Soak (A Navy SEAL Mormon Taboo Romance)

by Loren, Celia

  Ryder paused on the welcome mat, to lift the reflective aviator sunglasses off of his face. As his eyes adjusted to the room, Chloe thought she could feel her little sisters sigh. Okay, okay, so he was slightly dashing—in that rigid, military way. Mr. Strong had broad shoulders, and arms so thick with muscle that it didn’t seem like he could lower his biceps comfortably. But his body grew slender somewhere around his hips. He wore jeans and a white t-shirt bearing an unfamiliar band name (The Pumps? Surely, this was pornographic), and a small silver chain around his neck. When her gaze drifted to his feet, Chloe saw that the SEAL was wearing dark leather motorcycle boots.

  “Hello,” Strong murmured, and it had to be admitted that his mouth was...nice. Reddish and plump, in perfect parallel with the angular jaw. He was handsome, if you liked that whole Disney prince thing. Which Chloe had never honestly gone in for. The boys she’d liked at BYU had always tilted toward the bookish. Tall, reedy types with longer hair and elaborate opinions; the sorts who would’ve grown beards and smoked cigarettes if such things weren’t frowned on in the community.

  “Ryder, welcome!” Mrs. Christiansen trilled, lifting the small party out of the awkward silence. “Please. Any guest of my son’s is welcome in our home.” She began to wave her hands around, a motion familiar to her daughters (as it was code for: “Minions, assemble!”). “Chloe, why don’t you show Mr. Strong to our guest room?”

  She felt his gaze on her body before their eyes made contact, and at the same time she shivered, as if cold. There was something about Ryder’s face. As he stepped further into the house and warm light fell over his features, Chloe conceded that he was something more than handsome...he had a curious, intelligent expression. And light grey eyes, which reminded her of some line from an old story or movie she knew. “Eyes like the sea after a storm,” came to mind.

  “I go where you go,” Ryder said, and his voice was harsh, like gravel. Chloe was reminded then that as more-than-intact as this stranger seemed to be, he’d been where her brother had been. He’d seen what her brother had seen. She cleared her throat, trying all the while not to think about his eyes on her.

  “It’s just up here,” she replied. “Follow me.”

  The stairs creaked a little under their combined weight. She could hear Ryder breathing behind her, but Chloe tried to keep her attention on the hubbub in the foyer. Her father had finally come inside, and shut the heavy oak door behind him. Elder Johannes was a short, compact man with bushy grey eyebrows and a helmet of white hair. He was some twenty years older than her mother, but spry and athletic for sixty-eight. When he spoke, the whole family went silent.

  “Welcome home, my son,” he said now, clapping John lightly on the shoulder. It was silly, but Chloe imagined she could feel her family’s circle of love tightening about her brother. Even little Martin had looked up from his computer games to herald John’s arrival. She quickened her pace, swallowing. She wanted to be with her people. Not with Ryder.

  Chapter Two

  “You’re in here,” she said shortly, gesturing in to the guest room. Ryder hitched a big black duffel bag over his shoulder and breezed past her, a little too close. She could smell him as he walked past (some fusty cologne, clean-cut grass) and thought she could feel the hairs of his arm brush against the spot of exposed flesh at her wrists. She wondered if this was on purpose—then immediately took the musing back. Why would it have been?

  “You think it’ll be okay?” she heard herself ask, a little lamely. One foot was already creeping back toward the main staircase. More than anything, Chloe wanted to be with her family. Eating their favorite foods, telling all those familiar stories. She wanted to fold John back into their midst until it felt like he’d never left her, never even grown up. Ryder was the glitch in the plan.

  “I think it looks cozier than a barracks, if that’s what you’re asking.” Ryder grinned with half his mouth, then let his gaze circle the room. It was admittedly a little dingy in the attic. Typically, this room played host to a lot of old artifacts and art pieces that the temple had refused. As children, she and John had liked to play up here with what they referred to as the “buried treasure”—that was, until their father had given them each a sharp talking-to for “defiling the sacred.” It had been enough to scare all the kids out of the space for years.

  “If you need more pillows...” Chloe began, a little lamely.

  “Let me guess—hall closet?”

