by Diana Gardin
I nod. “Yep. All good here.”
We hear the front door open and close, and we all turn expectantly toward the arched doorway where kitchen meets living room.
Drake enters the room, stopping and turning sideways to fit through the doorway. He’s huge, the same height as Dare but broader and with bulgier muscles. He scans the room with a furrowed brow, his eyes stopping momentarily on Mea before finding the rest of us.
Grisham stands and goes to give Drake a bro hug. “Glad you could make it, Drake.”
“’Sup, man? Glad to see you back in one piece.”
Grisham shrugs. “Mostly one piece.”
Drake nods, his expression somber. “Must be tough comin’ back from that. I know a couple of guys who dealt with amputations, too. You’re one tough son of a bitch, Abbot.”
They turn and look at us.
Drake’s eyes land on my roommate first. Again. “Um, hey, Mea. How are you?”
I glance at my friend, and she’s gone rigid and tense. She crosses her arms and narrows her eyes into slits. She’s always been a little weird around Drake. If I didn’t know better, I’d think they’d known each other before Berkeley and Drake met. But Mea won’t cop to it, and she never wants to talk about Drake.
“Hello, Drake. I didn’t know you’d be here.”
A frosty silence falls on the room until Grisham clears his throat. “Why don’t you head on outside, Drake? There’s beer in a cooler, and I’m about to fire up the grill in a few.”
Drake nods, his eyes never leaving Mea’s. “Sounds good. Thanks, man.”
When he’s gone, I whirl on Mea. “You’ve got to be nicer to him, Mea. What’s up with you? Every time he’s around, you turn into Mrs. Frost. You’re never that cold toward anyone.”
She shrugs, dropping her arms by her side. “I’ve never met anyone who irks me as much as he does.”
My mouth falls open. “What? Why? What’d he do?”
Grisham looks concerned. “Did he hurt you, Mea?”
She shakes us both off. “No. It’s nothing like you’re thinking. Listen, don’t worry about it. I’ll try to be civil, okay? I wouldn’t want to ruin your cookout, Grisham.”
She flounces out the door, leaving me completely flabbergasted.
“I’ve never known her to give someone such a cold shoulder,” I muse. “I hope she’s okay.”
“Maybe she’ll tell you about it when she’s ready.”
Maybe she will. But I have a feeling that when it comes to Drake, Mea’s never going to share her true feelings. And I’m really starting to wonder why.
Grisham and I finish preparing the potato salad while keeping a healthy distance from one another. The banter and the joking, however, continue at an alarming rate. Things are so simple and easy between us. Every time he calls me “Grits,” a shiver of delight runs through me.
When he heads outside to start the grill, I place the big bowl of potato salad into the refrigerator to cool. There’s two large trays of meat: a big platter of chicken breasts and an equally large plate of hamburgers occupy one, while the other is full of hot dogs and bratwursts.
I smile.
We’re going to end up with way too much food.
Outside, there’s upbeat music playing from someone’s phone hooked up to a speaker. The afternoon is waning, and the sun is hanging low on the dimming horizon. I can hear the waves whispering gently against the shore, and the entire scene is the picture of relaxation. The end of summer always gives me a sad sense of loss, but I’m happy to be spending it like this.
Grisham and his buddies are horsing around in the yard. I grin as I watch them. At this moment, he appears carefree and happy. He dips his head low and goes to tackle his friend Ben, charging forward to throw Ben backward. A snarl escapes him as Ben curses, and my body is immediately aware of him in each nerve ending. That sexy growl hits me right in my core, and I’m instantly aroused by his extreme manliness at that moment.
Ripping my gaze away from Grisham, I survey the deck and yard. When my eyes land on Berkeley, my heart sinks.
It’s such a strange sensation for me, feeling disappointed to see one of my best friends. But I know that Grisham used to have feelings for her, and the thought makes me feel territorial. My stomach clenches almost painfully tight as the oily emotion takes root...I’m still frowning as Kyle comes to stand beside me. He hands me a beer, which I gratefully put to my lips.
