Surfer’s Paradise (SEAL Team Cali #6)
1. Chapter 1
Chapter 1
Naval Air Station North Island Coronado, California
T he wheels hit the runway with a firm jolt, and a slow grin spread across Isaac Rayleigh’s face. Home sweet fucking home.
The C-17 taxied along the tarmac, the weight of its cargo—seventeen SEALs, six months of sweat and gunpowder, and a hell of a lot of adrenaline—settling into the California heat. The guys were already unstrapping, clapping each other on the back, laughing about near-misses and victories that would never see the light of day outside their circle.
Isaac ran a hand over his face, feeling the rough scrape of stubble. He needed a shower. A beer. Maybe two. Or five. He needed a soft body against his, the burn of whiskey in his throat, the sharp hit of a cigarette between his fingers.
He needed more.
“Good work out there, gents,” Adam Carrington’s voice cut through the chatter as they stepped off the ramp, boots hitting the pavement. The commanding presence of their LT, always cool, always steady. “Go home. Get some rest.”
Isaac huffed a laugh, slinging his duffel over his shoulder as he walked toward the lot. Rest? What the hell is that?
He wasn’t built for rest. He was built for motion. For the next hit of high-octane bullshit. And today? He was riding higher than ever.
It wasn’t just the op—it was how fucking good it had gone. Textbook. Clean. One perfect breath, one calculated dive, one split-second decision in the deep—and now some motherfucker wasn’t breathing anymore because of him.
Not bad for a punk rock diver with too many tattoos and a reputation for burning the candle at both ends.
Isaac slid into his truck, tossing his bag in the back. The moment the key turned in the ignition, music flooded the cab—hard, fast, pounding—the kind of sound that made blood thrum in his veins. He pulled out of the lot like a man with no brakes, the sun hanging low in the sky, the Pacific glittering in the distance like a goddamn dream.
The road stretched ahead, wide open. His city. His playground. Tonight, he’d drown in it.
* * * * *
Isaac was home for all of five goddamn seconds.
Long enough to kick his boots off, drop his duffel by the door, and take the world’s fastest shower—water scalding, scrubbing away the stench of jet fuel, salt, and sweat. Long enough to shove a protein bar and a swig of orange juice down his throat before slamming the fridge shut with his forearm.
The second he was clean, dressed, and moving again, he felt right. Black baseball hat pulled low. Black jeans. Grey charcoal tee stretched over his frame. No dog tags. No reminders of where he’d just been.
It was Saturday night in San Diego. And he was already gone.
The city unfolded around him in streaks of neon and brake lights, the Pacific dark and endless at his side. The air was thick with late summer heat, the kind that clung to your skin and made everything feel electric.
Isaac didn’t bother checking his phone. He already knew where to go.
His people were everywhere.
Some of them were SEALs, guys from his team who knew how to cut loose as hard as they fought. Some were his L.A. boys, the ones who’d ended up down the coast chasing work, surf, or women. Some were just the kind of people Isaac collected—loud, reckless, always up for a good time.
Too many friends. Too many options.
But that was the beauty of it—he didn’t have to think. He could air-drop into any one of their nights and own it.
And tonight?
Tonight, he was getting shitfaced.
Tonight, he was getting laid.
Maybe multiple times.
Fuck it.
He cracked his window, letting the warm night air whip through the truck, music pounding through the speakers as he pulled into the city. Let’s fucking go, bitch.
* * * * *
Isaac tipped his head back, the burn of whiskey hitting just right, his grin slow and easy as Shay Kavanaugh held his pint on the bar.
Isaac side-eyed him. “You gonna keep babysitting that, or you actually gonna drink it?”
Shay flipped him off, taking a slow sip. “I’m savoring. You wouldn’t know shit about that, since you inhale everything like you’re still in SERE school.”
Isaac snorted. “Didn’t see you savoring that MRE last week when you were damn near licking the wrapper.”
