Was he looking at me? Don’t be silly, Isa. He was probably just scanning the full scene to see who would be the lucky girl to go home with him tonight.
I volunteer as tribute! I snickered to myself. Too bad this wasn’t a Hunger Games party.
A few girls stopped to check him out, not that I blamed them. He looked at the ground, and his hand reached into a rose bush where he plucked a single red bud. Wow, that was fast; he was probably already hitting on one of the girls inside. I felt like I was on one of those stupid Bachelor shows—hundreds of desperate women, one hot guy, and nothing to base any romantic connection on besides a fleeting first impression.
I finally drew the strength to turn away and wipe the drool from my face. One long gulp of my drink and I would be fine. But seconds later, a looming shadow appeared at my feet, and the intoxicating smell of cedar, vanilla, and cinnamon made me realize I wasn’t alone.
“Welcome aboard, Russian,” a deep voice said in a sexy drawl.
I looked up and the Hulk hovered above me—the bloom in one hand and a beer in the other.
Ay dios mío, he was breathtaking. Well, a mask covered his face, but his body was incredible. Incredible Hulk indeed. He could be the Hulk’s stunt double—no special effects needed.
I steadied my nerves and downed my drink. “That’s not Hulk’s line. Iron Man said that.”
He let out a laugh, or maybe it was a growl—the sound was muffled under that mask.
“Avengers fan? I’ve been searching for a Black Widow all night. Here, this is for you.” He handed me the rose.
My belly quivered, pleasantly surprised by the sweet gesture. The only time in my life I’d ever received flowers was after a big dance performance, and those were from my father.
“Thanks, that’s very sweet of you.” His tattoos were in focus now—the first one I could decipher was a huge USMC emblem on his right biceps. Whoa, a Marine—well, that explained his body. There was a quote in Latin, Semper Fidelis.
“Nice tattoo, Devil Dog. Always faithful?”
The Hulk sat next to me, his green skin shone in the moonlight. “Yes, ma’am. Do you speak Latin? Or have you dated a Marine?”
I definitely detected a deep Southern accent. “No, I’ve never dated a Marine. I know it’s the motto of the Marine Corps. My father is a Marine. Well, once a Marine, always a Marine; he retired before I was born.” And then he met my innocent mother. Young, beautiful, from a rural town in Mexico. But my father rarely talked about himself; he preferred to tell other people’s stories. “And no one speaks Latin. It’s a dead language.”
“I know that, Natasha Romanova. I was making a reference to Iron Man 2.”
“Yeah, I get it. My dad’s dragged me to all the movies. My name’s Isa. What’s yours?”
He paused. “Bruce Banner, but you can call me Hulk.”
This guy couldn’t even tell me his real name? Strike one. I immediately put up my guard. Probably another player, but with a body like that, who could blame him? His hand brushed against my thigh, and my core heated up. I couldn’t help but stare at his shorts as the huge bulge stared back at me. Looked like his chest wasn’t the only part of his body that was massive.
“Okay, Hulk. So what’s your job in the Marines?”
“I’m a grunt, ma’am.”
I loved the way he said ma’am. I was so used to SoCal surfers, frat boys, and Hollywood types that I was charmed by his politeness. I just hoped it wasn’t fake.
“Cool.”
“So you don’t hate military guys like most of the girls in San Diego?”
I wasn’t imagining a bitter edge to his voice. But it was refreshing that he didn’t seem to hold his opinions back. “No, I don’t. I actually admire any man who would risk his life for his country. Being in the military isn’t a job, it’s an honor.” Much more honorable than my former life in the spotlight, existing to please people, making money off my appearance, fakeness, dishonesty. I shuddered remembering the older pictures on my now defunct Instagram account. Thank God, I’d changed my path. Even if it hadn’t been by choice.
He leaned in closer to me and squeezed my hand. “I’m glad and, well, shocked you think that. It means a lot to me, thank you. How about you? Do you go to SDSU?”
