by Lexi Whitlow
“Hey, what are you doing?”
Gates sidles up beside me, draping his arm over my shoulder.
I look up at him. He’s still the most beautiful man I’ve ever laid eyes on. Even after all this time, it’s sometimes hard to believe he’s all mine.
“I was just thinking about how lucky I am,” I say, leaning into him, hooking my thumb into his belt loop.
The studio walls are hung with my photographs, along with the art of six other artists I’ve signed to represent in the gallery. My commercial photography work pays for the kids’ tuition at the best private school in town. Our home is paid for. Our children are healthy and happy. We’ve got family who love us, and we’ve got each other.
When I was twenty-something years-old I never imagined a life like this was possible for me. I didn’t have the confidence to reach for it. I’m so fortunate to have met Gates on that day back in San Diego. He had enough confidence for both of us and was generous enough to lend me his when mine failed me.
I don’t know where I would be without him. Luckily, that’s one thing I don’t need to worry about. I have him. I have all of him. I have Gates, and our children, our careers, our family. If there’s anything more a person could ever possibly want, I don’t have enough imagination to know what it is.
The End.
Deleted Scenes
Gates
“Vaughn, you’re a showboat,” Ransom says, smirking at me over his sunglasses. “If the brass finds out about this, they’re gonna roast you on a spit.”
Ransom may be right. He usually is. Between the two of us, he’s the smart one. He’s got the brains and I’ve got the balls. Together, we make one reasonably decent Navy SEAL. We went through BUD/S together, pulling one another through the toughest parts. We’ve been best friends ever since, even though we’re on different teams. The rest of the SEALS call us ‘Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dumb.’
Guess which one I am?
He shakes his head at me like I’m an errant kid. “Your ass, not mine.”
“Just look the other way,” I tell him as we pull into the gym parking lot. “You’re not even here. You know nothing about this thing.”
The thing in question is a chance to make some good money, fast. The problem is, this thing is against every military intelligence regulation on the books.
I had seen an ad on Instagram for calendar models offering a generous up-front fee, plus a share of sales. The ad was specific: ‘Looking for active duty Navy SEALs willing to pose for photographs.’ It promised complete anonymity, showing no faces or recognizable scars or tats. I responded to the ad, then sent them a selfie I took in the gym. They sent me an appointment date and location for the photoshoot.
And here we are.
“You know, this could all be a set-up?” Ransom says. “Some terrorist group we’re at war with, trying to collect SEALs faces for intelligence purposes.”
On the phone, the girl I talked with sounded like a hustling entrepreneur, nothing like a terrorist. She also sent me links to other calendars and similar stuff she’s done before. She’s got a whole line of what she calls ‘Special Ops Hunks,’ from Army Rangers to Marine Corps Force Recon. All the photos were just as advertised; a lot of beefcake pictures of torsos, backs, and butts.
She said the calendars, postcards, address books, and such, sell like hotcakes on Amazon, netting every model an average of fifteen grand a year. I can use the cash to set myself up when I get out of the Navy, which will probably be sooner rather than later. SEALs don’t retire. They get killed or broken. My goal is to land on my feet—assuming I still have feet—when I’m done with this gig.
The gym is quiet when we walk in. There’s photography equipment set up in the middle of the floor with big soft-box lights, umbrellas, and a couple hefty electrical boxes with switches, gauges, and lights on their tops. It looks a little like a movie set.
“This is so weird,” Ransom says. “Dude, are you sure you want to do this?”
For a second, I hesitate, thinking maybe (for once) I should be smart and listen to Ransom. Then I come around the corner and see the photographer, and every notion of smart flies right out the window.
She’s tall and lithe like a dancer, with milky white skin dusted with pale freckles, and a mane of fiery red hair cascading like molten lava over her shoulders and down her back. I haven’t even seen her face yet, but I’m pretty damn sure she’s the most beautiful girl I’ve ever laid eyes on.
She turns and looks up, sizing up Ransom and then me. A tiny smile turns the corner of the most delicious set of pouty, pink lips I’ve ever wanted to kiss.
“You must be Gates Vaughan?” she asks, locking her wide-open, ice-blue eyes on me as she comes forward, her hand outstretched.
I nod, because I can’t manage to make my brain and my mouth coordinate.
Fucking hell, this woman is stunning.
Somehow, I manage to shake her hand. Normally, when I meet girls, it doesn’t go quite like this. It usually ends with one of them writing their number out on my arm, not with me going mute. But none of them have looked quite like this.
“And you are?” she asks, shifting her mildly amused gaze to Ransom.
He’s looking at her almost the same way I am, and for the first time in all the years I’ve known him, I’m overcome with a rush of jealousy because she’s looking at him instead of me.
Focus, Vaughan. This girl is just some photographer trying to make a buck. Not the kind of thing that needs to distract you from your mission. And that mission is making money, quick.