“Yeah, ‘cause I was fucking starving, thanks to you.” Shay shook his head. “I swear to God, if I ever let you talk me into another extended dive op, you have full permission to shoot me in the face.”
Isaac grinned. “You say that every time.”
Shay glared. “And yet, every time, I end up freezing my balls off in some dark-ass current, following your dumb ass into a goddamn underwater cave like I’m in a fucking horror movie.”
Isaac laughed, tapping the bar. “Hey, you signed up for this shit, not me.”
“No, you signed up for it,” Shay corrected, shaking his head. “I was voluntold by the LT, who, by the way, hates your guts.”
Isaac smirked. “He does not.”
“He absolutely does.”
Isaac shrugged. “That’s just ‘cause I don’t kiss his ass like you do.”
The dive bar was packed, the air thick with laughter, music, the scent of sweat and alcohol. Their table was full—half-empty glasses, a few scattered napkins, and the kind of energy that made a Saturday night feel untouchable. Isaac leaned back against the bar, drumming his fingers against the rim of his glass, feeling good.
“Goddamn, it’s good to have you back, Rayleigh.”
The voice came from across the table—Chris Rawlings, one of Isaac’s old L.A. boys, an injured SEAL on desk duties. Built like a linebacker, his brown hair messy from running his hands through it too many times.
Isaac smirked. “Of course it is.”
“No, but for real,” Shay continued, shifting in his seat. “Six months of nonstop ops, back-to-back deployments, and what do we have to show for it? Shitty sleep, zero personal lives, and the ever-growing certainty that our knees are gonna explode before we hit forty.”
Isaac scoffed. “You didn’t have a personal life to begin with.”
Shay gestured with his beer. “And you make damn sure yours stays a dumpster fire.”
Isaac grinned. “It’s controlled chaos, thank you very much.”
Shay, still laughing, clapped his hands. “Alright, alright. What’s the move, boys? Another round? A better bar? Or do we just keep working the cougars here?”
Chris glanced at his phone, then grinned. “Actually… we should go meet up with Rosie.”
Isaac, in the middle of taking another sip, froze for half a second. But he played it cool, because he always played it cool. “Rosie’s out?”
Chris smirked, typing something back. “Yeah, some hipster dude is trying to work her over. Thought we’d go save her.”
Isaac snorted, shaking his head. “She doesn’t need saving.”
“Yeah, well, she probably needs a rescue from having to pretend she gives a shit about some guy’s vinyl collection,” Chris said.
Isaac chuckled, about to throw in some joke of his own, when Shay hesitated.
It was subtle, but Isaac caught it—the shift in his expression, the way his drink hovered an inch too long before he took a sip.
Shay’s eyes flicked to Chris, then back to Isaac.
Chris made a face—half wince, half this is awkward as hell. “Yeah, man. I don’t think she’s feeling you right now.”
Isaac blinked. The hell?
Shay sighed, rubbing a hand over his jaw like he was debating whether or not to say more. “Look, dude, I don’t know what happened, but… you know, Rosie. She doesn’t exactly hold grudges, but she’s definitely been—”
“Different,” Chris supplied. “I dunno, distant. From you, at least.”
Isaac laughed, like it was a joke, like it didn’t even register, but there was a weird pull in his chest that felt an awful lot like getting kicked.
“What?” he said again, half-smiling. “I’ve been gone for months. Nothing happened.”
Shay shrugged. “You tell us.”
Isaac just shook his head, rolling his glass between his fingers, but the buzz in his veins wasn’t so smooth anymore.
Rosie was mad at him? Since when? And why the hell didn’t he know about it? Now, she was out, with some other guy, and she didn’t even want him around?
Isaac’s jaw tensed, but he masked it with another swallow of whiskey. Didn’t matter.
“Whatever,” he said, standing up and slapping some cash on the bar. “Let’s go see what’s up.”
Shay exchanged a look with Chris but didn’t argue.