“Doing good. M.J. is a junior this year and Raina a sophomore.”
“That seems impossible. It doesn’t seem that long ago that I babysat them. This is my boyfriend, Eric Anderson.”
Eric rose, dismounted the bike, and extended his hand to shake.
“Mason Hernandez,” he identified himself. “The reason I stopped you was we’ve had a rash of motorcycle thefts across the county. I need to see your license and registration.”
“Sure.” Eric tugged his billfold out of his back pocket and pulled out his driver’s license and registration. Mason checked the paperwork, wrote something down on the clipboard and handed the paperwork back to him. “Beautiful bike.”
“Thanks.”
“Do you keep it in a garage or park it out in a parking lot?”
“My apartment complex has a covered parking area where I can lock it to one of the supports.”
“Good. You might want to put a GPS tracker on it just in case. Some of them will alert to your phone when the vehicle is moved.”
“I’ll look into that, thanks.”
“I have to move on. Rylie it’s good to see you again.”
“You too. Tell Sherry and the kids I said hello.”
“Will do.”
He pointed at Eric. “You have precious cargo when Rylie’s riding with you. Be careful.”
“Roger that.”
They remained silent while Mason got back in his cruiser and pulled out.
“I think you just saved me from being hassled,” Eric said as he tucked his billfold back in his back pocket. “If he was just stopping me to warn me about motorcycle thefts, I’ll eat my helmet.”
“Why do they hassle you? Because you ride a motorcycle?”
“Probably. The words motorcycle and gangs go hand in hand. And with that go drugs and crime and on and on. I should probably have a couple of tattoos to finish out the image.”
“I don’t think perfection needs any enhancement,” she quipped.
He laughed.
She was certain he was right about being hassled because he rode the bike.
But what if her father had something to do with it? How had her father known to look for a motorcycle? Had he figured out somehow that Eric rode a motorcycle and wrote down the license plate number? Did he know who Eric was? Or could this have just been random? God, she hoped it was random.
And would Mason say something to her father about meeting her boyfriend and give him Eric’s name?
She worried at the problem all the way back to her apartment. If she called Mason and asked him not to say anything to her father, he’d feel duty bound to tell him that, too. She had to just let it go and hope for the best.
CHAPTER 13
‡
An easy breeze carried the scent of hot charcoal and roasting meat and fish. Twelve people had morphed into twenty-five, and their host was one of the married guys on alpha team. The guys called him Crammer, though his name was actually Cramer.
“Why do they call him that?” Rylie asked.
“Because if you want something packed for the most efficiency, you call Crammer. He can cram ten pounds of shit in a five-pound bag if that’s what you need. When they go on deployment, his team always has extra stuff that comes in handy.
The arrangement of the five tables and chairs in the limited space of his backyard proved Crammer had a gift.
The guys hung out at the two grills or the firepit to exchange stories and jokes while they drank ice-cold beer from the coolers. The women collected under umbrella-shaded tables out of the sun and sipped rum-laced drinks, wine or soft drinks.
Rylie settled at a table with Jodi and Presley, the only two she met. She’d lost track of the names and nicknames of the guys and who was with who.
“So, you and Viking are actually dating?” Jodi asked after the first reacquaintance of hello and how are you.
“Yes. For the past two months.”
“And you met at McP’s that night.”
“Well, after I ran over his motorcycle parked on the street.”
Both women’s expressions mirrored shock.
“And he didn’t rip you a new one?” Presley gasped.
“It was touch and go there for a few minutes, but he held it together. After the motorcycle shop picked up his bike, he invited me to come in and eat with all of you.”
“Wow. Evan says he adores that bike. That motorcycle is his only form of transportation outside of the military vehicles they have to drive while on post.”
“He had a loaner while his was being repaired. And now his Indian is as good as new. And he’s back in great riding form.”
“He didn’t even say anything when he came back to the table. Just acted like he’d met you and it was diving love at first sight.” There was awe in the way she said it.