  “How’d you guess?”

  “All happy families are alike.”

  “What did you say?”

  But before Ryder could eke out a reply, there was racing on the steps behind them. The twins bobbed into the doorway like helium balloons, bright and urgent. They tripped over the same sentence.

  “Dinner will be ready in an hour!” either Celeste or Marie spat out—though both of them had clearly used this paltry piece of information to get another eyeful of NavyBoy. Chloe rolled her eyes over their heads in Ryder’s direction, but he refused to meet her gaze.

  “Thank you, lovelies. Can’t wait to sing for my supper.” The twins giggled. But then Ryder put two palms in front of his chest and made a little bow, with his head. Marie found this funny, but Celeste did not.

  “Mama wants us,” the latter twin said—her good opinion of Ryder apparently revoked. Marie waggled her fingers seductively, but succumbed when her sister dragged her out of the room. Chloe lingered.

  “Is there something else...?” Ryder asked, arching a thick, mocking eyebrow.

  “Umm. Yeah.” But what was there, really? What happened to you and my brother? Where’s your own family? What are you doing here, and who are you? None of these questions seemed exactly appropriate.

  “I mean, no. Never mind.” She frowned, but Ryder made that twisted grin again. Chloe decided then and there that she didn’t like it. Somehow, Ryder gave off the impression that he thought he was better than she was; smarter, perhaps. Rolling her eyes again, Chloe turned to go.

  “It’s from Anna Karenina, by the way,” she heard him call to her retreating back. Chloe felt the backs of her ears go hot. She popped her head around the corner again, just in time to catch a glimpse of Ryder’s naked back as he peeled his shirt up over his head.

  “Oh my God. I’m so sorry, I should’ve—”

  “No, you’re totally cool. Was just gonna slip into something more comfortable.”

  She knew she was supposed to avert her eyes. To slip back downstairs to her family, where they were all gathered around the war hero. But, heart beating rapidfire, Chloe found herself fixed in the doorframe, watching as Ryder pawed through the contents of his duffel, finally selecting a black t-shirt with no logo. He raised his arms, and it was like a small concert—articulate muscles shifted and stretched, elongating his already tall frame.

  Fine, fine. She could admit it. He was... beautiful.

  “Take a picture. It’ll last longer.”

  ...He was awful.

  “You just said something! I was just—”

  “Whatever you say, Ballerina.”

  “Look, I don’t know what you’re thinking, but I—”

  “Just can’t get enough? Stick around. The pants come off, next.”

  Her whole face went hot. The anger began to surge in her belly, like a snake uncoiling. Her blonde hair whipping, Chloe set off down the stairs. She heard the faint strains of Ryder’s protests, but wasn’t about to give Mr. Vanity a second chance to make her feel like an idiot.

  “Oh, come on!” he cried after her. “I was joking.”

  Chapter Three

  Ryder never would have figured that military training could come in handy during a Mormon family Saturday dinner, but then, the world was full of surprises. Here he was, sitting on the edge of a straight-back chair, trying with all his might to avoid cursing or casually invoking sin. According to Johnny, “sin,” for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints was a lot different than “sin,” for the fallen Catholics, in that Mormons found a
lot more stuff objectionable. That was one nice thing about his Ma’s mass in Queens, which he’d endured twelve years of until the old lady had died. You could do anything, small or big, and so long as you went to confession you were golden. It seemed there was no such dice in Provo.

  “So, Mr. Strong,” Johnny’s father continued (for this was the sixth or seventh question in a great big litany of the third degree...) “How did you come to end up in the service?” Ryder bit his tongue. He thought about the ritual calming exercises he’d been taught in the hospital. His skin rankled when civilians used terms like, “in the service”—even though he wasn’t sure what other term they were supposed to use. Or perhaps it was just the way Mr. Christiansen said it, “in the service,” with that insider smirk. As if they were in similar professions. Mr. Christansen at his big creepy castle in Utah, versus him, Ryder, on the ground in Syria, arm-to-arm with terrorists.

  “Well, sir,” (Ryder also couldn’t decide if he was supposed to refer to his host as Mr. Christiansen or Elder Christiansen—so he’d been sticking to familiar guns) “I enlisted when I was eighteen.”