Ransom blinks. He starts to say something, then thinks better of it. Finally, he hauls in a deep breath, takes two steps back, and looks to me.
“Call me when you’re done. I’ll pick you up.”
When he’s gone the girl looks back to me. “Well, I guess he had somewhere to be,” she says. That smile is still curling her lip. “Just you and me then. My name’s Winter. I’m the photographer. The art director is upstairs making some calls. She’ll be down in a few minutes. Let’s go ahead and get started.”
Winter spends a few minutes showing me digital photos of some of the shots done earlier in the day, just to give me an idea of what they’re looking for. Even with no faces shown in the images, I recognize a few of the guys in the pictures from my team, as well as a couple other SEAL teams on base. When you spend as much time together in the gym and training as we do, you get to know one another’s builds. That, and almost everyone has at least a few tattoos which are like fingerprints; no two alike.
“We Photoshop the tattoos off in production,” Winter says. “And we crop the images tighter than we shoot them, so there’s no way you’ll be recognizable.”
I nod. I still haven’t spoken.
“Ah… our next victim!” a voice calls out from above our heads.
I look up to the gallery above us. A woman in her mid-to-late forties leans over the rail, peering down at us, a beaming grin on her face.
“You’re gorgeous!” she states emphatically. “I wish I could put that beautiful face on the cover! We’d sell a million copies. You’re the prettiest SEAL I’ve seen all day, and that’s saying something.”
I almost blush. Instead I’m compelled to laugh. I’m used to girls hitting on me, but no one has ever said anything like that before, at least not straight to my face.
The woman makes her way down the stairs at a rapid clip, talking the whole time. She’s built like a SEAL herself, with broad shoulders and short, blond hair, wearing no make-up, a buttoned-down oxford shirt, untucked, sleeves rolled up, and a man’s watch.
“I’m Ella Covington, the AD on this project,” she says, making her way to me, shaking my hand with a grip as firm as my commanding officer’s. “So, here’s how this is going to work. We’re going to give you ten minutes or so to get warmed up, and then we’ll do some shots with the free weights and machines. We’re looking for sweat, bulging muscles, and rabid displays of power and strength. If you’ve got an
y particular stunts you can do that’ll look good on the page, we’d love to see those too.”
For the next three hours Ella and Winter put me through my paces, posing me, twisting me in knots, turning my body in contortions no human would ever naturally wind up in. Winter shoots me from every possible angle, only slowing down to spritz oil on me. It’s ridiculous, and painful, and fun, and by the time we’re half-way done, I’m laughing along with them, relaxed, having a blast, showing off.
When I start doing some crazy, laws-of-physics defying pull-up madness, Ella expresses her extreme pleasure with my performance.
“Good lord, anything that smoking hot should be illegal!” she laughs, watching me, egging me on. “I’m starting to reconsider heterosexuality. Maybe I’m not really a lesbian!”
We all crack up laughing as I drop from the bars, breathless, heaving for air. Winter—who’s been focused and professional throughout the whole shoot—finally relaxes just a bit, lowering the camera, smiling at me playfully.
“That was impressive,” she says. “Best shoot of the day.”
Ella nods, smiling wildly. “It really was. You’re a natural Gates. A natural!”
She raises her hands up, smiling up at the ceiling. “That’s a wrap. Can’t improve upon perfection. Let’s go home!”
I’m almost sad it’s over. I had a blast.
I still need to figure out how to talk to Winter.
I hit the shower to scrub off the baby oil and sweat, while Winter and Ella break down the gear and pack up. When I’m done, about to call Ransom to come pick me up, Ella comes forward with a card in her hand, wearing a serious expression.
“Hey, seriously,” she says. “You did great today. You’re easy to work with and the camera adores you.”
I take the card from her, not sure what she wants me to do with it.
“Hang onto that,” she says. “If you ever decide you want to do some real modeling, I can put you to work making good money. You’ve got a movie star’s face and the body of a Greek god. The combination is rare, and valuable. Call me.”
A moment later she makes her excuses and goes, leaving me and Winter alone with several heavy boxes of photo gear piled up in the center of the room.
Finally, maybe I can make a move.
“If you’ll help me carry this stuff to my car, I’ll give you a ride to wherever you’re going,” Winter says, beating me to the punch.
I nod, giving her a big smile. “Deal.”
Her car is a brand-spanking-new Range Rover with a glossy black finish and a leather interior. It’s the nicest car I’ve ever been in. She’s either a damn successful professional photographer or she’s got money coming from somewhere else. Given that she can’t be a day over twenty-three, I’m guessing the latter.
“Ella was right. You did great today,” Winter says as she winds out of the gym parking lot onto busy San Diego streets. She glances at me sideways, that precious curl turning her lip again.
She’s opening the gates wide enough for me to drive a Humvee through them.