“You have a good group of friends here,” he remarks.
“Yeah. I do. You having a good time?”
He nods, looking at me sideways. “Thanks for inviting me.”
“You’re welcome, Kyle. Anytime.”
My eyes lock with Grisham’s from where he stands at the grill. One corner of his mouth tilts up in a half-smile, and I can’t look away. He’s a vision of hot male perfection, standing there in a pair of board shorts and a plain white T-shirt. The tattoos that stretch across his chest and shoulders peek out from below the cuffs of his sleeves like colorful wisps of smoke. His jaw is covered in a fine layer of two-day scruff, and his messy hair is sticking up in a million different directions.
Gah. He’s gorgeous.
Gorgeous doesn’t even begin to cover Grisham’s manly beauty. He’s strong, and he’s a leader. He’s kind to his friends, yet he wears a distinct air of “don’t mess with me or you’ll regret it.” When he speaks to me, he looks at me like he’s listening, really listening. Like everything I say is a matter of severe importance to him. And now, with Berkeley sitting at the same cookout, his eyes are on me, not her. He makes me feel special.
And all I want to do is figure out a way I can spend more time with him.
“Do you want me to come back later and get you?”
Mea stands at the front door with my car keys dangling from her fingers. Kyle is already standing beside the car, waiting patiently for Mea to drive him home.
I glance at Grisham, who shakes his head.
“I can drive you home, Grits. Thanks for staying to help me clean up.”
I look back at Mea. “Guess I’m all good.”
Mea grins. “Yeah you are.”
I sigh and push the door until it’s only open a crack with her on the other side. “Shut up and get going!”
All I can hear is her giggle as I shut the front door.
Grisham and I start cleaning up debris from the cookout, grabbing bowls and stray red Solo cups from the deck and putting all discarded plates into a big, black trash bag. Then I get to work filling the dishwasher with dirty dishes while Grisham takes out the trash and recycling.
When he comes back inside, he joins me at the sink, rinsing dishes.
“So, how’re you feeling about your dad’s offer?”
I sigh, finding it hard to turn my tumultuous feelings into proper sentences. As I try and explain, Grisham listens carefully and silently, giving the occasional head nod as I release all of the mixed emotions that have been tumbling around in my brain since the meeting.
“And so I kind of want to do it, you know? It’ll definitely help us become closer. But at the same time, I’m scared. My dad has disappointed me a lot over the years.”
I look down at the counter I’ve been repeatedly scrubbing with a sponge for the past five minutes. It’s gleaming. I swallow around the ball of feelings lodged in my throat.
Grisham’s quiet voice makes me bring my head up to look at him. “I know it’s scary. But I think you already know what you’re going to do, don’t you? Or else we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
Sighing, I nod. “I can’t say no to this.”
Grisham gives me his small, rakish grin. “Then this is a good thing. You have a new job. At a private security firm. Fancy.”
I swat him with the dish towel playfully. “It’s not fancy. It’s just for my dad.”
“Ohhhh, the boss’s daughter,” he teases, grabbing the towel out of my hand. “Even better.”
Giggling, I back away from him. “Don’t sn
ap that at me. It’ll hurt.”
His eyes darken as he stares at me, and I stop moving. He licks his lips, and I’m so transfixed I forget that he’s wielding a dangerous dish towel as a weapon.
Then he moves forward. The man sure can move fast on a prosthetic foot, and I squeal and turn to run. I make it about two steps before I feel the sharp, sweet bite of the towel snapping against my ass. I yelp and turn to glare at him, my hands resting on my hips.
He’s chuckling as he assesses my anger. “All in good fun. Forgive me.”
How can I not, with that face and that body?
He holds out his hand to me. I step toward him and take it. He leads me into the living room, turning on a lamp as we pass it. We both settle onto the couch and lean back against the cushions.
“So when do you start?” he asks.
