by Anne Marsh
Five minutes later, we’re pulling into the bar. I’ve been accused on more than one occasion of having aspirations to drive in a Nascar race. My usual counterargument is that I drive well. I haven’t wrecked and I haven’t lost a passenger yet—and sometimes you need to get where you’re headed fast.
The tiki bar on the edge of the water is a much happier place than the desert haunting my memories. Unless there’s a storm building out over the Gulf, it’s an awesome place to sit and knock back a beer. It has no walls and the roof is made from palm fronds—little bits tend to drift down and land in your drink. Bright red and blue Adirondack chairs dot the sand outside. If you choose to belly up to the bar, your only seating choices are swings. I’ve never heard any complaints, though.
As soon as I’m (mostly) parked, Finn vaults out of my truck and makes a beeline for Vali. She’s definitely something—dark-haired, lush curves, eyes that twinkle and smile. She’s a baker, a cook, and a goddamned-amazing candy maker, so she always smells of cinnamon and vanilla. Her skin is a warm, sun-kissed color that makes me think of caramels. I’m not surprised Finn wants to eat her up. She’s smart, she’s talented, she looks like a goddess, and for completely unfathomable reasons she’s convinced Finn is the best man God ever made. I’ve offered to prove otherwise, but so far she’s turned me down. Finn’s a lucky man, and he knows it.
Their first kiss is suitably G-rated, barely a brush of the lips, except that Finn gets this goofy look on his face. When he’s not around Vali, he’s the same guy he’s always been. He’s foul-mouthed, pleasure-loving, and loyal as fuck. There’s no better man to have watching your six and your ass. When he’s with Vali, however, those rough edges soften and I see a different side of him. The inside part that’s mushy and full of feelings I’d rather not be witnessing firsthand. I’ve walked in on guys going at it with their girls in ways that make porn look tame, but this feels more personal. Finn loves Vali, and he wants the whole world to know it.
Ro is already at the bar, organizing drinks for everybody. He’s still the same, thank God. Most of the time, he can’t forget that he was the lieutenant commander who ordered our asses around overseas. He also looked after, mentored, and kicked said asses too, so it’s not like we didn’t appreciate him. He just has a hard time letting go—or giving up control. He places our usual drink orders in a deep, steady voice. Finn once claimed there was nothing better for putting him to sleep—he could listen to Ro talk and be out like a light. More effective than Valium, too. Obviously, Finn was joking, but he had a point. Ro takes charge effortlessly and he’s so calm you sometimes forget he’s breathing.
I drop onto an empty Adirondack chair and stare out at the ocean. Fucking love this. It feels like a vacation to sit here and not be planning an attack—from underwater or under cover of the palms or from overhead. Still, old habits die hard. While I’m considering the slope of the beach floor and the likely best angle of attack, my beer materializes over my right shoulder.
“Don’t forget to tip your server,” Ro drawls, and I grin.
“Get a life. Date a hot cutie.” I flick the lime out of my longneck and chuck it into the ocean.
Ro settles in beside me, legs stretched out in the sand. “We’ve got ladies joining us.”
Vali almost always travels with her posse, so I’m not surprised when the girlfiends (Vali’s name, not mine) drift in. In addition to Marlee, Ava Shelton makes up the evil third in their triumvirate. She’s a redheaded divorce lawyer and she eats guys like me for breakfast. In her world, I’m nothing more than a shark-sized snack to be chewed up and spit out during a single court session. She’s sleek and put-together, even if she is facing down a night of first-class mojitos on a Florida beach rather than a courtroom and a hostile spouse. Her cotton sundress is crisp, the pleats as perfect as her ponytail. The woman not only owns an iron, but she uses it. Regularly.
We’ve taken to calling our nights out date nights, but nothing could be further from the truth. The only two people dating are Finn and Vali, and in their case it’s really just a euphemism for having wild hot monkey sex. Okay. They also have a relationship. Never thought I’d see our resident bad boy fall hard for a woman, but Finn has. He’s ready to seal the deal, waltz his girl to the altar, and make her a Mrs.
