SEALionaire Book 2: A Navy SEAL Romance

by M. S. Parker

  Now, I knew I didn't want for anything, and it wasn't like I went out on thousand-dollar spending sprees like Paris, or blew thousands of dollars buying people drinks at clubs like Ricky. I just didn't want to have to think about what I spent. Ricky and Paris never thought about money, and both spent without hesitation. Anything else seemed low class to them.

  “I like budgeting about as much as you like monogamy,” I said.

  “I think we've got a good thing going here,” Ricky said. “And you do too, right?”

  Ricky liked our make up routine, but he was still pushing for an 'open relationship.' What I wanted to know was if I'd have the opportunity to benefit from it the same way he would. I hadn't exactly found anyone I wanted to...play with, so I wasn't going to ask. If he kept pushing though, I might have to hook up with someone, just to show him how it would be.

  “Good enough,” I said.

  Ricky chuckled and tossed me my dress. “Better check your phone. I heard it going off while we were getting off.”

  I rolled my eyes at him, tied my dress back in place, and then dug my phone out of my purse. Shit. My grandfather called nine times in a row, excessive even for him. Something was up.

  “You're paying for dinner,” I said to Ricky as I checked my voicemail. “And I'm starving, so be prepared.”

  I was so far from one of those skinny bitches who whined about all of the calories in a stick of celery. When I was hungry, I ate. Fuck the calories.

  He knocked back the rest of his champagne and dialed his driver as he came back over to fill my glass. As my grandfather began to speak, his normally steady voice trembling, I dropped the crystal flute, and it shattered across the travertine tiles.

  “Leighton, I know you think you're busy, and you have half a dozen excuses, but you need to get home now. Your brother's been injured in the line of duty. It's...bad. He'll be coming home...if he survives...”

  If. Not that word. If.

  My phone fell from numb fingers, and I barely heard Ricky saying my name.

  If.

  If.

  I shook my head, only partially aware that I was repeating “no” over and over again while Ricky kept saying my name.

  Not Ian. I couldn't lose him too.

  4

  Leighton

  I found my grandfather in his study. My mother's workaholic father, the well-known Devlin Pope, sat behind his large mahogany desk, his hands loose and unmoving on the polished surface. While I'd been in the study plenty of times, I'd never seen him sitting at the desk. He was always pacing on the phone, always full of so much life and energy. His current quiet unnerved me. Even at my parents' funeral he hadn't been still. He'd taken care of everything and everyone, including my brother and me.

  And he was still taking care of us.

  When he could.

  I didn't walk into the room, as if that would keep any of this from being real. I tapped on the door, the sound echoing.

  “Alive.” He didn't make me ask the question.

  I slumped against the doorframe, the relief making my body go numb. “When will he be home?” The question was faint, but the room was quiet enough that I knew Grandfather heard me.

  “He's in critical condition, in some military hospital. I'm still working at finding out where. I've been promised that he'll be airlifted when he's stable enough to move,” Grandfather said.

  He roused himself and slashed his hand toward one of the straight-backed chairs facing his desk. I knew that gesture. I entered the study and sat down, feeling like I was in trouble. I sat there for nearly a full minute before my grandfather cleared his throat and finally looked up.

  “You'll stay here until he's back. Your rooms are made up as always,” he said brusquely, his tone leaving no room for argument.

  “I know they're made up.” I struggled to keep my voice even. “I do still live here.”

  He gave me that same 'don't bullshit me' expression he'd used on me growing up. “How many nights have you slept here in the past two months?”

  “Ricky wants me to start working on decorating. He's afraid his mother's decorator will answer more to her than to him...”

  “You're not picking out paint colors and playing house in Malibu while we wait to hear if your brother is alive,” Grandfather said. His eyes, so much like mine, were two sharp points of light.

  He looked good for his age, but it had always been his eyes that had been the most alive. He was in his late sixties with close cut silver hair and a clean shave. Always a clean shave.

