3. Chapter 3
Chapter three
Warlock
I’m the first to arrive at McQueen’s, so I grab a table and wait for the five best men I’ve ever known. I may be their team leader, but after three years together, they’re more than teammates. They’re my closest friends and brothers.
I’m their sheepdog, both outside the wire and at home. We share a bond most people will never understand. We fight for each other, on and off the battlefield. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for them, or them for me.
McQueen’s has been our go-to place to hang out since the day it opened.
It’s close to the base with great food and a laidback vibe in the restaurant upstairs.
On the ground floor is a lively sports bar and a huge game room with pool tables, foosball, darts, vintage video games, classic pinball machines, and once a week, a rousing trivia night.
It’s the perfect place to hang out, pick up women, watch a game, eat, drink, and decompress. We usually eat together in the restaurant first, then move downstairs to the bar or the game room where we divide and conquer, hang out or mingle, and if we’re lucky enough, hit it off with a woman.
Tonight, I’m shocked and surprised when the beautiful woman with the sad blue eyes I haven’t been able to get out of my head appears as our waitress. I’ve been worried about her and glad to see she’s safe after the way she ran out of the coffee shop in a panic.
“That’s Tallahassee Crockett,” Ricochet tells us excitedly after she takes our order and leaves our table.
“Her name tag says Jane.” Doc points out.
“Must be going incognito. But I’m telling you, that’s Tallahassee Crockett,” Ricochet insists.
“Who’s Tallahassee Crockett?” Hawk, Nitro, and Pony ask in perfect synchronization.
“How do you know her name?” I ask.
Wyatt “Ricochet” Ducaine is my sniper. Not that the rest of us don’t have the skills to fill that role, we do, he’s just better at long range eliminations than we are.
He’s best friends with Hawk, and a huge sports fan.
He’s gay, but we don’t give a shit. He’s our brother and we love him.
The only thing that matters to us is his happiness and whoever he finds it with is okay by us.
He frowns at all of us but directs his response at me. “Because she’s Tallahassee Crockett. Crockett the Rocket?” It’s easy to hear the implied…duh. “The Olympic swimmer?” He shakes his head when the rest of us stare at him blankly.
“You know, it boggles my mind how little you guys know about sports. She swam one of the greatest four-by-one-hundred freestyle races in Olympic history.”
Pony glances across the dining room at Tallahassee then turns back to us.
Colton “Pony” Ryback is my 2IC and our explosives expert. In a pinch, if our K9 Peanut isn’t with us, he’s also the best tracker on the team.
“Our waitress was an Olympic swimmer?” he asks, his tone skeptical.
“Wonder why she’s waitressing,” Doc ponders.
I’d like to know that as well.
Cash “Doc” McClaren is our medic. After doing three years in medical school, he became disillusioned, joined the Navy, and went through BUD/s. When shit goes sideways on or off the battlefield, there’s no one else I’d rather have treat the team’s injuries than Doc.
“Do you think that’s the cause of the haunted look in her eyes?” Nitro may be the strong, silent type, but he’s as astute as ever.
Sam “Nitro” Stryker is my K9 handler. He’s one hell of a SEAL, but prickly, brooding, and grumpy. He’s not much of a talker and once went an entire day without saying a single word. Over time, we’ve had to learn to distinguish the various meanings of his grunts and growls.
“Drop it.” I warn my friends. “Whatever the reason, she doesn’t need any reminders from us.”
“So, I can’t ask for a selfie and her autograph?” Ricochet asks.
“No, you can’t.” I confirm. “I said drop it, and I meant it.”
Hawk leans back in his seat. “What’s the story with you and her, boss?”
Jackson “Hawk” Hawkins is our best hand-to-hand fighter.
He’s also well-known around town as Horndog Hawk due to his prowess with women, with one exception: redheads.
He refuses to explain why, and when we ask, he gets snappish and retreats into his own thoughts.
There’s a story there, and one day we’ll pry that secret out of him and learn about the redhead who broke his heart.
My gaze finds Tallahassee across the room. “I met her yesterday at the café. I asked her to have coffee with me and she ran like cheap mascara.”
“Waitresses get hit on all day,” Hawk points out. “You’ll need to bring your A-game if you want her to go out with you.”
I consider that. It could be why she’s so cautious. Although, it doesn’t explain her fear or her odd reactions in the coffee shop.
I don’t like hearing she gets hit on. No one should have to put up with that kind of bullshit while they’re working. I have no right to feel this fierce possessiveness, it isn’t rational but I can’t help thinking that no one better pull that shit while I’m around.
I have a hard time keeping my eyes off her and covertly track her most of the night. She’s an excellent waitress. Efficient. She stays busy. Always in motion. She anticipates her customers’ needs and has a smile for everyone. She’s bubbly, easy-going, and attentive.
But all of it seems brittle and forced, and her smile doesn’t reach her eyes. It’s all an act. As if she’s playing the role of a waitress. Her behavior is cautious, and there’s something tense and self-conscious in her body language.
She remains professional, but unlike the other servers, I never see her flirt with customers. At all. On the flip side, too many men are watching her ass as she moves around the room, and I notice more than one whispering and snickering with his friends when she steps away from their table.
She’s beautiful, and it isn’t unusual for men to gawk at a pretty face. But the attention Tallahassee receives seems odd and overzealous. It pisses me the hell off. I have to control the urge to have a forceful discussion with each and every one of them about showing women proper respect.
When we finish our meal and get up to leave the restaurant Tallahassee is behind the bar filling pitchers of beer.
I veer off from my friends, sidling up to the bar.
“Bye, Tallahassee!” my teammates call loudly as they head downstairs.
Those five men mean the world to me, but sometimes they can be overenthusiastic about shit.
Given the chance, there’s nothing they like better than embarrassing each other.
And when they get the opportunity, that also includes me.
But there are times when their childish behavior makes me want to knock their skulls together.
Tallahassee shakes her head at their antics, but manages a small smile and, because her hands are busy, a chin lift.
“Sorry about them. They can be overbearing sometimes.”
“You should hurry if you want to catch up to your friends.”
She’s trying to dismiss me.
Nice try sweet Tallahassee.