Hot Alpha SEALs: Military Romance Megaset

by Sharon Hamilton

  “Load up on water, then,” he warned her tersely.

  Oh, God. What did he have planned for her? He wasn’t going to hold it against her that she’d rubbed herself all over him before they’d entirely woken up, was he? It had been his idea in the first place to spoon all damned night. Irritation at him and at herself that she’d liked it so much coursed through her.

  She downed a bunch of water and he did the same. They got in the Jeep and drove south for about a half hour. The sun felt good on her skin and the wind in her face made her feel free and alive.

  Ford was silent on the drive, and she followed suit. Commander Perriman had reprimanded her class leader once with a brusque comment that had stuck with her. “Try not to ruin a good silence.”

  “What are you smiling about?” Ford snapped without warning.

  She repeated Perriman’s pearl of wisdom and Ford replied, “Big talker, your class leader?”

  “Obsessively. Couldn’t shut up long enough to let anyone else share a decent idea.”

  “Important leadership skill, listening to your guys.” He turned off the main road and parked just short of a tall sand dune. She slogged over the dune behind him, and the Gulf of Mexico stretched away at her feet in massive glory. Unlike the Pacific Ocean, this surf was quiet, swishing onto the shore serenely. A few distant figures dotted the beach, but no people were close. Ford set down a pair of two-liter water bottles and partially buried them in the sand at the base of a wooden sign pointing at the parking lot behind them.

  “Let’s go,” Ford said. “Down the beach and back to the Jeep.”

  She was tempted to ask how far down the beach, but knew better. Run distances in the SEALs tended to increase exponentially in the face of whining or complaining about them. The sand was was soggy and hard-packed, but hand-sized flakes of it gave way unpredictably under her boots, making each step she took unstable. Sand running used an entirely different set of muscles than road running. Stabilizer muscles in the ankles and knees got viciously overused, and fatigue and pain set in fast.

  And today was worse than most. Ford really seemed to have it in for her. Maybe he was pissed off, too, that he’d liked spooning last night.

  Screw him. It had been his stupid idea.

  She didn’t think Ford was ever going to turn around and head back toward the Jeep. Nope, he was all glistening skin, flexing muscle, deep breathing, and long stride. His hair was tousled by the breeze, and his bronze body was lightly dusted with sand that her fingers itched to brush off of him.

  How in the hell was it possible for any human being to look so hot while slogging through shifting sand that made every step a person took treacherous as hell? She would purely hate the guy if she weren’t half-in-love with any man who could look so good while sweating profusely.

  She estimated they were a solid five miles down the beach before he finally turned around. Crud. She was wiped out now, and they still had the entire run back to do.

  Ford glanced over at her. “You good?”

  “Let’s do it,” she replied gamely.

  She caught a flash of pain on his face as they turned around. Just how screwed up was his knee, anyway? This sand running should be good for it—low impact, with lots of strength training for the muscles that would support the joint—if he didn’t take a bad step and blow the whole thing out.

  She was starting to labor, her legs and her lungs tiring. But that was point of runs like this. To teach the mind to overcome the limitations of the body. She concentrated on settling into the zen state of detachment from body that had gotten her through a dozen triathlons, a dozen more marathons, and countless beatings from her mother’s more violent boyfriends. She was a machine. Pain had no meaning. Fatigue was made to be ignored. It was the attempt of a lazy body to get out of doing its job.

  The high dune with its big, wooden sign pointing to the parking lot came into sight in the distance. Almost there. Her stride lengthened. She loved running, and the morning was cool, the breeze in her face just strong enough to cool her without impeding her speed. She left Ford behind and tore along the beach, arms pumping, sand flying, blowing like a straining racehorse.

  The dune loomed close, the lettering on the sign becoming legible. Almost there. A hundred yards. Fifty. She put on one last burst of speed and reached deep for everything she had. She blasted past the sign, and eased off the accelerator with a huge mental sigh of relief, gratefully letting her steps and speed coast down to a walk. She turned around to grin at Ford.