“No. UCSD. But I want to apply here for grad school.” I studied Hulk’s body. He had a deep scar on his right shoulder, and even though it was covered in green makeup, I could tell that some of his skin was mottled and puckered.
Should I ask him about his obvious injuries? Would that be rude?
His strong hand covered mine; the strength of his grasp excited me. I imagined this man dominating me, a fantasy that I’d never had the pleasure of experiencing with the passive pretty boys I’d dated.
“Isa, you’re the most beautiful woman here. This party really isn’t my scene, and I’d like to get to know you better. Let’s get out of here.”
Well, that was quick. So much for my romantic Southern gentleman. “What did you have in mind, Hulk?”
Before he could reply, a loud boom detonated nearby. A blinding flash of light streaked the sky, the shimmer of multicolored fireworks overhead.
Hulk instantly dropped the beer, glass shattering under us. Before I could react, he threw me to the ground and flung his frame on top of mine, his body shaking, a labored breath emanating from his mask.
What the hell? “Get off me!” I yelled, pounding his chest with my fists, shards from the bottle scraping my skin.
I suffered through a few seconds in silence, praying he would move, but he just clung to me like cling wrap. The pressure on my chest tightened, but no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t push him off. I writhed under him, my face pressed to his green chest.
Finally after what seemed like a few minutes, he rolled off of me and sat up, his hands shaking. Sweat beads adorned his chest. A crowd had now gathered around us, probably trying to make sure I wasn’t being raped. Had a firework gone off? Oh damn—was that some kind of war flashback? How insensitive was I?
“You okay, honey?” some girl asked, glaring at the blood on my costume.
“I’m fine.” I sat up, brushed myself off, and picked up the rose he’d given me, now crushed on the grass. Luckily the glass had given me only superficial cuts.
Hulk plowed through the crowd and ran off.
“Wait!” I screamed after him, but he was gone. I dashed out of the backyard, through the house, and onto the front lawn. Hulk stormed down the street.
“Hey, wait up!”
He didn’t turn his head, and I wasn’t even sure he heard me. He just kept on walking and made a right at the end of the block.
I should’ve let him go—he obviously wanted to be alone and had just had some sort of trigger—but I wanted to make sure he was okay.
I flicked off my heels, threw them and the rose into my purse, and ran down the street. I finally caught up to him as he was using his key to enter an apartment building.
I slowly placed my hand on his shoulder. “Hey, I’m sorry I yelled. I was just a little scared. Do you want to go back to the party with me?”
His head turned to me. I wished I could rip that damn mask off of his head and read his expression. “No,” he said, his breath labored. His hands fidgeted, and then he crossed his arms.
Cars whizzed by the street, drowning out our silence. This guy was obviously going through something. Sure, I’d just met him, but after failing to detect all the signs of my mother’s depression, I’d made a vow to never turn my back on someone in need.
We stood there in awkward silence. “Did you have a flashback?”
“Something like that. I’m fine.”
He did not seem fine. His voice was shaking and he flinched at my touch.
“It’s okay. I mean, my mom used to have episodes. I’m not judging you. Do you want to talk?”
“I said I’m fine. Just need to relax. I don’t do well in big groups of people. I should’ve never gone to that party.” He exhaled
and his shoulders dropped. Then his chin tilted up, and he placed his hand on my back. “But then, I would’ve never met you.”
Ah. The charm was back.
“I’m glad you went.”
His lips grazed my ear. “Come upstairs with me.”
Whoa, arrogant much? In any other situation, I would’ve run for the hills. Despite my reputation in Hollywood, I’d never gone home with a guy whom I’d just met. “I don’t think going up to your place is a good idea.”
He leaned into me, his firm hand tracing mine. “It’s the best idea I’ve had all night.”
His body was now pressed into mine, and I could feel his rock-solid cock poke through his shorts.
Ah, damn. I knew what he wanted—and I’d be lying to myself if I said a part of me didn’t ache for him too. Lust aside, I wouldn’t be able to forgive myself if I walked away from him now. I needed to be assured he was okay.
