Two Weeks Later
Chelsea Danforth
“I am determined to lead Congress in the fight to stop the US from employing companies of mercenaries. War should not be a business model, and the US should not be bankrolling people who wish to profit from it. I have made it my personal mission to see that_”
A collective groan sounds from my table at the asshole congressmen’s pompous mug filling the TV screen: Calvin Harding, the freshman representative from Arizona. The man is about as genuine as an Instagram filter and as pleasant as a fever blister.
Harding continues his self-righteous sermon until I’m dangerously close to throwing this bottle of cow piss at the TV. Thinking better of it, I yell across the barroom to the owner. “Hey, Arnie, change the channel, will you? Nobody wants to watch that shit.”
The crusty old bartender rolls his eyes at me. “Can’t you see I’m busy? Get up and change it yourself.”
Grumbling, I leave my group and trundle to the bar, reaching across the counter for the remote. “Dusty old fart. If I wanted to be treated like this, I’d have stayed in the Marines,” I grumble. “You’ll be sorry when I find someplace better to hang out and drink.”
Arnie laughs, nearly dropping the glass he’s drying. “You ain’t going nowhere. You’d miss watching my firm ass too much.”
I pause with remote in hand, cutting my eyes to the three-hundred-pound bar owner. “Arnie, your ass is about as firm as your schlong, and it hasn’t seen action in decades.”
With the bartender chuckling again, I turn back to the bank of TVs and start flipping through the channels. My teammates cheer behind me as Capitol Hill’s most pretentious windbag is silenced in favor of college basketball_which I hate. I stop surfing, figuring anything is better than the vitriol that loser has been spouting for the last seven months.
No one knows why Harding made it his mission to take down private military corporations, but he’s dedicated his infant career to doing just that. Whatever Harding’s motivation, he’s making too much noise to be ignored. The guy is wrong about us. I can’t deny we have our share of bad players, but what industry doesn’t?
Maybe Harding is just a shameless opportunist capitalizing on the rash of recent military mishaps in the news, an alarming number of them. Most recently, the Iron Strike disaster. While more experienced members of Congress have refrained from addressing the fallout, this douchebag is eating it up.
A loud commotion draws my eyes toward our table at the Warriors Taphouse. My partner, Bastien “Bash” Laurent lifts his arm from around Birdie’s shoulders and stands to greet someone strolling toward the group, someone I don’t know. Or maybe I do? Why do I get the feeling I’ve met this guy?
I place the remote on the bar, pausing at Arnie’s barked order to put it back where I found it. When I turn back around, Birdie is standing and tilting her face to receive the stranger’s kiss on the cheek.
“Stop kissing my woman, asshole,” Bash says with a grin.
My eyes begin an automatic scan of the man’s body, noting his confident bearing, fit arms, rock-solid middle, and finally, his playful smile and sharp eyes. Eyes that meet mine for a brief moment before I look away.
My cheeks heat as I replay my bottom-to-top scan of the stranger. The guy stood alert as if he was in the military or still is. Given his age, he’s probably a career man. Since Bash knows him, he’s most likely a SEAL. He’s definitely got the body of one.
My rusty libido takes notice and likes what it sees. Not sees. Senses. The man is an alpha, and given the way Bash greeted him, he earned it_bad news for me. I’ve been fooled by a pretty face before, so hot guys are easy to ignore. A man like this is appealing for a host of other reasons.
Attraction is a weakness I can’t afford, and the stronger the pull toward someone, the emptier my brainpan. I become this gullible, trusting idiot, which is how I ended up with someone like my ex. Never again.
Straightening my shoulders, I continue toward our table, still thinking I’ve seen this man before. It takes a minute, but I finally place the familiar face. This man was with Bash the day we rescued Birdie. He wanted to be part of the rescue team, but Knot made him watch from the ground as we raced away in a helicopter. I never did learn his name.
The two friends man hug, and then Bash turns to us. “Guys, this is Lieutenant Jackson “Clothespin” or “Pin,” for short, Bennett. We served together in the SEALs. He’s still active duty.”
Bash gestures around the table for his friend’s benefit. “Jackson, meet Kai and Cassanova.” Gesturing toward me, he adds, “They’re part of the team I lead with this badass, Chelsea.”
Jackson nods at the first two names, but then his eyes lock onto mine and widen. “Chelsea. So, this is the famous Yeet.”
I turn and glower at Bastien. “I’ll kick your ass later.” Then, to Jackson, I warn, “I don’t know you, so I won’t kill you this time. Next time you call me that, I’ll stab you in the heart.”
Unruffled, the man turns back to Bash. “I think I see what you mean.”
Bash laughs at the inside joke at my expense. When Kai and Cassanova snicker with him, the familiar burn of humiliation fills my gut. I remind myself that these people_new guy notwithstanding_are my friends, and I choke out a laugh to hide my awkwardness.
Jackson smiles and meets my eyes, and another type of warmth threatens to melt me from the inside out until I catch myself. I pull my gaze away, refusing to get sucked into his…whatever spell he’s trying to cast. Nope. No. Been there. Done that. I know all too well what it means when the hottest guy in the room starts buddying up to me. Someone either lost a bet or made one, or he just needs to scratch an itch, and no one else is available.
I hope Jackson’s appearance is a coincidence, and he’ll move on quickly. That would be great because I’m hormonal and off my game thanks to PMS. Unfortunately, today is not my lucky day because he pulls out a chair to sit at our table. Great. So much for my chance to just hang out and unwind.