I pull my legs beneath me. “Not sure. I have to call him tomorrow and tell him I accept the job. And he wants me to do some combat training if I’m going to work there. You know, just hand-to-hand stuff. He says I need to be able to defend myself if I’m going to be working for a security firm with a bunch of ex-Special Ops soldiers.”
Grisham sits up a little straighter. “That makes sense. I can teach you.”
I pause, staring at him. “You would do that? Dad said he’d get one of the guys at the firm to teach me.”
Shaking his head, Grisham squeezes my thigh just above my knee. The contact sends tingles radiating outward from his warm fingers. He stares down at the place where his touch is doing something wild to my heartbeat, running his fingers first up my thigh and then back down again. I bite my lip so I don’t do something completely embarrassing, like moan in delight. “I want to teach you, Greta. Let me.”
Not ever going to be able to say no to you, Grisham Abbot.
Aloud, I whisper, “Okay.”
His face breaks out into a wide, little-boy grin. “Awesome. We can start tomorrow.”
9
Grisham
I’m off work the following day, so I drive out to Greta’s dad’s firm, where she says he has a small training facility.
The building is located in Wrightsville Beach, and compared to the glossy surrounding homes and offices, Night Eagle is pretty nondescript. It’s a three-story, tan stucco building across from the oceanfront sitting between two grandiose beach houses. There are a few other businesses on the block, but driving in I noticed they sold things like insurance and surfboards. Greta’s dad’s building is perfectly placed, because no one would ever suspect what really goes on inside: the strategic security of high-profile organizations and government-contracted missions.
When I walk inside, a strange shiver of familiarity runs through me. I’ve never been to this place before, yet somehow it feels…like I’m where I’m supposed to be. The sensation tingles along the back of my neck and I grab the spot, rubbing my hand over it. I shake the odd feeling off and look around.
I recognize Greta’s father right away from his involvement in Berkeley’s kidnapping rescue. He’s standing against a desk in the corner and looks up when I enter. He comes around the desk, his hands in his jeans pockets.
“Good morning, sir,” I greet him formally. “My name is Grisham Abbot.”
He nods, watching me carefully. “I know who you are. My daughter told me you volunteered to help teach her some combat moves. She tells me you’re a friend of Dare and Berkeley’s?”
I nod. “Yes, sir. I’ve known Berkeley for a long time. But I’m also a friend of Greta’s.”
His eyebrows shoot up. “Is that right? Well, I would have had one of my guys teach her. But she’s insisting you do it. Seeing as how you’re a SEAL, I guess you’re qualified enough.”
He says the last part gruffly, and I smile inside, knowing his ex-army training is telling him I’m not nearly good enough for this job.
“I’m honored to do it,” I say with a straight face. “I want her to be as safe as possible.”
Jacob finally reaches out a hand to me, and we shake firmly. He squeezes my hand a little too hard, but I keep a straight face as he stares me down.
“Then we want the same outcome, son. Greta’s upstairs in the training room.”
“Yes, thank you, sir.”
I head in the direction he pointed and find a door at the end of the wide-open front room that leads to the stairs. When I open the door at the top floor, I see that the “training room” is an enormous, open space with training equipment, mats, and gym machines. It’s state-of-the-art stuff, and I realize that Night Eagle Security, Inc., is nothing to be messed with.
Greta, previously sitting in the center of one of the gray mats, scrambles to her feet.
Fucking hell.
She’s wearing workout gear, but her workout gear isn’t what I expected at all. Her tight, black leggings fit her like a second skin, and I realize that her long legs and hips have curves for days. My eyes travel from her purple sneakers up her legs, to her tight, toned stomach. Which is exposed, because her top is just a sports bra. A purple-and-gray-patterned sports bra that gives me a peek of the lush tops of her breasts.
“Damn, girl.” I stagger toward her. “What are you trying to do to me?”
Confusion clouds her gaze. God, I love how clueless she is about her own hotness. “What? Am I not dressed right for training?”
I blow out a frustrated breath and close my eyes. When I open them again, I’m a little more composed and better able to handle the sight of her in that outfit. “You’re fine. Sit down with me and let’s stretch. I want to tell you about what you’re going to be learning.”