  “Just out of high school?”

  Well, just out of the GRE. “Sure. I mean, yes.”

  “Mighty young to take on a commitment that big.”

  Ryder buried a snort. One could have said the same thing about Mr. Christiansen’s wife, who had clearly gotten busy making babies while her peers had been attending their proms. But one well-placed look from Johnny silenced Ryder’s inner devil. He knew he had to be kind to the Christiansens. Not least because they were his hosts, but because they were the family of the only family he had, except for his weird Aunt Tilde in Brooklyn. Johnny Christiansen had saved his hide too many times for Ryder to write off the man’s whole religion, and besides the many acts of valor, he’d proved his character in a hundred ways. Plus, it wasn’t like the world was lining up to offer him soft beds and decent food. Provo was home, for the time being—and the time being was all Ryder had ever known.

  “I wanted to go to college,” Ryder explained, trying to sound civil. “And it was the only way I could afford it. Of course, once I got into the service I sorta found my calling. I stuck around.”

  “Will you go back, do you think?” This was the youngest kid, Martin. Ryder liked him, there was something shrewd about his little baby face.

  “Martin, hush,” Mrs. Christiansen hissed, swooping in. “Mr. Strong doesn’t have to think about that right now. He’s on a kind of vacation from the military. He’s been very brave.”

  “It’s not a crazy question, Mrs. Christiansen,” he shot back. “I do think about it sometimes, Martin.” This sent a dark lull over the table.

  Though he hadn’t experienced a ton of family dinners, Ryder knew enough to know that the Christiansen dynamic was a little unusual. There was no talking over one another at the table, no lively chatter at all—except for Martin, the little one. The three sisters each ate with their eyes downcast, like they were being punished. He noticed they spoke only after making eye contact with their father, who seemed to grant his tacit approval before they could speak.

  It was a shame, Ryder thought. They were pretty girls. The twins were a little young for his taste, but they were the kind of goodie-goodies that rock stars wrote songs about deflowering. Their hair was tied up in virginal braids, and they each wore loose jeans and button-up shirts with high collars. No make-up, and minimal jewelry.

  Then there was the oldest sister, who seemed to Ryder especially dour. Though she wasn’t dressed like a pilgrim (he could tell, in fact, that Little Miss had a nice body beneath her lumpy jumper and long-sleeved t-shirt), she had hardly spared him a smile since he entered her precious house. He pinned her for the most religious of the bunch, with that thin, prim nose and those wide blue eyes. She’d practically had a seizure when he’d accidentally-on-purpose shown her his pecs in the attic. What a drag.

  “What would you do?” Mr. Christiansen ventured. “If you were to return to the Navy?”

  “I don’t rightly know, sir.”

  “Well, what are you good at?”

  Ryder pondered, as his fork poked idly at the smashed potatoes.

  “Combat, I think,” he heard himself say. The answer surprised him, and it didn’t.

  Growing up in Queens, Ryder had been the mousy kid. The nerd. For years in his mother’s care, and later his aunt’s care, (and finally his own care), he’d styled himself the outsider. He read books and drove a scooter and didn’t form close relationships. Whenever possible, he relied solely on himself.

  But the SEALS had pounded the loner-ism out. Within that community, he’d found purpose, and the kind of fraternity he’d never thought possible. Action was terrible. He’d known many good men who had died young in the name of some cause, on distant shores. But even so, Ryder’s best and only real home had been the Navy, where he always knew what his job was and what was expected of him. And fuck it—he had gotten “good at it.” He was loyal, strong, and fiercely protective of those he loved. What was so wrong with that?

  “Ryder’s being modest, Dad,” Johnny piped up. Ryder had noticed that his friend had become more demure in his family’s presence, also. Though he wasn’t quite so defeated-seeming as his sisters, it was very clear at this table who was man of the house. “He saved my life in Aleppo.”

  “Is that true, Ryder?” the game twin asked. He couldn’t tell their names apart yet, but one of them kept winking at him when she thought her parents weren’t looking, and the other’s collar was cinched a notch tighter about her goodie-goodie throat.

