Chapter 4
JACOB
N ight had settled over Charleston like a heavy curtain, muffling the world but turning up the static in my head. The streets buzzed with tourists stumbling out of restaurants, their laughter too loud, faces flushed from shrimp boils and sweet tea cocktails.
I ignored them, weaving the Jeep through narrow roads until I spotted the sign for Salty Mike's Deck Bar. Tucked off Lockwood Drive on the marina, it was a dive that didn’t bother with pretense—cheap booze, killer views of the Ashley River, and a vibe that said come as you are, but keep your shit to yourself.
I’d overheard a local at the airport talking it up, saying it had been pouring drinks for thirty-six years, with a weathered deck overlooking the harbor and enough grit to keep the tourists at bay.
Perfect. I wasn’t here for company. I was here to drown the ghosts, at least for tonight.
I parked in the gravel lot, tires crunching over shells and sand, and cut the engine.
The air carried fried seafood, brine, and a faint whiff of diesel from the boats in the slips.
Salty Mike’s looked like it had been battered by storms and time—wooden deck jutting over the water, string lights flickering like they were on their last gasp, a neon “Open” sign buzzing in the window.
Inside, it was dim, smoky despite the no-smoking laws, the scent baked into the walls like a stubborn stain.
The bar was scarred wood, stools patched with duct tape, shelves behind it lined with bottles that had seen better days.
A jukebox played a gritty blues track, low and raw, while a handful of patrons—fishermen, a couple of bikers at the pool table, a lone woman staring at the water—kept to themselves.
No one looked up as I walked in. Good. I slid onto a stool at the far end of the bar and nodded at the bartender, a burly guy with a beard thick enough to hide secrets and tattoos curling up his arms.
“Jack Daniels,” I said, my voice rough from my swim. “Leave the bottle.”
He sized me up, recognizing the type—quiet, haunted, here to forget. He shrugged, set a glass down, and slid the bottle over. “Cash up front for that.”
I tossed a hundred on the bar. “Keep it coming, if I need more.”
He pocketed the bill and moved on, leaving me to my mission.
I poured the first shot, the amber liquid catching the dim light, and knocked it back.
The burn hit like fire, spreading through my chest, chasing the ocean’s chill from my bones.
I savored it, letting it settle, but by the third pour, I barely tasted the whiskey.
Just the memories, creeping in like shadows at dusk.
The weight in my chest pressed harder, that familiar ache no mission or training could bury. Out in the water earlier, I’d almost outrun it—almost. But here, in the haze of booze and low light, it clawed back. Faces I didn’t want to see. Voices I couldn’t silence.
I poured another, staring at the bottle like it might have answers. Dominion Hall lingered at the back of my mind, a 0600 check-in that felt like a noose. What the hell did they want with me? Some billionaire club pulling Pentagon strings?
Meachum had sounded pissed, like even he didn’t buy it. Orders were orders, though, and I’d show up. Just not without a hangover. Not my usual M.O., but fuck it.
The bar filled slowly as the night wore on—more locals, the jukebox shifting to a heavier beat.
Laughter bounced off the walls, glasses clinked, and the scent of fresh-fried hushpuppies drifted from the kitchen.
I kept to myself, nursing the bottle, the world blurring at the edges.
The bartender refilled my glass once without asking, and I nodded thanks. No one bothered me. They knew better.
Then the door swung open, a gust of humid air cutting through, and she walked in.
The woman from the beach. I knew her instantly—the curve of her hips, the way she moved like she owned the air around her.
She’d swapped her soaked clothes for a tight tank top that hugged her breasts and jeans that looked poured on.
Her dark hair was loose, maybe still damp from a shower, framing a face sharp with angles.
She scanned the room, eyes lingering on the harbor view through the windows, then headed straight for the bar. Right next to me.
She didn’t glance my way, just leaned forward, elbows on the wood. “What kind of wine do you have?” she asked the bartender, her French accent sharp and lilting.
He grunted, wiping a glass. “House red or white. Nothing fancy.”
She snorted, muttering under her breath in French, “Quel trou à rats. Du vin? Plut?t du vinaigre.”
What a rat hole. Wine? More like vinegar.
I shouldn’t have said anything. Normally, I wouldn’t.
But the whiskey had loosened my tongue, and French came easy—too easy, from years of ops in places where blending in meant survival.
I leaned her way, keeping my voice low, and said in French, “Voulez-vous go?ter mon whiskey? C’est meilleur que leur vin. ”
Would you like a taste of my whiskey? It’s better than their wine .
She turned, her eyes locking on mine, a mix of surprise and something sharper, like she was deciding if I was worth the effort. Up close, she was stunning—skin flushed from the heat, lips full, eyes dark and stormy.
“You speak French?” she asked, switching to English, her accent curling around the words.
“I do,” I said, sticking to English but letting the French cadence linger. “And yeah, the wine here’s shit. The Jack’s reliable.”
She held my gaze, then reached over without asking, grabbed my glass, and poured it halfway full. She downed it in one go, no wince, just a slow exhale as the burn hit. Damn. This was a woman who could handle fire.
“Not bad,” she said, setting the glass down with a clink.
I chuckled, the sound rough. “High praise.”
She leaned closer, her voice dropping, and in French she said, “J’ai deux plans pour ce soir. D’abord, me saouler. Ensuite, avoir du sexe sauvage avec un homme qui ne se souciera pas si je pars avant le matin.”
I have two plans for tonight. First, get drunk. Second, have wild sex with a man who won’t care if I leave before morning .