We take a few moments to limber up, and then I direct her to stand in the center of the mat. I circle her, assessing her from all angles before I stop in front of her.
“Greta, if you have to fight someone in this business, or just as a woman out on the street, it’s likely going to be a man. A man who is bigger and stronger than you are. I have to teach you some strategies to weaken him, bring him to a level where you can effectively get him fumbling, and then how to kick his ass.”
As I prepare to teach her the first sequence, I observe her closely. Taking in her inexperienced stance, I figure she’s never been in a fight. This is going to be her first experience with combat, and a strange sense of pride gathers in my chest.
I get to be the one to teach her.
“If someone comes at you from directly in front of you, like this”—I pantomime reaching an arm out toward her throat—“then you can apply a wrist peel.”
I show her how to bring her arm up and over mine, grabbing a hold of my wrist and bending it painfully. As I retreat from her, I fold over at the waist.
“There, now,” I explain. “Once his head is below your waist, you use your knee to strike his face as hard as you can.” I nod, and she demonstrates the motion I just explained. When I rise, I smile. “That’s it. Let’s try it again.”
I pretend to come at her again several times with more force each time, allowing her to render me harmless as I double over and she fake-knees me in the head.
“Now, let’s try for real. I’m going to really come at you, Greta. I want you to try to hurt me. Okay?”
She bites her bottom lip; it’s obvious she’s suddenly nervous. She doesn’t want to try and hurt me. It’s written all over her face as her expression turns sickly. I shake my head at her.
“Pretend it’s not me. Pretend I’m just an asshole who wants to hurt you. Dig deep, Grits, and take me out.”
I don’t give her any more time to think; I accelerate forward. Her muscle memory kicks in, repeating the moves she just practiced moments ago. When I double over in pain from my wrist, she grips the back of my neck with both hands and jams her knee upward. She slows herself down just in time, before she actually slams it into my head.
We both stand up straight again, breathing heavily.
“How was that?” she asks.
My grin is wide and warm. Looking at her sends tingles of energy through the c
enter of my body. “That was perfect, Grits. Really good job. Let’s do the next move.”
She beams with pride, and my heart lifts with joy at seeing it. She did it.
“What’s next?” she asks eagerly.
“Okay. Most of the time, if a man makes a move to attack a woman, he’s a complete pussy about it. He’ll try to take you from behind.”
I move behind her. She peeks over her shoulder at me. The look in her eyes is so open, so pure, that I can’t help the desire to dirty her up a little. I move in close, bending my head to inhale her intoxicating scent. My lips graze her neck slightly, and she trembles in response. Damn, I love the way she reacts to me.
“Now, your attacker may come at you like this.” My voice is rough as I drop my arms down over her shoulders and use them to trap her arms by her chest. “What do you do?”
She takes a deep breath. I’m glad she feels the need to gather herself, because I’m bordering on the edge of losing control. Then she struggles against me, trying to drag her arms out from underneath mine.
I let go immediately. “That doesn’t work. Struggling to free your arms first will just expend your energy, giving him the advantage. As soon as you feel his arms make contact with you”—I drop my arms over her again—“you need to take a step to the side. And squat down low. When you lower your center of gravity, he will lose some of his power over you. One of his arms will loosen, or drop altogether. Then you head butt the shit out of him.”
Her eyes widen as she peers over her shoulder. “Head butt him? Won’t that hurt?”
I nod, my gaze level with hers. “It’ll hurt him more than it hurts you, though. The back of your head is a powerful weapon. You could break his nose if you use enough force. You’ll have to aim back and up, because he’s going to be taller than you, most likely.”
I have her practice the two moves a couple of times.
“Step to the side, squat, and head butt. I think I’ve got it.” She nods confidently. “Now what?”
I come at her again. “Then, while one of my arms is incapacitated and I’m yelling in pain from the head butt, you take the opportunity to twist to the side”—I indicate which way I want her to turn her body—“and use your elbow to jab him in the stomach or groin.”
