Hero Hair (The Real SEAL Series Book 2) Page 2

  I’ve never, not even once, had a relationship. I don’t spend the night with women. They don’t spend the night with me. It’s almost as if this swiping app was developed for my personal enjoyment. It works for me. It works for them. It’s a symbiotic relationship. The give and take is equal and no one ever ends up hurt. Unless my cock gets a mind of its own and does a little punishing, but we can’t get upset with him, now, can we?

  Tahoe scoffs, and Moose rolls his eyes. “How the fuck do you do that? You don’t even look that good in your photos. You look like a tool. I commend your hobby, but I still don’t understand.”

  A swipe right match is the equivalent to Pavlov’s Dogs for someone like me. It’s sex. Fucking. Plain and simple. This app isn’t for people seeking forevers or potential spouses. It’s brilliant.

  “Chicks like tools,” I say. Well, the chicks I want like tools. For a moment I’m scared I am actually a tool. No, no. I can’t be a tool. I’m a motherfucking Navy SEAL. I play a part to get laid because playing a part is easier than being myself in a relationship. Truths. Questions. Honesty. Sharing a bathroom. No. Not when a swipe right gives me everything I desire.

  “You know, Macs, I know someone you should probably meet. When we get back from Colorado. Let me be your swipe right,” Moose says. He won’t meet my eyes, but he’s smiling like he’s lost in a memory.

  “What the hell does that mean? I’m not swinging that way this week, bro. Maybe when we’re deployed.” I clap him on the back.

  Tahoe laughs.

  “Fuck off. I know a woman you need to meet. Our date didn’t…ahhh…go as planned. I think you’re more her speed.” He looks at the gym exit.

  We’re sitting on a bench bullshitting. Moose watches Smith run on a treadmill full speed. That man works harder than all of us in this gym. He’s a fucking beast. With his awesome scars, he’s basically the Godfather of the SEAL Teams.

  “What does she look like?” I ask, breaking my gaze from Smith’s feet pounding rubber. “If you’re passing her off, I bet she’s not my style.”

  Tahoe wanders off, mumbling under his breath, a towel slung over his shoulder.

  “She’s your style. Trust me,” Moose says, finally meeting my eyes.

  “Ah shit, buddy. You fucked her, didn’t you?” I’m not opposed to having sloppy seconds if she’s as hot as he’s insinuating. “A good fuck, or just hot as shit? Either one is fine by me. Sometimes hot as shit is better than a good fuck because I get more ammo for the spank bank.”

  “You’re twisted as fuck. You know that, right?” Moose groans.

  I stand, turn, and glance at the floor-to-ceiling mirror.

  I run my hands through my long, sweaty hair. “Someone has to do the job. Answer my question.” This already seems like too much work. I’m a busy man. The effort must be at the most minimal level if it’s going to work out. I bought a house recently and fixing it up takes more time than I ever thought I could devote to something that wasn’t my career.

  My number one priority will always be my job. Sex is just a necessary evil to keep my head straight. I need it as much as I need water—oxygen. I’m not even embarrassed to admit it anymore. The first step is recognizing you have a problem. The second step is telling yourself it’s not a fucking problem.

  Standing, he shakes his head. “She’s both. A solid both.” Moose groans. “I’m already regretting opening my mouth. You make us look bad.”

  I could resent that statement, but he’s right. SEALs are known for our philandering ways. We take too many trips. We are away from home too frequently. Cheating on a girlfriend or spouse is too easy. It falls into the excitement category. Some have described it as a thrill—a rush. I think deep down they feel guilty afterward, but they would never let that show. Others call it sex addiction, plain and simple. They love their wives and children, but they require the thrill of the chase as much as I require sex to thrive.

  When you understand those facts, I’m one of the good guys. I don’t have anyone at home to hurt. I’m alone. There’s no woman to call or text a million times a day. I don’t check in with anyone. I open an app instead.

  “Is that code for she sucks awesome dick?” I flex my bicep. The lighting does awesome things for my muscles. They’re tan and rigid, angles and valleys glistening with perspiration and rippling muscles.