I gesture toward Ava. She does look smoking hot, but I’m still one hundred percent certain she’d kick my ass. “You wanna date her?”
Ro’s a closed book when it comes to women. He’ll flirt in a solemn, kind of reserved way and he’s always good for a round of drinks, but I can’t remember the last time I saw him go home with a girl. Maybe this has something to do with his I was married once speech that he gave Finn when Finn bet Xander Reeves that Finn could stay celibate for a month. Hell, maybe Ro should date Ava. She could get him a discount on family legal services. Win-win.
Ro flicks me a glance I can’t quite interpret. “Ava and I are friends. In her own words, I’m her bonus brother.”
Okay, then. No dating.
And then Ava sits down like a queen ascending her throne, and I get my first clear shot at Marlee. She’s wearing one of those long, slightly floaty dresses that women always seem to choose when the weather really starts heating up. Acres of flowers billow around her legs as she moves closer. The dress isn’t entirely sack-like nor does it actually succeed in covering every bare inch of skin—it cinches in at her waist and the slit up the side flashes her knee and a few inches of thigh when she walks. The top is an off-the-shoulder number that makes me wonder if she’s wearing one of those strapless bras that scoop tits up like ice cream in a cone or if she’s bare beneath all that material. When she sees me, though, I forget about what she is or isn’t wearing, because her lips are smiling at me and the smile extends all the way to her eyes. It’s a private, sexy, I-know-a-secret smile and it’s just for me. Winner.
It’s not like I haven’t looked at Marlee before. Because I absolutely have. But I’m shallow, and I’ve always noticed her gorgeous face and her curvy body. The outside stuff. The wrapping paper on my Christmas present. Now that we’ve been spending time together, it’s like I’ve had a chance to shake the box. Christmas may still be far off, but I’m certain I’m gonna like what I find inside.
Ava leans forward, blocking my view with a smoothly worded, “Gentlemen.”
In addition to Ava’s shark-like propensities, I’m not entirely certain she likes me. At all. She’s eyeing me now like she knows I’ve been checking out her friend—and is debating whether or not she should take action. I’m actually okay with these bloodthirsty sentiments. Ava has Marlee’s back, and I can respect that.
Also? I can lean back in my seat and see Marlee just fine. Even better? We’re short a seat. And since I’m a total gentleman tonight, I don’t pat my legs and offer Marlee a seat. Nope. I launch myself out of the chair and insist she take my spot. Ro and Finn stare at me, speculation written all over their suspicious pusses. Pretty sure Vali’s laughing at me, too.
Marlee frowns and scans the bar, like another seat is going to miraculously materialize on a Friday night. She’s clearly been hanging out with the wrong kind of guys.
“Sit,” I tell her and then realize my mistake when Finn busts out laughing. Asshole. I’ve used the same tone of voice with Marlee that I do with the dogs.
Fortunately, she’s a good sport. She laughs, but she comes over anyhow. A little cloud of perfume follows her. I’m not generally one for perfume. I like smelling good things as much as the next SEAL, my appreciation honed by inhaling too much crap in too many foxholes. Nothing smells ranker than a SEAL in a South American jungle after a week. I generally prefer smelling things like bacon, however. Or cookies. A big, fat steak on a grill. Food.
“Do I get a treat for joining you?” She’s still laughing at me, but it’s good-natured. She’s wearing some kind of shiny pink gloss on her mouth—makes her look fucking edible. Lickable.
I point out the obvious. “You’re not sitting.”
She leans in. “I’m debating,” she tells me in a mock-whisper. “The longer I hold out, the bigger the doggie treat, right?”
“Not exactly,” Ro says, voice dry. He hands Marlee an enormous glass goblet. Salt edges the rim, and the contents are a bright red color found almost nowhere in nature. Poisonous snakes, maybe, which begs the question of why Marlee would drink it.
“My hero.” She pats Ro on the arm, sinks down in my chair, wraps her lips around the straw, and inhales the first inch of her drink. I sit on the ground, leaning back against her legs, and watch while she proceeds to drain the glass to half-mast. She also puts away an impressive quantity of chips and salsa. It’s even more impressive because she seems to talk non-stop. Chew, swallow, talk talk talk. Rinse and repeat.