“Tell us what kind of spell you cast on him so we can use it too,” Presley said.
Rylie laughed. “No spell. He just took pity on me. I was upset.”
“Well that’s…actually, that’s kind of sweet. He could have thrown you to the wolves and told the guys what happened. Did you go diving?” Jodi asked.
“Yeah, we did. It’s been a while for me, and I had a great time. And we’ve been dating ever since.”
“Amazing.” Presley shook her head.
“How do you think you’ll deal when they go off for training for two weeks?” Jodi asked.
“I have two big projects going, so I’ll be busy. But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t going to miss him while he’s gone.”
“Yeah, I understand.” Presley’s gaze strayed to Evan. “They kind of grow on you.”
“That’s the understatement of the year,” Jodi said in a dry tone. They all three laughed.
Jodi grew serious. “Though he tries to act like it doesn’t bother him, Tucker’s going through some adjustments, separating from the team. They have that band of brothers thing going since they’ve all been through such intense stuff together.”
Rylie wondered what her father would do if he ever retired. He’d been out of the action part of the teams for a time, but was under a different kind of pressure with his trips to Washington. She felt compelled to comfort Jodi. “Tucker will still hang with the guys, and he’ll eventually find a replacement for the adrenaline rush the action provides.”
“He’s throwing in with me and my dad. We’re expanding the bar, and he’ll be part owner with the two of us.”
“Wonderful. And it should keep him busy. Has he learned how to man the bar?”
Jodi shook her head. “No, but it might not be a bad experience for him to spend a night doing just that. It can get a little wild some nights.”
“Guys like them,” Presley nodded toward the group around the firepit, “are used to being in charge. He’ll find his feet in no time.”
She leaned forward in her seat, looking at Rylie. “Do you ever take out a hammer and do stuff at home on your own?”
“I’ve used a few power tools in my time. It’s one of the hazards of the job. I’ve built bookcases, cabinets, put in trim, repaired things. I like to go to used furniture stores to find interesting pieces and repurpose them.”
“You’re right, you will be so busy you won’t have time to dwell on Viking being gone,” Jodi said.
“Or you can tell yourself that, and hope it works.” Presley added.
The two of them exchanged looks.
Rylie said, “He and Evan will be together out in the desert. They’ll look out for each other. SEALs always do.”
“You sound like you have some experience.”
God, she should have kept her mouth shut. It went against her principles to lie. She’d done enough of that already. But if word got back to Eric. She told him Jack had been on the job. Not exactly a lie. “My Dad’s been in the Navy for thirty years.”
“Wow. How many deployments during that time?”
“Sixteen.”
“Jesus.” Jodi breathed.
“N
ow he spends quite a bit of time in Washington at the Pentagon.”
“Which is like a deployment, too.”
“In some ways it’s worse.” Rylie bit back the observation that at least he wasn’t being shot at. Though it was a fact of life for their guys, it wasn’t so easy for the people who loved them.
“How did you deal with all that?”
“I was young, and by the time I got old enough to realize what was going on it was part of our routine.” She didn’t want to go into her mom’s death. “I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t say anything to the guys. I’ll stop being Rylie and become one of their commanding officers’ daughters. They’ll be hyper-aware of that. I don’t want Eric to take any heat because of it. And I don’t want our relationship to be ruined because of it.” She bit her lip hard as her composure wobbled.
Presley leaned forward to rest a hand on her arm. “We get it.”
“Does he know?” Jodi asked.
“Not everything.” He’d asked if her father was a mob boss. As far as Jack’s manipulation with her went, he might as well be.
Jack could call up whatever team he wanted and send them to Timbuktu. He just needed to prove there was a need. And there was always a need.
What would happen if she introduced the two of them and made it plain she meant to continue seeing Eric?
Would her father do everything in his power to keep them apart? Probably.