  He stood up to pace, and I gripped the arms of the chair. I knew what was coming. Whatever went wrong with Ian, I would take the brunt of it. Grandfather was far from abusive, but he didn't believe in sugarcoating things...or keeping his opinion to himself.

  “Your shiftless, useless lifestyle has got to stop and that walking leech you call a boyfriend is the first thing that should go.” Grandfather gave me his sternest look. “You're not a child anymore, Leighton. You haven't been for years, and this should be a wake-up call for you.”

  It was the same lecture no matter what I did. It had been the same lecture when Ian decided to join the army and signed up without consulting Grandfather. He hadn’t been able to reverse what Ian had done, or criticize Ian's choice without sounding like he was against the military, so he'd come down on me.

  My little brother had chosen a direction for his life. I needed to do the same. Since I'd made it clear from moment one with Grandfather that I didn't want to go to college, it had been all about the job. According to him, it wasn't about the money but rather the contribution made to society.

  “This is a great chance to see if I want to be an interior designer,” I said. It sounded lame even to me.

  Grandfather turned at the window and strode back to the desk. “Find an internship and take an entry-level job with a design firm, Leighton. Don't spend your boyfriend's money and tell me it's work.”

  I stood up and smoothed down my dress. “I told Ricky I would do this. Aren't you always saying we should keep our word?”

  “They wouldn't even tell me the extent of your brother's injuries.” Grandfather slammed his hands down on the desk, and I jumped. “All they would say is that he was one of the lucky ones.”

  “Ian always was the lucky one,” I muttered.

  I loved my brother, but I hated the fact that, before our parents died, I'd been on the right track. I'd never been the best student, and I'd never wanted to be something like a doctor or lawyer or anything like that, but I'd planned on going to college, on making something of myself. But then my world had fallen apart, and all of my plans had gone to shit. Ian, however, had still wanted to make our parents proud.

  “Leighton, your brother is in critical condition in a field hospital somewhere. He's clinging to life,” Grandfather said.

  “So I'm supposed to just sit here next to the phone and wait? What good will that do?” I asked before Grandfather could get going. My hands were shaking. My relief that my brother was alive was giving way to all of the negative emotions. “Besides, Ian made his decision. He did it because he thought our parents would be proud, but he didn't think about this part. He didn't think anything would happen to him.” My voice cracked, and I could feel the tears threatening. “He should've known better. Dammit! Of all people, he should've known better.”

  I sank into the straight-backed chair and put my face in my hands, taking deep breaths as I struggled to keep my tears in check. Grandfather paced away from me, stopping at the far end of the study to look out the window. He didn't do so well with emotions. Never had. He'd done his best to comfort Ian and me after our parents had died, but I knew he'd been grateful for Paris. Even for Ricky, at first.

  Ian had been fifteen when our parents died, and fifteen year-old boys weren't exactly known for showing their emotions. Grandfather had been better with Ian. He'd brought back something from Ian's childhood and that had helped Ian through it.

  Grandfather had made his firs
t million by buying and producing one of the largest radio stations in LA. We hadn't seen him much growing up, but there had been a couple of weeks one summer when Ian and I had both been young, when we'd stayed with Grandfather. That had been when, between phone calls, he'd filled Ian's head with the magic of radio waves reaching out to remote places and faraway people.

  Then he'd given Ian a ham radio to play with. I'd wanted Ian to tune in pop music so I could dance, but he'd been relentless, trying to talk to someone as far from LA as he could. It only had a range of two hundred miles, but Ian had eventually reached a camper out in a remote corner of Joshua Tree. It could have been the moon from the way the camper had described it. The short contact had held Ian like a magic spell, and his face had glowed with happiness until the camper had said 'out.'

  And even that word had fascinated him.

  “'Over' means it's the other person's turn to talk,” Ian had told me, those green eyes shining with excitement. “'Out' means you're turning off your radio so you never say 'over and out.'”