  He pushes me and it breaks my gaze from the mirror.

  “Fine. Fine. I promise to be a gentleman. For the first half of the date anyways. She’s DTF for sure?” I’m surprised Moose has been with a woman like this. Typically he’s known as the good guy. The one who would never slum with a one-night stand.

  His eyes widen. “Oh, yeah. She’s DTF,” he replies.

  Wow. That fucking good?

  “You had a weak moment, bro?” I tease, making my way to the locker room attached to the gym.

  I hit the urinal, relieving myself with a long groan. Moose does the same next to me.

  He finally responds, “I don’t know what the hell I was thinking. I guess I thought trying something new might be a good thing. Break up the monotony, you know?”

  “Sex is always a good thing.” I make an inappropriate joke that would get me banned in all fifty states, and Moose merely rolls his eyes. I start one of the showerheads and wait until the water turns lukewarm and grab my bottle of soap.

  We thought Moose was gay for a long time. He’s probably the best looking guy on the Teams, behind me, of course. He doesn’t sleep around at all, and I think I’ve only seen him date one blond chick like five years ago. His mother set him up with her, and she looked absolutely terrified at the beach party our command throws yearly.

  “Do you sleep around a lot?” I ask. Curiosity wins out in the end. Is he a closeted version of myself?

  I glance sideways to glimpse his face. He shakes his head, his eyes closed as soap streams down his face.

  “You know I don’t. Carina set me up with her friend. Smith was there, and I couldn’t reasonably say no. She owns a yoga studio. Her head is on straight.”

  For the moment I squash the image of fucking a woman with her legs bent behind her head in humping dog position in favor of learning more about my friend. “Carina’s friend? So she is most definitely hot as fuck?” Well, sort of learning something about my friend, mostly worried about my prospect.

  He cranks the water off. It halts with a groan. “Of course she’s hot. I just told you that. She isn’t looking for anything serious. Her morals line up with yours. She’s serial.”

  “Now I see why you couldn’t say no. Alcohol involved?”

  He shakes his head as he wraps his towel around his waist. It barely makes it around. “Teala knew what she wanted before she took one sip. And she didn’t want a second date, or even the possibility of more. Trust me, I asked.”

  Teala. I like her name. It’s different. I grew up in Florida, so the Caribbean was always where my family would vacation. The teal blue waters quickly became what I associated with my family and being together. I still head down to an island when I run into time off.

  “I asked multiple times actually. It was hard to believe,” Moose says, eyebrows raised.

  “Jesus, Mother of Mary. She really is me in woman form. I appreciate you thinking of me, buddy. I’ll call her tonight. What about you, though? Going to swipe right and keep up your awesome streak?”

  Moose doesn’t have the app on his phone. He would never. I wonder why he even agreed to the date with another woman when it’s so obvious he’s hung up on someone else.

  He laughs. “Not for me. You hold the lion’s share in that market anyways. I wouldn’t want to steal your panty-dropping thunder.”

  He closes down—the wall he builds around his personal life slams into place. I accept the closure and prattle on about an upcoming trip and how I’m working on built-in shelves in my living room. He gives me a few tips and tells me about how his cousin’s television slopes to the right because he fucked up his own shelves so thoroughly.
>
  “You’re so supportive of my DIY obsession. Please, only tell me stories if they end with perfection,” I bark, smiling at my friend.

  “Just fucking with ya. His shelves came out perfect,” he counters.

  Moose and I make plans to meet at the gym tomorrow morning before work, and we go our separate ways.

  The sun sets in the distance on my drive home. I pull up to my house and admire everything I’ve accomplished on the outside. The stucco is fresh and the shutters are newly painted. I had to replace every single window in this fucking beast. The bay window in front is in the shape of a half moon. My kitchen is on the other side of it. Every single tiled shingle was installed with my own two hands. I’m in the mindset of if you want something done right, you do it yourself. Even if you have no fucking clue what you’re doing. I learned as I went. Friends taught me. YouTube was there for me, and that’s the end of story.