“Chow’s on.” Cowboy came by to offer Presley a hand. Her smile lit her face as she gripped his hand and went with him to the tables overloaded with food. A few seconds later Tucker came to collect Jodi.
Eric slumped into a chair next to her. “Want to wait until the crowd thins?”
As relieved as she was for the interruption, guilt dug deep into her conscience. She had to tell him and hope he wouldn’t break things off. But not here and now. She tried to cover her feelings with humor. “Are you sure there’ll be anything left?”
He laughed. “There’s enough food there to feed two SEAL platoons.”
Everything was so good between them. There were times she felt he read her mind before she had time to speak.
He was leaving for this two-week training, and if she told him now…he’d have those two weeks to stew about it.
And they always chose their team over everything else. Her father always did.
But she couldn’t continue to keep Eric in the dark about this.
She tried to put it out of her mind as they went over to fill their plates. The guys took a seat at their tables, and the conversation shot back and forth, relaxed and entertaining.
Tucker started a story about BUD/S. “We’re in this IBS—that’s a small inflatable boat—and we’re paddling and paddling down the coastline. We’ve been up thirty-six hours straight. And this guy in the front of the boat keeps falling asleep and one of us punches him to wake him up every few minutes. His head keeps dropping back and his mouth is wide open and he’s snoring like a chainsaw.” He demonstrated.
Everyone laughed.
“Finally, we take a break and we’re all slumped over our oars breathing hard and about to nod off ourselves, when suddenly this huge-ass fish jumps out of the water and smacks the guy right across the face. He comes out of his coma ready to pour a can of woop-ass on the guy responsible. This big ass fish is flopping around in the bottom of the boat and we’re laughing our asses off.
“It took a broken nose to wake this guy up. He had to be transported to the hospital to have his nose set when we got back to base.”
“Did he finish hell week?” Rylie asked.
“Yeah, with two black eyes and his nose covered by a plastic guard for protection. He also didn’t fall asleep again the rest of the week because his nose was killing him.”
Jodi asked, “Do you have any fish stories from the trip yesterday?”
Tucker shot her a smile. “Other than the regular fish stories of mine’s bigger than yours? No.”
“What happens on the water, stays on the water,” Eric said.
Everybody laughed.
After the meal, Rylie watched him with Pretty Boy, Cowboy, Tucker and Rooster, all four of them invested in a story Pretty Boy was telling. It was part of the band of brothers thing Presley mentioned.
Around nine the party started breaking up, since the guys had to leave at zero four hundred the next morning. The motorcycle ride to her apartment seemed too short.
It was only two weeks. She could adjust. Just as she’d always adapted to her father being gone.
And she knew both she and Eric were both healthy and careful.
She was nothing like her mother. Even if her father believed she was.
She’d been alone for six months before meeting Eric. And it wasn’t like she was desperate to rush out and find a substitute.
She and Eric had a special kind of chemistry, and she had a suspicion no other man would compare. Ever.
Maybe it was good for her to have these two weeks to think about things. And try to find a way out of this hole she dug for them both.
CHAPTER 14
‡
Eric gripped the steering wheel of the tricked-out dune buggy—affectionately referred to as a DPV or Desert Patrol Vehicle—and rolled over the top of one of the brush-dotted dunes. The vehicle landed with a jolt and sped forward.
The heat was easier to bear if he kept the vehicle moving. Otherwise the sun beat down on them like a sunlamp. But even speeding across the desert, it was still hotter than hell.
He swung wide avoiding a huge bolder in their path and took the slope behind it in a rush.
“Yeehaw!” Evan Lancaster yelled, living up to his nickname of Cowboy. “Damn, Viking you can handle this thing.”
“Short of my Indian, this is the best thing I’ve ever driven. I’d take this baby home with me. Beats the hell out of a Humvee.”
“Hold on back there, Ringer!” Eric yelled behind him.