  I wished I could radio my brother, reach him wherever he was, but Grandfather had never taught me how to do it.

  Ian, I love you. Come home. Over, I thought.

  Despite my better judgment, I stayed at the house that night, and the next, and the one after that, unable to convince myself that it'd be just as easy for Grandfather to reach me by phone as it would be if I were at the house. It was relatively easy to hide from him anyway, diving into the pool, taking off on a run, or faking a phone call whenever he appeared. Except for dinner. Just like we had when Ian and I had first moved in, Grandfather and I ate dinner together each night. Dinners where he held one-sided conversations about my purpose, drive, and work ethic. Or, more specifically, my lack of all three.

  When the phone call finally came saying that Ian was on his way back to the States, I felt free enough to be able to leave. I was smart enough to do it while Grandfather was making his phone calls, though. I might not have had much drive, but I had common sense. Grandfather was busy making sure Ian would have a private room at Cedar Sinai when he arrived. The army had wanted to put him in a hospital at the base where he'd been stationed, but Grandfather was already calling every politician who'd ever owed him a favor to make sure that didn't happen. I was actually glad about that. It meant we'd get to see Ian sooner rather than later.

  Still, I needed to get out of the house, so I went, knowing Grandfather would call me when he had more information about when we could see Ian. When I escaped to Ricky's beach house, ready for some distraction, I found that my boyfriend had gone to Barbados.

  Without even telling me.

  “I get it, babe, you need family time,” Ricky said when I'd finally got ahold of him.

  Three hours later.

  “No. I'm at the beach house now. I need fun. I need distraction.” I closed my eyes and pinched the bridge of my nose.

  “Come join me!” He wasn’t slurring his words, but I knew he was drunk.

  “Ian's going to be home soon. I have to stay in LA and see him, but I can't just stay at the house. I'll go fucking nuts.”

  Before he managed to respond, he was called away by a jumble of giggles and shouts. The call disconnected a few seconds later and I didn’t bother to try him again. Four years with Ricky had taught me better. Chances were, he didn't even notice that the call had ended.

  Instead of wasting my time being annoyed, I paid his underworked maid to buy dozens of paint samples and spent the rest of the day splattering the beach house's dining room wall with as much color as possible. Later that evening, Paris found me covered with paint and hungover from having drunk all of Ricky's champagne. She ordered a spa treatment and then we rounded out the night by heading to some up-and-comer's launch party.

  The phone woke me the next morning, the shrill ringtone drilling into my head. I would've ignored it, except that the caller ID said it was Grandfather. As soon as I picked it up, I was glad I had. We could go see Ian. I wasn't completely able to hold back the wince as I peeked outside, but I told Grandfather that I was on my way and he didn't comment on anything else. I scrawled a note to Paris, who was still sleeping on Ricky's bed, and then headed out.

  I arrived at the hospital with an aching head and two phone numbers written on my arm in red marker. I tugged down the sleeve of my white cardigan and hoped my Grandfather would be out hunting up a cup of coffee when I reached Ian's room. He was never without a mug of black sludge, the strongest coffee he could find, and it would be my only chance to see Ian alone.

  I should've known better.

  He was waiting at the door.

  “There you are, Leighton.” Grandfather sounded annoyed, but not angry, so I supposed that was a plus.

  I didn't say anything as I stepped around him. This wasn't about him and me. This was about Ian, and all of the anxiety I'd been pushing down since the first call came rushing back.

  I needed to see my brother.

  And there he was. His auburn hair buzzed army-short, his eyes tired, but they lit up when he saw me. He started to push himself into a sitting position and winced.

  The look of pain on his face broke my paralysis, and I hurried toward him. “What did you do?” I asked as I leaned down to hug him, careful not to squeeze him too tight. “What did you do, you idiot?”

  He grinned at me as I pulled back, and I knew he'd heard only love in my insult.

  “Fire fight.”

  I could see he was trying to be casual about it, and I glared at him.