  There would be no way I could afford this house if it wasn’t a fixer-upper. Southern California real estate is something of a unicorn. Everything is overpriced. Even the shanty shack bungalows down by the Mexican border. I got this for a steal. It’s in a great neighborhood and I even have a little bit of land. My neighbors are far enough away that I can’t smell their morning dragon breath. It’s a luxury.

  I unlock the door and disarm the security system. It smells like paint, wood, and sawdust. I’m pretty sure I’ll be cleaning up sawdust for the better part of a decade after I’m finished with the renovations.

  Tossing my keys on the farm house table I built last week, I head for the fridge. It’s not a kitchen. Not yet, at least. No cabinets or drawers exist, but I do have beer and eggs. I pop the top off a Sam Adams and head for the sliding glass door in the rear of the house. My view overlooks a canyon and the sun is setting over the ocean in the distance. If I had unlimited funds, I would have bought a small condo right on the water so I could surf every morning and all weekend, but something inside me urged me to buy the bigger house and tackle all the projects that came along with it.

  Once the burnt orange sun disappears completely, I take the last swig of beer and head inside to the sofa in my living room. Using the remote, I click on the oversized TV sitting on the floor. I can’t help but hear the way the news anchor’s voice echoes through my empty house. I need more furniture. Or another beer.

  Beer is probably the answer.

  Sometimes the silence I’ve created is too fucking loud.

  Chapter Three

  Teala

  “All right, Mom. I’ll come see you this weekend, okay? I’m about to head into the grocery store,” I speak into my cell as I make my way through the parking lot. She asks me if I’m baking for my weekly friend get-together. I may talk to my mom more than most people. I blame it on my singleness. “Yes. Jasmine wants me to bake something with chocolate. I told Carina I wanted to do this paleo recipe I found online, but she just about beheaded me over the phone.” I’ll end up trying to say goodbye at least three more times before this conversation ends. It takes about twenty minutes to get off the phone with Mom.

  “Are you making Grandma’s fudge brownies?” she asks.

  I smile. “How did you know?”

  She’s my best friend. Of course she knows. Some people argue that mothers and daughters shouldn’t be friends. We are living proof that not only does it work, but it’s possible for daughters to grow up and be productive citizens of society. Her parenting never interfered with our friendship. Especially after my father took off.

  “Because you wouldn’t be my Teala if someone said chocolate and you didn’t make the brownies. Will you be bringing home the guy you had a date with last weekend?”

  Oh, God. The one subject we don’t fully talk about. I tell her about a date here and there, but she has no clue how many sexual partners I’ve had and how few real relationships I’ve been a part of. Sometimes I tell her I’m dating someone just to throw her off my trail. I’m sure she reads through the lines, but doesn’t want to talk about my sex life without my prompting it.

  Currently, she’s talking about Moose. I thought about him for days after. I almost called him. He gave me his number and took mine. “Oh, that didn’t work out, Mom. We had fun, though. I might see him again,” I tack on in hopes of not crushing her spirits completely.

  “Oh, I was looking forward to meeting one of your men, honey.” She sighs.

  My heart clenches. I swallow down my pride. “I’m sorry. You don’t want to meet one of my men, though. I won’t bring just anyone home. I want you to meet the one. When I’m sure I’ve met the right guy, then you’ll meet him.”

  “That makes sense.”

  It shouldn’t. I made the whole thing up. If I told her that I feel attachments are only a hindrance and love is too messy and painful to even attempt, she would think less of me. Or worse, that it was her fault somehow.

  “How about you? Any dates lately?”

  She laughs and the gleeful noise makes me grin. It’s like I’m ten and it’s still a forbidden question. “Oh, Teala. You know I don’t have any luck with men.” She’s beautiful. Stunning. She passed enough of her beautiful qualities to make me okay looking, but Viola Sebrof is anything but ordinary. She has flawless skin, a head full of beautiful dark raven hair, and blue eyes. “You show me yours and I’ll show you mine?” she asks.

