous than anyone knows. My boys need a father figure …but he is certainly not it.
Come on, am I supposed to believe that this stupidly good-looking ex-Navy SEAL is interested in a woman 14 years older than him?
DAVID:
I know I shouldn’t be doing this…
I never expected to feel this way. She’s not my type. I’m not even her type.
But one thing I know is that if that asshole ex of hers shows up again …he’d better be ready for me.
Chapter 1 - David
Everybody knows about the physical part of training to be a SEAL. But there’s more to it than just running obstacle courses and looking badass. There’s the mental side, which, if you ask me, is where the real shit goes down.
Man, they poke and prod you during every step of your training. They give you tests, interviews, background checks, more tests. I figured out pretty soon that it all boils down to one thing: why are you doing any of this pointless crap in the first place? Why really?
People are kind of shocked when they hear me talking about the missions as ‘crap’, but that’s exactly what they were. Sometimes our team did epic shit in a country most people couldn’t find on a map, and sometimes… sometimes we were nothing more than bouncers, but stupider. Sometimes we destroyed hundreds of thousands of dollars’ worth of tech because our guys were overtired, or we’d piss off the wrong minister, or we’d get sick on local moonshine and turn up like sore thumbs at the clinic meant for nationals and wind up in a cot next to a nosy journalist for The Economist. For example.
But you’re not supposed to talk about all that.
When they ask you, “son, why’d you want to be a SEAL?”, you’re supposed to talk about serving your country and doing the right thing and challenging yourself and all that star-spangled bullshit.
I was told chicks nearly lose their minds when they find out you’re a SEAL, but I swear to god it’s nothing compared to the circle-jerk you’ll see at any military graduating ceremony. That same big beefy idiot waxing lyrical about Jesus and his momma and his sweet-as-pie fiancé back home in Alabama? Yeah, I’ve seen what a guy like that does with the local whores on missions. One day he’s never even heard of a village and the next day he feels like Lord and savior marching through it, like he’s in his own private Bruce Willis flick.
Ah yes, the strong, determined man, in a body hewn by discipline and the hunger for righteousness. But the noble and honorable SEAL, ladies and gentlemen, is a myth.
You know why they focus so much on keeping our uniforms crisp and our haircuts neat? Because literally everything else we have to do is a complete and utter fucking mess. Oh, we’re elite all right. We’re the cream of the crop, that’s for sure. But sometimes that just means we’re the worst of the worst, pure distilled asshole selected over time for maximum asshole-ness.
So, when they asked me “why’d you want to be a SEAL?” I told them honestly. I dropped the yes sir no sir bullshit, dropped the aw-shucks patriot act and looked them square in the eye and told them: because I want to kill motherfuck
ers.
I’m not stupid enough to think I’m changing the world. I’m young but I sure as hell don’t entertain any immature ideas that I’m on some noble path, protecting the weak and defending the true. I became a SEAL because, to put it simply, I wanted to win. I didn’t want to be the smallest guy in the room anymore. I didn’t want to feel fear, not even a little, ever again. I lay in bed at night and prayed for someone to come along and piss me off, just so I’d finally get that sweet taste of showing him that I was not, could not be targeted, not with my fucking training, not with my weapons.
We live in a world where bullies are protected. We adore bullies. We pretend we don’t tolerate them in the schoolyard but we do, and then when they grow up, they become CEOs and politicians and thugs on the backend of life, pulling the strings, and the kids they bullied grow up to do some bullshit jobs and dutifully do their recycling and pay their parking tickets and oh yes, when the time comes, vote in that same bully so he can fuck them over more effectively from an even higher position of power.
They didn’t like my ‘worldview’, my superiors. How could they? I told them outright I gave less than a shit about my country, about the plight of the XYZ people, about some shady as fuck secret mission in some shady as fuck corner of the world. I was there to get my own, and I chose the SEALs because it happens to be one of the few places in life where violence is not dismissed out of hand. I was called unstable a lot, and they gave me hell for my attitude and occasional insubordination. But I went right along and kept doing what I was doing because I knew something about them that they didn’t: they didn’t care about the rules either. Not deep down. That, and the fact that I was consistently one of the best performers on our team saved my hide more times than I can remember.
So, they let me ink myself up if I wanted to. Just as long as it was mostly coverable when I wore my ceremonial uniform when all the sweet-as-pie wives and girlfriends could see me. Don’t get me wrong, tattoos are pretty common now. But I have a lot of them. I can’t explain it, really. There’s just something almost beautiful about clenching your teeth and watching that needle puncture into your skin, burning like hell, and knowing that no matter how close pain gets, even if it gets right up to the edge and a little past it, it still could never reach inside, could never touch you. I made friends with pain. I had my ass kicked almost daily at school and it nearly broke me. But after a few years as a SEAL, with a new tattoo every six months or so, pain became something abstract to me. My reaction these days to being hurt was almost amusement. I relished it, having the opportunity to look at any insult to body and mind and being able to say, “Yeah? So that’s all you got?”
I don’t tell people about what happened in the September mission. Nobody wants to hear it. People like simple stories with an obvious good guy and bad guy, and that mission sure as hell wasn’t that. So, I’m home now and it’s been more than six months but some days, it all just feels like some bad movie I watched once. I was itching for something to happen. There wasn’t a guy to beat up or a woman to fuck, so that left only one of my three favorite pastimes: getting tattooed. Then why did I feel worse now than I had in ages?
“Four years, huh? Woah. Well, we thank you for your service,” he said and gave a solemn bow. Forty something, a little grizzled looking, the tattoo artist leant over me and ogled my other pieces, particularly the, shall we say, non-professional one.