  He looked as pissed as hell as he caught up with her. Maybe it hadn’t been the smartest thing she ever did to show up her instructor like that. Especially with his messed up leg and all. He caught up with her and—

  —What the hell? He kept on running. He passed her and drew away steadily.

  Swearing silently, she mustered her physical and mental resources. Gathered herself. And took off running after him. It took her a couple of minutes to catch up with the bastard, who did not once look back over his shoulder to check on her.

  The second she did pull up by his shoulder, though, he sped up. Not to a killer charge, but into a plenty brisk run. Jeez. How much further was he going to drag her?

  She had stumbled a couple of times and painfully wrenched her ankle on a misstep before it dawned on her that she’d lost mental focus. She was locked in on being ticked off that he’d lied about the length of the run, and she wasn’t paying attention to what she was doing right now.

  Ahh. The lesson dawned on her. Just because she’d thought the run was over didn’t mean the situation couldn’t change at a moment’s notice. Same deal out in the field. Just because a SEAL team thought a mission was over didn’t mean the mission couldn’t change or encounter a last minute complication that extended it indefinitely. A run—or a mission—wasn’t over until it was over.

  She settled down, brought her mind back into focus on the mechanics of her running. Let go of the frustration. Calmed her emotions, and dropped back into the zen state that would allow her to keep on running as long as necessary or until her body collapsed out from under her.

  No sooner had she done that, than Ford turned around and headed back toward the Jeep. This time, when they reached the sign, she didn’t break stride until he did. She was prepared to run all the way back down that damned beach if she had to.

  He slowed to a walk, and she did the same beside him. Gratefully. He dug the water bottles out of the sand at the base of the sign and handed one to her. They downed their respective drinks and caught their breath in silence.

  “How’s your knee?” she asked.

  “Fine,” he snapped.

  “I’m not the enemy, Ford. I was an athletic trainer at a major university before I joined the Navy. I’m on your side and want to see your knee come back for you.”

  He glared at her for a long moment, and then jerked his head in a single, tight nod.

  She knew that nod for the concession that it was. It had been a silent acknowledgment of alliance in pursuit of a common goal. And it was a start with him.

  They got in the Jeep, and Ford pointed it back toward Motel MOE. “You passed the training evolution,” he tossed at her.

  So. That unexpected bonus run had been the whole point of today’s outing. She’d analyzed it correctly. Leaning back in satisfaction, a horrifying thought occurred to her. It wasn’t even close to noon, yet. What if the lesson wasn’t over? What if he had some additional massive torture in store for her this afternoon?

  As soon as the notion occurred to her, certainty that she was right set in. Crap. Better grab whatever rest she could, right now. She closed her eyes and consciously relaxed every muscle in her body. It wasn’t sleep, but it was the next best form of rest for recovery purposes.

  They took turns showering when they got back to the motel. While she was washing up, Ford went out and came back with sandwiches, fruit and drinks. She matched his rapid gulping down of the meal, and when he reached for his combat boots she did the sam
e.

  “Blouse your pants,” Ford ordered. “There’ll be snakes and biting insects galore where we’re going.”

  Great. Without voicing her distaste for creepy-crawlies, she hooked stretchy elastic bands around the tops of her boots and tucked the bottoms of her pant legs under the elastics, creating a snug seal from boot leather to khaki trouser that would let nothing crawl up inside her pants.

  Ford could crawl inside her pants—

  —Shut up, little voice.

  He tossed her a palm-sized plastic bottle and she caught it mid-air, turning it to read the label. It was pure DEET—the active ingredient in most bug sprays. High-octane stuff. The instructions said five drops would last several days. He must not be kidding about the biting insects. She poured out a handful and spread the stuff liberally on her skin and clothes. This did not bode well for the rest of her day. She sensed a swamp walk in her near future.

  They took off in the Jeep again and quickly left the main highway for roads that would be more properly classed as shock-absorber-destroying trails. She had to duck branches, and on more than one occasion, brace herself against the overhead roll bar to avoid being thrown out of the Jeep as it bumped over a particularly bad rut.