Kai and Cassanova jump into grilling the SEAL about Bash’s time in the Navy, but I tune the men out in favor of talking to Birdie, our brilliant intel specialist. I don’t have the energy to deal with a new personality tonight.
The bar is busy for a Thursday. I haven’t been coming here long, only since Bash found a personality and asked Birdie out. Since then, various members of our team have been making efforts to get together outside of work. I remind myself each time we meet that friends are a good thing, and that I am capable of being one.
The din of happy patrons means my lack of engagement isn’t obvious. I’m generally not so aloof because I’m always with my teammates. Excluding myself from present company tonight is a defense mechanism. Thankfully, I’ve got Birdie to hide behind.
I realize I’ve gone too hard in ignoring the men when a rolled-up napkin gets tossed at me. Birdie, my one distraction from Jackson’s gorgeous eyes, had left to visit the ladies’ room, and I checked out altogether, pretending to people-watch.
“You still in there, Chels?” Kai asks.
“Yeah. What?” I say, pretending to be annoyed by the interruption.
Bash teases. “Where did you go? Planning another rafting trip in your head?”
I take my fork and stand it on end threateningly. Smirking, I answer, “Yep. I’m imagining how I could get away with drowning you while we’re there.”
The men at the table ooh at my fake warning. “I’d love to know how you plan to drown a SEAL,” Jackson says, baiting me.
Though Bash is technically a former SEAL, I would never point that out. His exit from the Navy was not by choice, and there’s no way I’d rub salt in that wound. And given the way my stomach is flipping over Jackson’s deep voice and strong jaw, any attempt at a sharp comeback would likely stumble out in some stuttered mess. Instead, I opt for my best defense, deflection. “What do you morons want?”
“Nothing,” Cassanova says with his hands up. “We were just wondering where you went.”
Four sets of eyes focus on me, waiting for an answer. Three don’t bother me, but Jackson’s stare has me fidgeting in my chair. What the hell, Chels? Get your shit together. Drumming up a quick excuse, I avoid looking at Jackson and answer with a grin. “Oh, nowhere. Just fantasizing Harding falling on his face during one of his interviews.”
While the PMC guys nod in agreement, Jackson’s brows rise in question. “Who’s Harding?”
“Congressman Calvin Harding,” Bash answers. “He’s got a burr up his ass about private military contractors. He wants to rid the world of us.”
Jackson laughs. “Good luck. You guys are like cockroaches. What’d you do to him?”
“Not us. None of our people have ever met him,” Kai answers.
“The bastard never even served,” Cassanova adds.
Jackson’s brow tightens. Instead of asking Bash, he turns to me. “What’s your theory?”
Beneath his piercing gaze, I’m stricken with a severe case of the stupids. “I…”
Birdie trots up to the table, drawing all eyes her way. Thank God. “What’d I miss?”
“Oh, nothing,” I answer. “We were just explaining to the lieutenant about Congressman Harding’s hard-on for PMCs.”
“Chelsea was just about to share her theory when you came back,” Jackson says, not letting me off the hook.
All eyes are on me again. If it were just Knot’s people, I wouldn’t care. I know who I am and how to act around them. Jackson’s throwing me off. I’m now second-guessing myself. “I don’t… have a theory.”
The men from my team stare at me as if I’ve forgotten my last name, and Jackson turns to Bash. “Didn’t you tell me she was a brilliant war strategist? Always knows what the enemy thinks before he does?”
Bash shrugs and tugs on a lock of Birdie’s hair. Jackson returns that laser focus to me, and the universe again shows me mercy. The waitress walks over with a beer for the SEAL and another round for everyone but me. When she walks away, Birdie asks Jackson about someone called Skin.
I listen to the report and ascertain that Jackson and his platoon are quite well known to some at Knot Corp. I’d heard about shared missions and even a rescue by a group of Navy SEALs, but I didn’t know Jackson was involved.
I must have said that part out loud because he answers. “I wasn’t. That was the other squad in my platoon.”
“Your platoon?” As soon as I asked, I regretted the question because now I’ve got his full attention again.
“I’m the leader of Third Platoon in SEAL Team Two.”
Platoon leader. That means he’s not a fuck up or a complete asshole. The answer is still no. No matter how charming his smile is or how much his voice makes your insides quiver. I turn away, hopefully before appearing impressed.
My team has moved on from the conversation. Birdie and Bash are in their own little world. Kai and Cassanova discuss a flagrant foul call from the basketball game between the Tide and the Cavs. Unfortunately for me, Jackson doesn’t suffer similar distractions. “Want another beer?” he asks.
When no one answers, I look up to see that he’s asking me. “No. Thanks.” I pick up my bottle and swing it back and forth. “Still full.”
Jackson’s voice drops low. “It’s got to be warm by now.”
I fight off a full-body shudder and imaginary tug to get closer. Fall back! Fall back! While facing off with Jackson is nothing like the life-or-death situations I’ve met in my career, being the sole receiver of his attention is unsettling. Not because he creeps me out but because he doesn’t.
I push out of my chair and toss two tens on the table, surprising the man. Thank God I had cash tonight. “I’m out, guys. I’ve got some shit to do before tomorrow.”
No one tries to stop me when I walk away from the table. Knowing they’re watching, I plead with my body to not trip. Though I make it to the exit without embarrassing myself, I don’t take a relaxed breath until I’m on the other side of the barroom door.
Smooth, Chelsea. Real smooth.