Cowboy grabbed the frame as Eric took another dune like it was a motorcycle cross-country race instead of military vehicle training. In the jump seat behind them, Nolen Bell, aka Ringer, manned the fifty-caliber machine gun, though they weren’t going to fire on the guys chasing them. “Too late to tell me to hold on now, Viking. I think I left my lunch all over that last dune.”
Cowboy grinned.
Nick Nelson, Pretty Boy, sat in the passenger seat of the second DPV while the FNG, aka Fucking New Guy named Seaman Ryan Barlow, pursued them, with Jacob Fowler, aka Rooster, manning that fifty-caliber gun.
It was the second week of training and they’d broken off into teams of three to do the desert driving maneuvers—something Eric couldn’t understand since they just got back from a deployment involving a sandy, hot place where they’d driven these vehicles regularly. “How close are they back there?”
“Forty yards or so.”
He drove down into a dry creek bed while rocks flipped up, hitting the undercarriage and pinging like machine-gun fire. They shot out of the bed and curved around an outcropping. “Are they still back there?”
“You’ve managed to leave them behind.”
Eric put the vehicle in reverse and backed it out of sight beneath the outcropping. “We’ll wait for them to pass us and fall in behind them.”
“You’re an ace with any kind of vehicle, Viking. Why the hell don’t you own a car?” Cowboy asked.
“I haven’t ever needed one. But recently I’ve been thinking about buying a truck or something.”
“What kind?”
“Beats the fuck outa me.”
Ringer laughed. “How can you be thinking about buying a truck or something and not even have any idea of what make and model you want?”
The second Desert Patrol Vehicle shot by, preventing him from answering. Eric stomped on the gas and fell in behind it, revved the engine, and crept up on its bumper.
Two of the three men inside the vehicle twisted around to look behind them. When the DPV pulled to a stop, Eric rolled up alongs
ide them. “Are we done here yet, Pretty Boy?” he asked.
“Smart-ass,” Nick shook his head. “I think you need to ride with Barlow and give him the benefit of your expertise, Viking.”
He eyed Barlow. Eric had once been the FNG. They all had. The teams were only as strong as their weakest link, and in order for them all to stay alive, Barlow needed to up his game. “I can do that.” He shoved the vehicle into park and twisted free of it. Nick did the same to switch places with him.
“Let’s take a sitrep first,” Cowboy said. He leaned over to shut off the vehicle and climbed out.
“Sitrep about what?” Nick asked.
Cowboy made the announcement as though it were world-changing. “Viking is thinking about buying a car.”
“Whoa! No shit?” Nick’s brows shot upward. “Kill the engine, Barlow.”
“What’s so unusual about that?” Barlow asked.
“How long you been in the teams, Viking?” Cowboy asked.
Eric pulled his helmet off. “Coming up on nine years.”
Ringer leaped down from his perch behind the fifty-caliber machine gun, unstrapped his helmet, and rested it on his hip. “How often have you owned a car during that time?”
Eric knew where they were going with this. “Never.”
“How do you get around?” Barlow asked.
“I have an Indian Motorcycle.”
“Fuckin’ A! Those are classic.” Barlow unstrapped his helmet but left it on.
“This wouldn’t have anything to do with that sweet piece you’ve been—” Rooster began.
“Watch yourself, Jacob.” The edgy snap in Eric’s voice succeeded in silencing his teammate.
He could see the message pinging around the circle of men.
“Well, her chocolate chip cookies are really good. But I’m not certain they’re car-worthy,” Ringer said. “Even though I think I might have eaten at least a dozen the other night.”
“Rylie doesn’t have anything to do with this.” He raked his fingers through his sweaty hair. “The other night I bought some stuff for my apartment.” And he had to borrow Cowboy’s vehicle to transport it home.
“What sort of stuff?” Rooster asked, folding his arms.
Hot SEAL, Taking The Plunge (SEALS IN PARADISE) Page 9