But I wasn’t stupid—I recognized that I didn’t know this man. I wanted to just talk to him, somewhere safe, somewhere public. “Do you want to grab some coffee with me? There’s a café a block away. Or if you’re hungry, there’s this great hole-in-the-wall Thai restaurant around the corner.”
“I’m not going anywhere but home. And you’re coming with me.”
Damn. I should’ve told him off, but the ache between my legs compelled me to stay.
“But…I don’t even know your name.” Nor had I seen his face. I refused to walk away without getting a glimpse of the man behind the mask.
His fist clenched. “Are you coming upstairs or not?”
I took a deep breath. “Okay, but just for a bit. My friend’s at the party.”
His head tilted to the side. “I didn’t see you with a friend.”
“Yeah, well, she ditched me when we got there.”
“Some friend.”
Hulk had a point. Even so, I took out my phone and texted Marisol my location just in case I ended up in a bad situation.
We walked upstairs to the second floor, and he opened his apartment door. His place was masculine and modern—IKEA-style black furniture, a huge flat-screen television, and a small balcony with a tiny barbecue. Instead of the room smelling musty, like most guys’ rooms I’d been to, his smelled like lemons and pinecones. It was immaculate. He must’ve either had a maid, which was unlikely, or he was a complete OCD neat freak. The creative slob in me was impressed. I sat nervously on the sofa and he stood in the kitchen, watching me.
What on earth was I doing? “What’s your name?”
He just shook his head. Okay, I was in a strange apartment with some psycho, nameless Marine who just had some war flashback. I’d probably end up in a ditch, the subject of a future episode of Dateline. Well, at least my dad would get the opportunity to pitch the story about my disappearance and murder to Vanity Fair—a boost and paycheck he needed for his slumping writing career and mounting bills.
“Okay, Hulk. Are you okay? Do you want to talk?”
He didn’t say a word, just opened the refrigerator, and grabbed two beers. He handed me one, then leaned against the granite kitchen island, his hips jutting out, and I couldn’t help but stare at the bulge in his shorts.
I took a swig of my beer, the bitter taste filling my mouth. Awkward. I didn’t know what to say, but I didn’t want to leave. In addition to my immense attraction to this man, I wanted to know his story. I had to see if his face was as breathtaking as his body.
I looked at him. “Will you take off your mask for me?”
He grunted. “Only if you take off your clothes.”
Whoa. Did he just say that? Who did this guy think he was? With that body, he clearly had no problem getting women to spread their legs for him. Was this his game? Play the damaged vet card to gain sympathy from unsuspecting coeds?
Not that he needed a ploy. This man was incredibly hot. Hands down the best body I’d ever seen. Like one of those fitness models who graced the covers of my romance novels.
“No way, Devil Dog.” I gathered my purse and stood up. “Look, I made a mistake. I wanted to make sure you were okay, but you’re clearly fine and all, so I’m going to see myself out. It was nice meeting you.”
I walked toward the door, but he grabbed my wrist. Before I could protest, he pressed his body against mine, shoving my ass against the black granite countertop. His huge cock pushed against my crotch, and my core ached.
“Don’t leave.” His voice was deep, sexy, guttural, as his fingers traced my side.
I was unable to speak, my adrenaline spiking. I could race out of here, slamming the door on any hope of taking this further. Or I could stay and see this night through. Our interaction had started out so promising. He’d given me a rose, seemed to be interested in more than just a hookup, even though he’d asked me to leave the party with him after we’d just met. Maybe I’d read him wrong and he’d been about to ask me out on a date? It wasn’t his fault that an ill-timed firework ignited and ruined our moment. Why should any connection we might have become a casualty of his pain?
At the same time, he did seem cocky, which turned me on yet frightened me. He’d clearly had many hookups and knew what to say to get a woman into bed.
Rebelling against my common sense, I kept my feet planted on his laminate tile floors. He pulled off my wig and wig cap, my hair cascading in my face. His hand undid the zipper of my catsuit and peeled it off my body, kneeling to slip it off my feet.
I did nothing to stop him.