The words hit like a shockwave, heat surging low in my gut. My tongue, looser than it should’ve been, ran away with me. In French, I said, “That works for me. I’ve got a meeting at six and I’m here to drown a bad day, too.”
She gave me another look, appraising, like she was peeling back my skin.
Then she laughed—a throaty, real sound that cut through the bar’s noise and wrapped around me like smoke.
That laugh was trouble, sparking something in me I hadn’t felt in too long.
But just as quick, the thought of her slammed into me—the shadow, the ache—and I reached for the bottle, pouring us both another round to chase it off.
We didn’t stop there. The bottle emptied slowly, our conversation jabbing back and forth, mostly in English now, but with a playful edge. She teased me about my swim—“A man who swims like a fish but gets plucked out by a helicopter? Pathetic,” she’d said in French. “That was you, wasn’t it?”
I nodded once, then fired back, “At least I’m not afraid of the water. You, saving dolphins like they’re your lost lover,” I replied.
She didn’t ask how I knew French. I didn’t ask why she wanted to get drunk and fucked. We just drank, the whiskey blurring the edges, her presence pulling me like a current. By the time the bottle was done, the bar spun faintly, and I slapped more cash on the wood—enough to cover it twice over.
She stood first, steady despite the booze. “I’ll pay for the cab,” she said.
Smart move. I nodded, following her out into the humid night. The marina lights danced on the water, boats creaking in their slips, the air thick with salt and promise.
We hailed a cab, sliding into the back, and she gave an address—somewhere on the edge of town.
We didn’t touch, didn’t speak. She stared out the window, aloof, and I wondered if she’d changed her mind.
It was past midnight, the city lights streaking by, and part of me thought maybe it was for the best. Let her go, drown the rest alone.
But she didn’t. The cab pulled up to a bungalow that looked ripped from a romance novel—white picket fence, porch swing, soft glow from a single light inside. She paid the driver, unlocked the door, and I followed. The door was barely latched when she turned, and we collided.
Her mouth was on mine, hungry, demanding, tasting of whiskey and ocean. I backed her against the wall, hands gripping her hips hard enough to bruise. She moaned into my kiss, fingers tangling in my hair, pulling me closer.
I hadn’t been with a woman in over a year, and my body roared to life, every nerve screaming. I yanked her tank top over her head, exposing her breasts—full, perfect, nipples hard and begging. I took one in my mouth, sucking hard, tongue flicking, teeth grazing just enough to make her gasp.
“Fuck,” she cursed, arching into me, her accent making the word a blade.
I growled, switching to the other, my hand sliding down her stomach, unbuttoning her jeans. She shoved me back, eyes wild, and stripped them off, kicking them aside. No panties. Just her, bare and dripping, the scent of her arousal hitting like a drug.
I dropped to my knees, hooking one of her legs over my shoulder, and buried my face between her thighs.
She tasted like sin—sweet and soaking wet.
My tongue dove in, lapping at her folds, circling her clit with slow, deliberate strokes.
She bucked against my mouth, hands fisting my hair, pulling hard.
“Harder,” she demanded in English, her voice raw.
I obliged, sucking her clit between my lips, flicking it relentlessly, my fingers sliding inside her—first one, then two, curling to hit that spot.
She clenched around me, moans turning to cries, her body trembling.
I didn’t stop, devouring her like I was starved, her juices coating my chin, thighs quivering around my head.
She came hard, shattering with a scream, her walls pulsing, flooding my mouth.
I stood, wiping my face, and she attacked—ripping my shirt off, nails raking down my chest, drawing blood. The pain fueled me, mixing with the heat.
She dropped to her knees, yanking my pants down, freeing my cock—hard, throbbing.
She took me in her mouth without hesitation, deep, her throat relaxing as she swallowed me whole.
Fuck. Her tongue swirled, lips tight, sucking like she wanted to ruin me.
She added both hands to the mix and I gripped her hair, thrusting gently at first, then harder, hitting the back of her throat.
She gagged but didn’t stop, eyes watering, looking up at me.
“You’re perfect,” I growled in English.
She pulled off with a pop, stroking me slick and fast. “Fuck me,” she said.
I hauled her up, spinning her around, bending her over the sofa.
She braced herself, ass up, and I slammed into her from behind—deep, hard, no mercy.
She cried out, pushing back, meeting every thrust. Her pussy was tight, wet, gripping me like a vice.
I pounded into her, skin slapping, hands on her hips, pulling her onto me.
She reached back, nails digging into my thigh, urging me on.
“Faster,” she gasped.
I fucked her hard, the sofa creaking under us.
Sweat slicked our bodies, the room filled with our moans, the wet sounds of us colliding.
I reached around, cupping her perfect tits, squeezing.
She came undone again, clenching around my cock, milking me, her scream echoing.
I didn’t stop, chasing my release, the pressure building, hot and urgent.
“Come inside me,” she begged.
That broke me. I thrust one last time, burying myself deep, and exploded—hot ropes filling her, my vision blurring, body shuddering. We collapsed onto the sofa, panting, tangled, her body soft and spent against mine.
She got up suddenly, and when she disappeared I heard the shower running. I took that as my cue, started gathering my clothes to leave. But when she emerged, she wasn’t dressed, wasn’t wrapped in a towel. No. She was fucking amazingly naked.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“I just figured?—”
She shook her head. “I’m not done with you, yet.”
That’s all I needed to hear. My clothes came off and once again we collided, two strangers trying to forget. But there’s no fucking way I ever would.