  “Sure, it’s true,” Johnny continued. “The others left me for dead in an oil field. Johnny carried me three miles on his back, with shrapnel in his knee.”

  Ryder couldn’t look at his friend. It was one thing to relate the unspeakable in adjoining ER beds, but quite another to bring a war story out in the daylight, where it could be inspected and probed by civilians for holes. He could hear the girls now, reframing their opinion of him. Deciding to think of him as a “hero.” Yet he’d done what any decent man would have done, had they been able to master their fear. He didn’t feel like a hero now, and he hadn’t then. He felt battery-operated, entirely governed by impulse. He felt like he was always at the mercy of someone else—and tonight, this someone was Mr. Christiansen. (Or Elder. Whatever.)

  “My stars,” Mrs. Christiansen said, all but clutching her pearls. They’d taken his stoic silence for confirmation. Ryder noticed that the only one who kept eating at the table was Chloe, who’d registered the news but somehow remained unimpressed. He couldn’t help but smile a little at this. Bitchy though it might be, at least she’d given him an unusual reaction. He considered the eldest sister’s face again. Unblemished, but pale. Her frame was small. Her hands were fine.

  Okay, so she was definitely pretty. But who wanted to mess with what was basically a cult? Who wanted to mess with a best friend’s sister, for that matter?

  “It’s hard to talk about,” Johnny said finally, taking the hint. The family tucked into the remnants of a bland meal, and Ryder ate because there was nothing else to do. He wasn’t exactly hungry, as he hadn’t had a proper work-out in months—though this was mostly knee surgery’s fault. He had to keep reminding himself that there were things his body would never do again with ease. Running. Swimming. Jumping. Of course on the flip side, he still had it way better than Johnny, who’d be recovering from his amputation for the rest of his life. Their lives, once so purposeful, now seemed aimless. Without “the service,” Ryder wondered—who was he? What could he do?

  Mrs. Christiansen began circling the table, collecting plates. He watched her supplicant gestures, the reverent way she tended to her family. Ryder felt a surge of gratitude again. Weird as it was, he needed to stay focused on the fact that he was on the receiving end of a great kindness.

  “Father,” Johnny continued, as if on cue. “I was hoping Ryder might stay with us for a while. Just until he figures out where he
needs to be.”

  “You’ve set him up in the guest room, isn’t that right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, how long is ‘a while?’”

  At these words, Mrs. Christiansen reappeared in the dining room doorway, brandishing a dish rag. “Johannes!” she quipped, looking upset. He saw in her expression the origin of her older daughter’s sourpuss. “Where’s that Christian kindness? He has saved our boy’s life!”

  All the forks went silent at the table. Ryder had to check an odd instinct to pray. Please, whoever’s up there. Let me stay.

  “Of course you’re welcome in our house, Mr. Strong,” the father said, delicately. “So long as you observe our ground rules, you may stay as long as you wish.”

  Johnny was grinning like a madman across the table, and Ryder allowed him a quick grin. Perhaps he didn’t deserve this kindness. Perhaps these people weren’t exactly his people. Still, it felt good to have an address. And a pillow that didn’t smell like chemicals and feel like shit.

  “Sir, I am deeply appreciative of your generosity,” he murmured. Mrs. Christiansen appeared at his elbow, stealthy as a ghost. Beaming, she took his plate into her pile of dirty dishes. “It’s settled,” she mouthed.

  Chapter Four

  He could hear the sisters, as they prepared for bed. For one, they did it early. Around nine thirty the twins could be heard tiptoeing up the stairs, whispering to each other. When their door slid shut with a click, he figured the whole family had drifted to lullaby land. Through the wall he shared with Johnny, he could tell that his friend had fallen into a steady and snore-heavy sleep.

  It was quiet in Provo. Certainly compared to combat, and New York City, but also compared to the silent desert he’d been privy to on nights when no bombs fell. Ryder imagined all the houses on this block and the next, full up with more and more Mormons, doing their Mormonly activities. Praying to their lizard God, or whatever it was. He heard Johnny’s voice in his head, lucid as if it came through the wall: Lots of people believe in crazier things, man. Don’t knock it just because you can’t understand it.