  He gave me the same little kid smile that had always gotten him out of trouble with me and just about everyone else. “It was a routine run, Leighton, I swear. My unit ended up getting hit by some guerrillas.”

  A shadow crossed his face, and I could see that a part of my baby brother hadn't made it back. I doubted it ever would.

  “My commanding officer was killed, another soldier wounded.” He looked away from me, like he couldn't say what he had to say while looking at me. “This guy came out of nowhere, got the others out of harm's way, and then it was just me and him. We got caught off guard, and I got shot.”

  My hands tightened on his.

  “A flesh wound on my calf and a shot through the shoulder.” He looked down at his left shoulder. “Doctors said it went clean through, but I lost a lot of blood, which is why I was critical. They said I'll make a full recovery.”

  “I'm sure there will be extensive physical therapy required for your shoulder,” Grandfather said. His expression was hard, but I could see a hint of panic in his eyes.

  I understood it all too well. I wanted my brother to get better, but I also knew what it would mean for him to make a full recovery. I didn't want to talk about that now though, and I certainly didn't want Grandfather bringing it up. I knew he'd already been looking into trying to get Ian honorably discharged, even if the doctors cleared him to return. I couldn't do anything about that, but I could delay it a while.

  I sat on the edge of the bed and kept Ian's hand in mine. “Tell me more.”

  “I don't know any more than what I picked up over the last week,” Ian said, giving me a grateful look. “We were delivering supplies to a remote village and stumbled into some sort of Special Forces operation. They were there following a group of militants who were stockpiling munitions.”

  “And ended up getting shot,” I said.

  He gave me another patented Ian grin. “And blown up.”

  “Fuck,” I breathed the word, then winced, waiting for Grandfather to scold me. It never came.

  “Hey, I made it out alive.” Ian's face sobered. “You should've seen the guy who saved me. I wouldn't have if it hadn't been for him.”

  “Special Forces?” Grandfather asked.

  Ian nodded. “He came out of nowhere like a tank.”

  “Guns blazing?” I asked, trying to picture it.

  “No. The guerrilla who shot me, guy took him out with one shot. Lifted me like a duffel bag. I blacked out,” Ian said.
“The report says he saved me from the explosion that killed two more men in my unit.”

  “One guy did all that?” I tried to keep my tone light. “Are you sure you didn't just dream it? I swear I saw a preview for that movie last night.”

  Ian laughed, but there wasn't a lot of humor in the sound. “If anyone could've been an action hero, it would've been this guy. The rest of his unit was just as good, but he saved my life.”

  “What happened to him?” I asked.

  Ian scowled. “I can't find out anything. They don't tell enlisted men shit.”

  “Did you get a name?” Grandfather asked.

  “Welch,” Ian said. “That's all they'd tell me.”

  Grandfather didn't say anything else as he turned and walked out of the room.

  “Bet you'll hear something soon,” I said as I watched him go.

  “I just hope we hear he's alive.” Ian's voice was soft.

  “I'm glad you are,” I said, turning back to him. “And I'm glad you're home. You have no idea what it's been like around here.”

  “The minefield of LA, and its armies of the socially elite? I imagine it's still hell on earth.” Ian grinned, the shadow almost leaving his eyes completely.

  “Welcome home, little brother,” I said and hugged him again.

  5

  Haze

  The helicopter had to have been a dream, right? Because it didn't make sense any other way. Especially not with everything else I was seeing. Flapping canvas from a mobile hospital. Jagged foothills. An arid stretch of land. Tall canyon walls. A choppy ocean. A squeaking sound.

  I searched the dim interior of my eyelids, hoping some memory would appear to explain it, but nothing did. I remembered the mess hall. Handley telling us that we had an assignment. But that was it. Then the shadows grew darker, and I went under again.

  A ringing tone drilled in my ear, pulling me from the darkness again. This time, I fought to stay. I needed to know what had happened.