I watched as the biting tip of the needle stabbed into me. It was probably my imagination, but I swear this moment was becoming so familiar to me I could almost feel the endorphins bursting out in my brain. It was like laughing, but chemically. Speaking of chemicals, I didn’t mention my fourth favorite pastime… but I’ll say more about that later.
I watched as the gooey black lines appeared wet and painful on my skin. It’s a little meditative, those first few moments, where everyone’s attention is on that tiny stinging place. I smiled as I imagined I was basically being pinned to the seat like a butterfly. Like Jesus. I watched as the curly outlines of a black fish took shape on my inner bicep, where the skin was especially tender. I sat in my seat, arm turned out and fist clenched, and looked down at the pale patch that would soon be colored in.
“Where’d you, uh… where’d you get that puppy?” he said and gestured with his chin to the dangerous looking scribble on my other arm.
I laughed. “You admire the work? Yeah, it’s definitely a pro job, as you can see.” He laughed too, but riveted his eyes back to the main fin of the fish he was working on.
“It’s just that, when you see work that looks like that, it usually has a cool story behind it.”
I admired the stillness of his hands. The rest of his body was casual and relaxed and hanging in all directions, but the tool in his hand held perfectly steady and slow, like it was possessed. The shop was nice, if a little cheesy. He’d brought in vintage leather dental chairs and done the inside up in black and red. Not bad for a strip mall tattoo parlor.
“It’s not that the guy wasn’t talented. It’s that we were… well, let’s just say he had to do all that in very low light, under very volatile circumstances. And this part?” I said and pointed to a particularly wobbly line. “This part is precisely where we were fired on by insurgents and had to haul ass out of our camp at 4 in the morning.”
His eyebrows lifted.
“Cool.”
I smiled. That story wasn’t true, but fuck it.
After two hours, the fish had taken shape on my arm and was now finished. I explicitly told the dude not to give me any geometric watercolor hipster bullshit. I wanted a damn fish, and that was that. He’d done a good job. Compared to the inky blackness of its scales, the eye looked strikingly white. Dead in just the way fish’s eyes always seem dead. I liked it.
So why did I still feel worse than I had in ages?
I found my car in the parking lot and headed home, the coverings on my inner arm crinkling and crunching as I settled into my seat. The tattoo guy wasn’t lame. I was lame. What the fuck was I doing anyway? There was something sad about this whole thing that I couldn’t put my finger on. It was like drinking alone at 3pm on a Saturday. I suddenly felt like a complete and utter fraud.
When you’re out on a mission you see other people’s cultures super clearly. You see all the food they eat and all the shit they wear and every little thing, every word and gesture… they can’t see it but to you it looks like everyone’s in fancy dress and playing a role. But they don’t tell you that if you’re away from home for long enough, you come home and start to look at your own culture in the same way. You start to wonder why Americans eat what they do, speak the way they do. You look down at yourself and wonder what role you’re playing, and why you just accepted it and played the part.
I was a 25-year-old, 6’4”, 210 lb., tattooed, foul mouthed, undereducated, disenfranchised American male stereotype. For a split second, I saw myself in that car, still-stinging ink on my arm, as other people might have seen me.
It wasn’t pretty.
I was part-time employed in retail, part time studying at a trade college and paying rent on a dingy apartment that had suspicious yellow stains on the kitchen walls. And now I’d just gotten a tattoo from a big box mall shop that I already hated.
Fuck.
Maybe I was coming down from the tattoo high. Or maybe I was coming down from the high of the last four years. I didn’t know. I started the car and drove home. I’ve driven armored vehicles through deserts and scrubland and uninhabited areas and yet, somehow, the endless conveyor belt of McDonald’s and Starbucks down my street seemed lonelier. I don’t care to get fucking philosophical about anything, but a person could go crazy out here. When I imagined that zombies were streaming out of the stores and stumbling into the road to attack me, I guess it was because it would improve the situation. The zombies in my neighborhood didn’t even bother to come out of their homes to come get you. That was the real scary part.
I pulled up at home, locked the car and went
inside. I had an hour to kill before I had to leave again to go to Noah’s little get together. I had scoffed at the whole idea at first but maybe he was onto something. Maybe an afternoon spent with the guys just like old times would fix me up and get me out of this weird funk I was getting into. I knew readjusting would take time. I knew a ‘career change’ at my age was stressful and that I’d be starting from scratch in many ways. I just never knew that social suburban barbecues would feature so prominently in my life.
I swore inwardly as I remembered I’d forgotten to pick up a dessert or something from the store while I was out. Fuck it. I had to be on my best behavior every other day of the week, the guys could let me slack on that one thing. I quickly took a shower and soon found myself getting nostalgic. Maybe it would be good to see the guys again. Just us, some good liquor and no limits, like it used to be. By the time I left home my spirits had lifted. I don’t know why I had been so hesitant to join these little reunion groups in the past.
Clearly, I missed those assholes.
Chapter 2 - David
Noah’s neighborhood was fancier than I was expecting. A lot fancier. But it was no biggie. I’ve been on teams with all kinds of men, and if someone ever had a damn thing to say about my Kraft dinner-foster home-white trash upbringing then they sure as hell never had the guts to say it to my face.
I pulled up, parked my car and realized that this little get together might not be the homeboy gathering I’d anticipated. There were quite a few cars parked out front.
I went inside and they were all there. Noah, playing host like a pro, Jack with a glass of Jack in his hands like always, and Max and Hugo looking as different from one another as two identical twins could look. It was all like it had been before, except everyone was in civvies, looking a little out of shape, but happy and comfortable. It was weird to see everyone like that. We all seemed so much different from one another now that we weren’t in identical uniforms.