by Jolie Day
Table of Contents
About this Novel
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
About the Author
Table of Contents
SEAL’D In Deep
SEAL’D In Deep
Hell’s Seven MC Biker Romance
Jolie Day
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission from the author.
The characters, places, and events portrayed in this book are completely fiction and are in no way meant to represent real people or places.
Warning: This story contains mature themes and language. It is intended to be enjoyed by an 18+ audience only.
Copyright © Jolie Day
ISBN-13: 978-1976346910
ISBN-10: 1976346916
Table of Contents
About this Novel
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
About the Author
About this Novel
He has been through hell and back.
Now she could be the one to save him.
Carter
They call me a hero. One of the world's toughest elite soldiers. But they didn’t warn me about the nightmares. It can be exhausting to fight a war inside your head.
The Navy SEALs are giving me a second chance to go back, but only if I follow their rules.
It never occurred to me that I’d find the woman of my dreams and not want to go back.
But as soon as Liz literally bumps into me, I look into her soft, beautiful eyes and I know that I can’t leave.
My plan has always been to remain detached, to fight for my country. But now I find myself wanting to fight for her love.
Liz
I’ve lived my life jumping from one place to the next, too focused on my career to settle down.
But when I run into him in the coffee shop, I can’t think of anyone else.
Carter is sexy, smart, and just what I’ve always dreamed of.
Still, I can’t seem to shake the feeling that he is hiding something. It’s obvious he has something deep and dark in his past, something he isn’t sharing.
Should I risk it all to get involved with a man who may just be my soul mate? Or should I listen to my instinct and run?
If you like bad boy romance novels, then you’ll devour Jolie Day’s witty, steamy „Hell's Seven MC“ series.
Start the sexy, addictive adventure today!
Disclaimer: SEAL’D In Deep is a steamy standalone contemporary romance. No cliffhanger. No cheating. With a HEA. Contains mature themes and language.
SEAL’D In Deep
Chapter One
Elizabeth Morgan had a schedule that was sometimes hard to keep up with.
She awoke each morning (even Sundays) at half past five. In the summer, she watched the sun rise above the Los Angeles skyline while she stretched on her balcony, breathing in the fresh air and allowing her body to be warmed by its rays. She never spent more than five minutes doing this, however, and was out the door by 5:45, her running shoes tied tightly on her feet and music blasting in her ears as entered the elevator.
Most days, she was joined by Tim, who lived in 504 and was three times her age. He was always chipper and enthusiastic for such an elderly man. He reminded her of her grandfather with his bushy eyebrows and pastel sweaters. He walked with a cane, but reminisced about the days when he might’ve joined her for her jogs.
At the lobby, Liz waved goodbye to Tim, promising to pick up his usual coffee order on her way back. Every day, he told her not to waste her money on such things, but she ignored him every time. It was their dance.
As soon as her feet hit the pavement, Liz felt a jolt of electricity that made the hair on the back of her neck stand up, her red ponytail bobbing as she made her way down the street, smiling at passersby on their way to work. They smiled back and some even addressed her by name, moving to the side like second nature. It felt as if the whole world had gotten used to her schedule, as Liz always had a clear path down the sidewalk; she hadn’t had this the first time she went running in L.A.
When she ran, she could feel the beat of her heart in her ears, thrumming along with the music the beat of her sneakers on the sidewalk. The music kept her going, but her racing pulse was a much better motivator than any song ever could be. Music had always been the thing that kept her going, even as a kid.
She used to listen to her Walkman while she studied or did her homework. When she walked home, the music that floated from her headphones filled her with electricity and had her practically dancing down the sidewalk. Sometimes, when she stopped to take a picture of the sunset or an interesting landmark, she imagined herself in a music video, as the central romantic character, and she would laugh to herself afterwards, shaking her head. She’d always been an imaginative person like that. Even somewhat goofy.
Typically, Liz ran five miles before she called it quits. Sometimes, she tried to push herself an extra mile, but never more. She didn’t want to risk a sprained ankle or something worse happening to her body. She knew that she didn’t look like the stereotypical runner, what with her curves and her cleavage and the small rolls on her belly, clearly visible through her running tank. Her thighs, however, were muscular; runner’s thighs. She loved them. Loved the tightness of her calve muscles and the strength in her legs as they vibrated with energy after a long run, begging for a longer workout. She often found it hard to sit down after a long jog, which was why she preferred to run so early in the morning. It was the perfect wake up call.
But, then again, so was coffee.
After her run, Liz made her way to a coffee shop at the corner of her block for a latte and a scone—which she always earned, several times over—and flirted a little with the barista for a free drink upgrade and an extra shot of espresso. Typically, this meant she walked out of the shop with his number written down on the lid.