She has a top ten list for the customers who come into Papelier—the best and the worst. Today’s newest candidate for the worst of list tried to use an expired credit card followed by a cracked credit card. And then when the card finally ran, turns out Marlee accidentally rang the sale up at three million bucks instead of three. The credit card company declined the charge, so Marlee decided not to confess. I laugh my ass off, though, because Marlee makes these faces as she narrates, her hands windmilling about, and it’s demented-cute.
“You should come help me out some time,” she says, and then her hand brushes my shoulder. This isn’t the first time she’s touched me since she sat down. She’s patted my arm, my back, my head. She’s brushed against me, bumped me, and all but sat in my lap. Marlee doesn’t have a personal space bubble—she’s got more of a free-form amoeba.
I don’t get the first inkling of impending disaster until almost an hour later when someone screams karaoke from behind the bar. Bars are for drinking and hanging with friends. Listening to anyone singing along to professionally recorded soundtracks ranks somewhere below waterboarding on my list of fun shit to do on a Friday night.
I gesture toward the pile of equipment being trundled out and wonder how easily I could organize an “accident.” “You should have warned me.”
Finn slaps me on the back. “And then you’d have begged off. No can do.”
When Finn takes the stage, he rocks it. He’s charming, women love him, and he’s actually not tone-deaf. He picks some country number that he croons to the bar at large while Vali plays back-up singer. She’s not so hot in the singing department, but damn can she dirty dance. She glues her hips to Finn’s, her hands gliding around his neck to pull him in tight. He’s practically singing against her mouth, the lucky bastard, while he dry humps her on the makeshift stage. When he finishes, they get a resounding round of applause.
The next wanna-be singer takes the stage, and Marlee dances along in her chair, clapping and humming. I rescue her drink twice before I take permanent custody. Pretty sure she wants to swallow—not spill.
When the singer finishes (and he’s no fucking Elton John and shouldn’t try to be), Marlee grabs my hand and tugs. “Sing with me.”
Ro snorts, barely holding back laughter.
“That would be a no, darling.” I don’t sing. Not in the shower, not in the car, and definitely not on a stage in front of a bar full of people.
“I’ll buy you another drink.” Her eyes dip to my beer. We’ve been here for the better part of an hour, and I’ve still got an inch or two left in my bottle. It’s reached that unpleasant stage where it’s no longer cold, but since it’s not like you can add ice to a beer, I’m nursing it along. I have a one-drink limit, thanks in no small part to my crazy pants family. And if their myriad issues hadn’t been enough to encourage sobriety, my tours of duty with Uncle Sam had underscored what happened when SEALs drink too much.
Alcohol’s pretty much everywhere you turn in the military. Guys party hard in the barracks. They drink to have a good time, because their buddies are doing it, because we’re fighting a war and anyone could die tomorrow. So why not live it up? I tried it a few times, but I figured out pretty quick that pounding Jack Daniels straight from the bottle held zero appeal. I like to remember my nights-before, and I prefer to stay in control. So I quit. Ordered a Coke. Touched the glass to my lips when we were toasting promotions, mess nights, and remembering our fallen.
Marlee tugs again. She has to know there’s no way in the world I get up there.
“It’s a great way to meet girls,” she promises me.
Not sure why she’s so eager to hook me up with someone—I feel like the white elephant gift that gets passed around at Christmas. “I’m fine.”
“Sing with me,” she insists. “Or come up there and grind that mighty fine ass of yours. You can be my local color.”
She likes my ass? Awesome.
Still not getting me up on stage, though.
“Baby girl, there’s not enough alcohol in the bar to convince me to get up there and sing.”
My mouth brushes her hair, and when I inhale, I smell strawberries. Might be the margarita in her right hand, or it might be her shampoo, but it smells good.
“Spoil sport.” She smiles back at me with good-natured humor, though. Then she snags her drink, bangs back the rest of it, and hands me back the empty glass. Her cheeks are pink and she weaves a little as she stands. “You want to bet on it?”