  “Grab me a protein bar from the glove compartment,” Ford said after one such near ejection. “Get a couple for yourself, too.”

  She wasn’t particularly hungry after their recent lunch, but she did as he directed. The protein bars turned out to be SEAL issue—2000 calories in a compact bar she knew from experience tasted like sawdust and lard. She stowed several in her rucksack.

  The road ended without warning at the bank of a body of water, overhung by cypress trees draped in gray Spanish moss. It was every bit as atmospherically gloomy and creepy as she could have hoped for in a bayou. All it lacked was an alligator or two sliding off the bank into the inky black water. Ford turned off the ignition.

  “We’re on foot the rest of the way,” he announced. He shouldered a hefty backpack while she strapped on her rucksack. The thick vegetation here was as unlike the California desert as it was possible for terrain to be. Comparing it to a sauna didn’t begin to do justice to the roasting thickness and cloying mugginess of the air out here.

  “And don’t run ahead of me out here. You’ll get lost, or you’ll get in trouble.”

  Annoyed that she’d showed him up this morning, huh? She highly doubted that, if his leg was healthy, she’d have been able to keep up with him, let alone outrun him.

  Apparently, she had traded in the constant sand, wet, and cold of Coronado for the heat, humidity, and stink of a Louisiana swamp. Same principle, though. Maximum misery. Test her character. Challenge her will to stay the course and prevail.

  Ford headed out along the edge of the water, following the faintest of trails. There was no path to speak of, just a bit of evidence here and there—a broken branch, a flattened clump of grass—that someone had come this way before. He pointed out the trail sign to her as they moved deeper into the gloom of the bayou. A subtle art, tracking.

  They fell into a rhythm, holding branches back for each other, murmuring warnings about footing, and pointing out hazards. He seemed as aware of her as she was of him. It was as if a rope connected them, and every movement he made vibrated down its invisible length into her. It was a hyperawareness bordering on psychic. Did all SEALs have this when they worked together, or was this just the simmering attraction between them manifesting itself?

  The earth beneath her feet had a spongy quality to it that she found vaguely unsettling. After a rainstorm, she suspected this path would be impassible. Somebody, Ford probably, had already hacked through the stands of kudzu vines and brambles that rose up occasionally to block their direction of travel. He moved quickly enough that she had to stretch out her stride and breathe hard to keep up with him. Not that he ever looked back at her.

  They race-hiked for a solid hour before he stopped at the end of a spit of land jutting out into a bog. “Waterproof your gear,” he ordered.

  Groaning mentally, she pulled out a large, waterproof bag and zipped her entire rucksack into it while he did the same with his backpack.

  “Not like that. Capture enough air in the bag so it’ll float. Saves you having to drag it along as dead weight under the water. If we were moving covertly, you’d want to take the air out and add rocks if necessary to sink it. But for today’s purposes, float it.”

  She unzipped her waterproof sack a little, blew air into it like a balloon, and re-sealed the thing. And so it went. Every few minutes he passed along some tip or taught her some new trick. It was a humbling demonstration in how much she had yet to learn.

  He picked up a long walking stick, and she did the same, unsure why she was going to need it…until he walked out into the bog. Ford used his stick to test each spongy mass of dead grass and debris before he stepped on it.

  She sank nearly to her knees in black, brackish water with each step, and her pants became coated in black muck. Not only did she have no trouble envisioning snakes, alligators, and other nasty critters rising up out of the goop, but the water had to be chock full of nasty parasites and microbes. Ick.

  She kept up pretty well with Ford until she had one tiny lapse of concentration and failed to test a step. Her right leg sank to mid-thigh and promptly got stuck.

  “Ford!” she called as he moved ahead of her.

  He turned around and took stock of her predicament. “How are you going to get yourself out?” he asked.