I may have a movie star’s face and the body of a Greek god. I may be a Navy SEAL who’s been in every war zone between Jakarta and Timbuctoo, who’s been shot at, forced to jump out of perfectly good aircraft, and maybe even killed a few bad guys, but the truth is? I’m no player.
I’m a little awkward around smart, beautiful women.
Here’s the thing: in three days my sorry ass is going to be strapped inside the belly of a C-130, destined for the Middle East and another deployment. This will be my fourth posting in a hot-zone, carrying out all manner of above-top-secret mayhem on behalf of Uncle Sam. It’s what SEALs do. We go where no one else can go, where no one else wants to go, and where it’s diplomatically uncomfortable to go. We go in quiet and dark. We do our thing. We get out before anyone sees us.
Sometimes people get killed. Sometimes SEALs get killed. It’s the job.
Having a job like that makes taking a few stateside chances easier, even if you’re like me—a little awkward around smart, beautiful women. I may be dead in four days. What the fuck do I have to lose?
“Would you like to grab something to eat?” I ask. “You’ve been working all day, and I worked up a pretty good appetite in there under those lights.”
Winter smiles, rolling the Range Rover through traffic. “Thought you’d never ask,” she replies. “You like Mexican food? I know a great place that does an awesome seafood quesadilla and has the best Sangria you ever tasted.”
I like Mexican food.
“Perfect,” I say, feeling optimistic.
Our meal goes well, flirty and easy-going. She’s not just smart; Winter is down-right brilliant, along with being just about the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met. She’s just starting out as a professional photographer, but she’s got dreams of being something like the next Annie Liebowitz (who I’d never heard of until Winter told me about her) and she has the connections and pedigree to pull it off. She knows a lot of people in the business because she grew up in it. Her father is a movie producer. She studied art and photography at Parsons School of Design in New York, and since graduating last year has started building her career as a fashion photographer.
“In a few years I want to be working for GQ and Vogue,” she says, dipping a tortilla in a bowl of queso dip. “The stuff like we did today, that’s just portfolio-building to get me there.”
I have no doubt she’ll get there. In a way she reminds me a little of a sexy, female version of my best friend, Drew Ransom. She’s smarter than anyone deserves to be and driven to succeed in a world controlled by guys like me: tough, alpha males with few refinements and little imagination.
“I hope the pix you took today help,” I say.
“The photographs I took of you today are some of the best in my portfolio so far,” she says. “You were easy and took instruction well. Relaxed. Most people can’t do that.”
I smile. “You should see me after a few drinks,” I say, teasing. “I can contort into some yoga poses that would make your hair curl.”
She laughs. “I’d pay to see that!” she exclaims, giggling, refilling her glass of Sangria. “I swear I would.”
Her laugh is like ringing bells. It tickles my ears, lifting my smile, along with other parts of me.
“No need to pay,” I say to her. “I’ll give you a private show.”
To my astonishment, Winter takes me up on that offer.
She’s got a suite at a hotel on the beach and a desire to see my moves up close and personal. I don’t have to put the moves on her—she puts hers on me. We wind up naked, with the salt air blowing in an open sliding glass door, fucking hard and cumming harder while the sun sets over the Pacific, just outside the room.
She takes my breath away, leaving me in a heaving, sweaty heap on the sheets, while she laughs into the loaming light. She’s a giggling goddess after the earth-shaking orgasm that left us both trembling, wondering what the hell just happened.
I’ve never met another woman like her. I’m certain I never want to. She’s unique in my experience: bright and full of life, fearless and bold. I draw her into a tight embrace, hugging her close after we’ve finished. I want nothing more than to sleep hard with her in my arms and wake next to her so we can do it again.
For the first time in all these years as a SEAL, about to be deployed on enemy territory, I feel like I have something to live for, something to come home to. Something worth fighting through all the bullshit risks for.
I close my eyes in the darkness, drinking in her scent, thinking those thoughts, my body spent and sated.
When my eyes open again, with the pale dawn light peeking in through the open, sliding glass doors, I realize I’m alone in bed. I sit up, shoving back sleep, looking around for her—for Winter.
The suite is silent.
Beside the nightstand lamp there’s a handwritten note and a hotel key. The script is small, tight, neat. It reads,
“Had to catch an early
flight for my next job. Turn in the key at the desk. Good luck on your deployment. Stay safe.
—W.”
No last name. No number or email address. Nothing. Just a one-night stand with no forwarding information.
Is this what it feels like when a heart breaks in two? Where is she? Why did she leave? She left me a god-damned note? What the fuck?
Rancher Daddy
Prologue
Camden
“What do you mean, she just left?” I ask Tyler, who gives me a wary expression and a wide berth.
He hands me a pink envelope. My name is drawn on it in purple ink with wide, loopy letters.