“Be specific.”
“I bet I can get you up on that stage,” she says.
“You’ll lose.”
Her grin lights up her face. “And when you lose, you sing me a song. I’ll accept a private performance.”
“You’re on.”
She bounces up to the karaoke machine with a wave of her fingers, and five minutes later she’s belting out some country song about a woman, a man, and a baby. I love my country music, but I have no idea why this song is supposed to get me out of my seat. She doesn’t stand a chance. So while she sings to me, I slouch back in my chair, arms draped along the back of the seat, and listen. She’s actually not bad.
The song kind of reminds me of home. My sisters would sing along to the radio as the DJ counted down the top hundred songs of the week. Their vocal talents varied considerably, but it wasn’t the quality of the performance that mattered. They scored points for enthusiasm and boundless optimism. They’d like Marlee, who bounces, claps, hops, and does some kind of weird can-can kick that sends her dress puffing up and out.
“She’s got skills,” Ro mutters, but he’s grinning and that’s the thing about Marlee. She’s crazy and crazy things happen around her, but she also makes people smile.
And then she twirls—and trips. She flies toward the edge of the stage, her hands pinwheeling madly. I’m out of my chair in a heartbeat. I vault onto the stage as she teeters over the edge of it and scoop her into my arms to raucous applause from the audience.
She looks up at me and winks. “Gotcha.”
God. She’s amazing.
And I’m a sucker.
I toss her over my shoulder and smack her ass. “You cheat. We’re done here.”
She pats me—on the butt. Didn’t see that coming. “But you still lose.”
Not a fucking chance. She just groped my ass, which goes squarely in my win column. And since I’m tonight’s designated driver, she’s not rid of me yet. Finn bummed a ride from someone and took off an hour earlier to check on the dogs, but not before extorting a promise from me that I’d see everyone home safely. I still think I got the better end of that deal.
The girls squeeze into the cab of my truck, giggling loud enough to be heard in Miami, and somehow Marlee ends up next to me. Every time I shift, my hand bumps her thigh.
“Thanks,” she says, cuddling up. Her eyes keep drifting closed, and I’m betting she’ll be asleep in minutes, if not seconds.
“Not your turn to be the designated driver tonight, sweetheart.”
Vali hiccups loudly. “It’s not ever her turn, not unless we’re all in the mood to die.”
That seems excessive, even to me.
“She drives that badly?” I bump Marlee with my shoulder, though, when I
say it. Just so she knows I’m teasing.
She huffs out a breath. “Here it comes.”
“She can’t drive,” Vali announces.
“As in lost her license for some infraction?” God. I’m gonna have fun teasing her. I can just imagine Marlee tearing up the highway with the boys in blue lighting her up. Not that I’m advocating driving like a speed demon. Often. Or at least not in such a way as to get caught. I can give her tips.
“As in at all. As in never learned.” Vali leans against the door. “God. What did they put in those margaritas?”
The obvious answer is tequila. Marlee snuggles deeper into my side like I’m the perfect pillow. I can’t help but notice that I don’t hear any denials coming from her.
“Is that true?” I put my truck in gear. How can she not know how to do this? It’s like sex or breathing. Everybody drives.
She shrugs without opening her eyes. “I never learned and I’ve got two perfectly good feet. And a bike.”
“And I could technically swim to the mainland but I still find driving quicker,” I argue. Pretty sure Vali has fallen asleep. Or passed out. I wonder briefly if Finn’s gonna pop me one if I carry his Sleeping Beauty up her stairs and tuck her into bed.
There’s a moment of silence, only partly due to the inebriated condition of my companions. She’s not kidding. She really can’t drive?
“You never learned?”
“It scares me,” she tells my dashboard.
“And she needs glasses,” Vali adds without opening her eyes. “You know, in case she wants to see further than two feet away.”
“Hey,” Marlee protests. “I’m not the person who clipped a palm tree last month.”
Vali’s mouth curves into a grin. “And Finn rescued me, so I think I came out ahead on that one.”