  I envision her full lips pulling to one corner as she smiles and it causes a pain of homesickness. “The studio is my boyfriend. Want to drive down for my class the week after next? I’ll save you a spot.”

  She lives about thirty minutes away from me, and we see each other as frequently as possible. My mom has always been supportive in anything I wanted to do—within reason. The studio is a venture she agreed with almost immediately and I haven’t looked back. It provides me with a beautiful, full life.

  “I really do have to go now, though. I don’t want to annoy the grocery patrons. People seem to frown upon the pitch of my voice.” It’s a trait I’ve gotten used to. I wish the world would, too.

  “Nonsense, honey. Your voice is lovely.”

  I scoff. “You’re biased. Plus, it’s about two octaves away from being identical to yours. Your compliment is moot.”

  “A mother’s compliment is never moot. We always tell the truth.”

  I agree with that. She confirms she will come to my Saturday morning class next week and tells me to buy a certain brand of chocolate. I have to stay on the phone with her for a few more minutes while I catalog all of the chocolate options in front of me.

  “Bye for real. Love you, Mom.”

  “I love you too, baby girl. Call me tonight.”

  She calls me in the morning, and I call her at night. Sometimes we talk midday if I have a question or if she wants to see what I’m up to. She knows my schedule, so she’s never a nuisance. My father forced our iron-clad bond. The love that dissipated for him after she finally left him, transformed into something else. It seeped away from him and traveled over to my mom. She did everything by herself and never let me see her sweat. Viola is strong and brave. She is beautiful and fierce. She takes challenges head-on. She loves me more than any person can possibly love another. Growing up, my needs were met and my fond memories revolve around her laugh and smile. It’s the time she spent with me that leaves the most impact.

  I hang up the phone with a smile on my face. With the red basket hooked on my elbow, I make my way to the next aisle to gather the rest of my supplies. My shoulders are back and my head is held high. I’m a confident, independent woman. My life is full. There’s no room for anyone else in it.

  Why the hell do I feel the need to keep convincing myself of that?

  ****

  We’re sitting around Jasmine’s kitchen table, our wine glasses securely in our hands. Dessert plates look like tiny battlegrounds. Nary a soldier survived. My confection was the first to disappear.

  “Who is up for a workout tomorrow? I need to get my cardio in for the week,” I say. To keep workout
diversity, I like to do boot camp classes. It involves lots of free weights and treadmill sprinting. Yoga can only take you so far. If you want weekly dessert nights, wine, and abs, you have to do the time in the gym. My offer is directed at everyone, though I’m already certain who will join me.

  Charlotte groans. “I’m in. Yeah. I’m probably only agreeing because I just ate my weight in sugar and chocolate, but pencil me in anyways. Ten in the morning tomorrow, right?”

  I nod, and she drains the remnants of her red wine. Carina agrees as well. Jasmine says she’ll meet us there if her hair appointment doesn’t run over. Jasmine’s hair appointments always conveniently run over.

  “Where is the commitment, Jaz? Hamstrings before highlights!” I exclaim, shaking a finger in her direction.

  She rolls her eyes. “You’re one to talk about commitment,” she replies. It’s lighthearted, but I still cringe a little. Mostly my friends don’t mention my lack of a boyfriend. Charlotte is fresh out of a long-term relationship. One would think she’d be more understanding.

  I laugh it off. “Listen. I have commitment. It’s a staunch commitment to not committing. That’s respectable, right? It’s not as if I don’t commit to anything. I have my studio and my fitness. I just don’t see the worth in committing to something that has the ability to commit less to me. My commitments are unwavering.” See what I did there? No one can argue with that logic.

  Carina shrugs, checks her phone, and stares off in the distance. She’s distracted by a man. A taken one.

  “You don’t know what you’re missing, though. Just once I want you to try. Keep your heart out of it if you want. Try to date a man. No bagging and tagging and high-fiving. Stay the night. Go on more than one date. Don’t have sex on the first night,” Charlotte says.

  Someone laughs and covers a cackle with a giggle.

  Jasmine nods her approval of the ludicrous plan. “I couldn’t possibly. Who could be worth that?”