She never kept it, but he never gave up.
For Tim, she bought a small, plain coffee with a splash of cream and two sugars.
It was a short walk to their apartment building where she, without fail, found him sitting in the gazebo in the private park attached, where a life-sized Chess board was set up. Tim always took the black pieces and left Liz with the white. After she handed him his coffee, they played for exactly one hour, rain or shine.
Though, in Los Angeles, they rarely had to deal with rain.
They made idle chitchat—she about her work and he about his late wife, Evelyn, who had passed away five years into their retirement from teaching. His face always lit up when he spoke about his “Evie” and their children. And grandchildren. And two great-grandchildren, that she had not even gotten to meet. It seemed that he had a new picture to show her every time they played.
More often than not, Liz would leave partway through a game and Tim would shoo her away when she offered to finish it.
“I know how you are about your schedule,” he would say. “Go on. It’s alright. I’ll beat you tomorrow.”
“In your dreams, Tim.”
As soon as she stepped through the front door, Liz would make a beeline for the bathroom, stopping for a moment to rest her hand on the photograph in the
hall of her mother and father. The framing was crooked and slightly blurred, because her father had been holding the camera in his hand and had barely paid any attention to what he was doing as he kissed his wife. Her mother’s ruddy, freckled cheeks were raised as she seemed unable to stop smiling.
Liz always took a moment to just stare at them; young and so, so in love. They’d never fallen out of it and she strived for that. But she always had things to do and places to be.
Her shower lasted three songs, exactly. Mostly the same ones. She sang along as she scrubbed her body and shampooed her hair.
When she stepped out, she quickly dried herself off and dressed for the day. There was no office to go into, but she was always out the door before nine AM, her camera hanging from her neck.
Liz didn’t have a car—which was almost unheard of in Los Angeles. Everybody had cars or bikes or used car services to get from place to place. But not Liz. She had two perfectly fine feet and no destination. A big part of her schedule was walking aimlessly through the city that she loved. Despite the many tourist traps and coinciding foot traffic, she found the city mesmerizing in ways that she couldn’t begin to describe without her camera permanently affixed to her fingers.
Her father had been the same way, back when they lived on the East Coast. She could remember the days she spent on his shoulders, looking out at the ocean as he took photographs of the lapping waves and lighthouses in the distance. He’d given Liz her first camera when she was barely out of diapers.
But as much as Liz loved the beaches they visited all over the Coast, she very much preferred to take photographs of cities and the people that lived in them. After college, she’d traveled around the country, from city to city, taking photographs of all the different tourist traps that she’s seen so many times on the internet and in travel brochures. Those photos were all staged, though. There wasn’t a centimeter that wasn’t perfectly planned down to the amount of light in the frame. Every smile and frozen laugh was manufactured by the directors behind the lens. Small children were given treats to keep them from complaining and giving sour pusses to the camera.
Nothing was genuine.
Except when it came to Liz’s photographs.
She loved the candidness of photography. She liked catching her subjects off-guard, when they were their realest self. She liked watching the glitter in a newcomer’s eyes as they took in an unfamiliar city, their smile wide and genuine and full of childlike wonder. She loved catching couples holding hands as they walked down a famous street, their fingers extended toward famous landmarks, their teeth shining in the bright hot yellow sun.
Yet, as much as she loved to catch the expressions of the people that visited these spots, Liz always liked to wait for the rare lull in activity, when the tourist attractions were all but deserted in the middle of the day. These moments were so fleeting that she would have to keep her camera lifted for long stretches of time, watching tourists and locals bustle past each other through the lens of her camera until there was nobody there. With the way the light shifted with the time change from day to day and the way she changed her angle with every single visit, she never took the same photo twice. Even when they were taken in rapid succession. She was always able to point out the subtle differences in each developed photograph.
Liz’s morning shift lasted until two in the afternoon, when she would wander to any nearby restaurant for a bite to eat. She allowed herself an hour to relax and go through any of the pictures that she’d taken up until then. Once or twice, she had stopped just to take a photograph of a nearby couple locked in an intimate moment across their table. She made sure their faces weren’t visible before she pressed the capture.
After lunch, she walked around a bit more until she returned home at exactly eight PM, on the dot. There, she turned her camera off and placed it on the charger while she made dinner and answered emails from her clients. Her photographs were perpetually in demand, partly due to her father’s fame, but mostly due to her talent. She got requests for certain landmarks to put in travel brochures and offers to showcase her work at high-end galleries all over the country. Invitations to submit her work to magazines were a staple in her inbox, as were offers to come and work for private companies, taking nature photos or doing work for gossip magazines and newspapers.
Those, she turned down. Her work was her own and nobody was going to claim it but her.