He stood back up and unhooked my bra, his rough hands teasing my nipples. I gasped when his fingers slipped into my black lace panties, which within seconds fell to my ankles.
He didn’t ask me if it was okay—he acted as if he owned me, which was sexy and scary at the same time. Lust waged a battle with my brain. My body yearned to be touched, my head urged me to flee, yet my nerves sensed no danger. I felt strangely safe. Like I could tell him no or leave at any time.
I stood in front of him, buck naked, as he eye-fucked my body. After giving him more than enough time to stare at me, I squeezed his shoulder and lowered my voice. “Take off your mask.”
For a few seconds he didn’t move. His hesitation tortured me.
Then, without a word he ripped the mask off and looked me dead in the eye. His shoulders back, his chin up, as if he was standing at attention.
I battled the urge to recoil in horror. A wave of nausea hit me, and despite my best effort, I let out a gasp.
Ay dios mío! What the hell happened to this man?
3
Grady
Iraq—Two Years Earlier
The blazing Iraqi heat incinerated me, my flak jacket serving as my own personal oven. The pounding in my head was relentless, and it wasn’t just from the popping of the nearby AKs. I flicked a sand flea off my chest and took a swig from my hydration pack, but the few drops of water did little to quench my thirst. The dehydration, bug infestation, torching sunbeams, and constant sounds of gunfire ensured that the sandman had refused to pay me a visit for days.
My men and I were clearing houses. I was a fucking grunt in an infantry unit, the backbone of the Marine Corps. A human sandbag. I’d joined hoping one day to become a scout sniper—and more than ever wished I were prone on some building offing these terrorist motherfuckers before they assassinated my brothers. At least I was happy to have my friends by my side—Beau, Diego, Trace, and Rafael. These men were my brothers—and out here, the dirty water that bound us together was thicker than blood.
One more house. We’d already cleared two and this was lucky number three. This one was two stories and even had a fucking roof. I threw the purple magic cloud in the air to disorientate the enemy and the smoke grenade detonated. “Let’s go!”
Diego went in first, and we hustled behind him. The rancid air smelled like a putrid mixture of gunpowder, shit, and sour goat’s milk.
“Clear,” Beau yelled out after he checked the first room. Luckily, the second room was vacant also.
I
sprinted upstairs, my men close behind me. As we turned the corner and entered the room to the left, the distinct popping of the enemies’ AKs went off.
“Get down!” I crouched in the corner of the room, desperate to get the fuck out of here. Alive. With all my men. Diego returned fire, clouding the room with gunfire and smoke.
And that was when I saw it flying through the window.
A fucking hand grenade. Right next to Rafael.
We were all about to fucking die.
“Grenade!” I screamed. “Get the fuck out.”
I’d always believed that you could never predict how you would act in a deadly situation until the Grim Reaper knocked at your door. Nothing could’ve been truer in that moment.
I was about to die. All my friends were about to be blown up by these motherfuckers.
Not on my watch.
Limbs shaking, tears choking in my throat, I flung my body down on the grenade preparing to shield my men from the blast.
Rafael tried to drag me away, but I remained still, praying for mercy and a quick death. I counted the seconds until my life was over—until I would meet my maker.
A stream of gunfire ricocheted through the building, headed toward Rafael, who had refused to leave my side. His heart-wrenching scream echoed through this shanty house as his head split open before my eyes, his brains splattering on my cammies.
“No!” I screamed. It was too late—despite my sacrifice, my best friend was dead.
Boom!
Agony ripped through my chest, my heart spontaneously combusting, as I let out a desperate scream.
The world was black. I thought I was dead.
But I wasn’t fucking dead; I could never be that lucky. I was alive, trapped in my own body. Cries desperately trying to be heard, tears burning my skin, every nerve in my body short-circuiting, lying in my rotting flesh. Metallica’s song, “One,” played on repeat in my head. The smell of ammonia and bleach filled the white room. Maybe I’d been committed to an insane asylum.
TRITON: A Navy SEAL Romance (Heroes Ever After Book 2) Page 16