  She swore inside her head. Ideally, he would reach a hand out and give her a tug. Barring that, this was going to suck. She tested the hold the muck had on her foot. Her whole boot was pretty securely sucked down into the dirt and sediment. She wedged her walking stick in a bush to one side of her and rested the other end atop a cypress stump jutting up on her other side. She gave an experimental tug on the makeshift pull-up bar. No movement. At all.

  No amount of wiggling, jiggling, or pulling loosened up the sludge around her boot. She was well and truly stuck. She sighed and looked up at Ford. “I’m going to have to dig out my foot by hand, aren’t I?”

  He merely shrugged.

  No help there. It was tempting to call him names for refusing to help her, but she understood what he was doing. He was making her be self-reliant. Solve problems. At least this wasn’t the Tijuana Slue, better known as the Mud Flats, at BUD/S. There, the instructors made trainees wallow around up to the their necks in thick, sticky mud that supposedly took days to get out of hair and clothing.

  She took a deep breath, screwed her eyes shut and ducked her head under the disgusting water, running her hand down her leg until it encountered the sticky glop trapping her foot. Working fast, she grabbed handfuls of it, digging around the edges of her boot until came loose all at once and tipped her over on her side, submerging her completely.

  She righted herself, sputtering, and dashed the water away from her eyes before she risked opening them and getting an infection in them. She stepped back up onto relatively solid ground and made damned sure to step around the spot where she’d gotten stuck. Using her walking stick for balance, she moved forward a few steps.

  Her entire body looked like she’d gotten wet and rolled around in a bag of black topsoil. And where there wasn’t black muck, there was green pond slime. The foul odor rising from it nearly gagged her. It was completely disgusting.

  She wiped a string of algae off of her face and grinned gamely through her coating of filth at Ford. “Good times,” she declared.

  He nodded back, a look of approval on his face. Hah. This had been a test, too. Self-reliance, and the ability to find humor in a sucky situation, maybe?

  “You look like a rougarou.”

  “A what?” she asked.

  “Rougarou. Swamp monster said to inhabit the bayou. Human by day, people-attacking monster by night.”

  “Like a werewolf?”

  “Close enough. Tender sweet morsel like you will be right up the rouga
rou’s alley.”

  She rolled her eyes at him. “If you’re trying to scare me, you’ll have to do better than that.”

  She joined him on a patch of relatively dry ground, and he took a hasty step back from her. “Whew. You stink. That a habit with you?”

  She shrugged, unconcerned. “There’s a time to smell good and a time to smell bad. Perfume out here would only draw mosquitoes.”

  “Sensible attitude for a woman.”

  Her gaze narrowed. “That’s the problem with you men. You all make the mistake of expecting me to act like a girl. Quit thinking of me as a woman and just think of me as a soldier.”

  His gaze raked down her body and her soaked, clinging clothing. His stare moved back up to her face. “Kinda hard to forget you’re a girl when you look like that.”

  She made a sound of irritation. “What do you want me to do? Wear a burlap sack in the field? It’s not my problem if men look at me and think of sex.”

  “It is your problem if it affects the functioning of the SEAL team you’re on.”

  None of her instructors to date had been willing to talk about this 600-pound gorilla lurking in the corner, and she leaped on the opportunity to get inside the head of a male SEAL.

  “I always thought the big hang-up was that women aren’t physically strong enough to be on a team. But if I’m hearing you correctly, you think the problem is sex, not strength.”

  He turned and took off walking, but thankfully continued the conversation. “Lack of upper body strength is a real problem. A big one. A team is only as strong as its weakest member.”

  “But you think my…” she searched for words, “…general hotness…is a bigger problem?”

  “Team dynamics are important in the field. All the power struggles and personality issues have to get worked out in training so that, by the time a team hits an op, they’re firing on all cylinders without personal bullshit distracting them.”

  “Isn’t that hard to achieve? I’ve met a bunch of SEALs, and you guys have big egos and a lot of testosterone.”

  “Egos are okay in bars when the guys are picking up women. They have no place in the field.” He shrugged. “Besides, there’s always somebody more badass than you to keep you humble.”