She made enough to pay her bills, though, by sending some of her files to clients and collecting money in her bank account. Even starving artists needed to eat sometime. Looking around her apartment, Liz knew she was anything but ‘starving’.
She allowed herself fifteen minutes to respond to as many clients as she could while she ate. Then she plugged her camera into the computer and looked over her work from the day, picking and choosing which ones she would send to future clients and which ones she would keep for herself.
Liz always kept a couple of photos for herself. Nothing else. They were to be developed for her own personal collection. She didn’t know why she loved those the most, but she had an inkling that it had something to do with her parents’ wedding photo in her hallway.
After that, she went to bed. Her head hit the pillow at 9:30 and she was asleep before ten.
She did this every day, her routine never varying for any reason. Some might have called it a lonely existence, but it wasn’t like she didn’t have any friends.
There was Tim, her neighbor, for whom she set aside an hour every morning, and Darien, her barista, who repeatedly complimented her on her ‘fiery’ red hair and her rosy cheeks as he attempted to woo her with his coffee-making skills. There were the commuters that took the same path as her every morning. Sometimes, she would talk to them about their days and their lives and they would share idle chitchat until they reached their office buildings or shops.
She considered these people her friends, so there was no way she was lonely.
Right?
*****
That day wasn’t like any of the others.
For some reason, Liz’s phone had shut off in the middle of the night, meaning that the alarm she set for herself had not woken her up and she ended up sleeping in until seven, putting her nearly two hours behind. She woke up feeling groggy and confused when she could clearly see the sun filtering in through the window adjacent to her bed. Sitting bolt upright in bed, she turned to the clock on her bedside table and gasped, before falling to the floor in a tangle of blankets.
She was really late!
Opening up her closet, she debated about whether or not she could afford to miss her morning jog or if she just wanted to head downstairs to play chess with Tim. They were only halfway through their last game and she’d had a move in mind the previous morning, just before she left him. She wondered if he would mind skipping today. Despite the strange fatigue in the back of her mind, Liz’s legs were vibrating with their usual energy.
She needed to run.
She could make it up to Tim tomorrow with an extra fifteen minutes of play, she decided as she grabbed her runner-back tank top and running shorts, taking a moment to compose herself as she gathered her flaming hair into a messy ponytail.
Liz barely had time to stretch and grab her keys and credit card before she was out the door. Perhaps that was the reason she got the cramp in her leg around mile three, just as she was rounding her block for the dozenth time, her calve tightening up and adding a limp to her step. Usually, when this happened, Liz would ignore it and push herself harder and further.
Today was not like other days.
Instead of continuing to run, Liz slowed her jog down to a fast walk, wincing with every step she took toward her usual coffee shop. This time, Darien wasn’t there. His replacement was decidedly female and not as friendly. Her dull blue eyes surveyed Liz in her running gear before asking, in a bored voice, what she would like.
Darien always had her order written down before she even made it to the register.
At
least she didn’t have to deal with an unwanted phone number that morning. She also had to pay extra for the cup upgrade. It wasn’t that big a deal, but to Liz it was a reminder of just how off this entire day already was.
Especially as she left the coffee shop, her eyes glued to the clock on her phone. She was so distracted by her racing thoughts that she didn’t register the brick wall of a body until she was bouncing off the chest of the man it belonged to, her latte spilling all over both of their bodies.
“Hey!” she heard a deep voice exclaim. It was gruff and slightly rasping and very commanding. “Watch where you’re going, will ya?”
Liz bristled at the accusatory voice as she dabbed her shirt with a napkin. “I could say the same about,” she looked up, her eyes widening and her voice weakening, “you.” The man before her was in full biker gear. Despite the heat outside, he wore a heavy leather jacket with patches all over the chest and arms. They were from different cities and a few even had barely recognizable band logos on them. One patch in particular caught Liz’s eye. It was larger than the other patches and somewhat resembled an eagle with large wings, but instead of the body of an eagle between the wings, there was a skull. The navy blue shirt that he wore was a little more professional than she might expect from a biker, but his jeans were appropriately ripped at the knees and his blonde hair was shorter than most bikers’ she had seen, but still messy atop his head. His jaw had a sheen of scruff on it, like he’d shaved just two days ago, but not since. Liz fought the urge to reach out and run her fingers over the prickly surface, her heart thrumming in her chest like it did when she ran.
Even his green eyes were beginning to hypnotize her.
“S-sorry,” she stuttered out. “I, um, should have been watching. I was…distracted.” She shook her head, her cheeks warming as she stepped around the biker, allowing him to walk deeper into the coffee shop. Her latte was half-empty and she had the thought that, perhaps, she should head back to the counter for another, but the thought of confronting the mysteriously handsome biker again was harrowing.
