Chapter 6
The tower creaked as Flynn Gallagher leaned back in his chair, long legs stretched out, the salt-bleached wood hot beneath his calves.
To anyone watching, he looked like the picture of indolence, sun on copper hair, sunglasses slouched low, the easy sprawl of a man who had never once lost control.
But inside, his mind never idled. Every shimmer of movement registered, the arc of a Frisbee, the pulse of a set forming beyond the bar, the faint distortion that meant rip current.
His brain cataloged, measured, and filed away until the whole beach lived inside the map behind his eyes.
A squeal rose from below. Two girls in bright bikinis waved up at him, sunscreen gleaming on their shoulders.
They giggled like gulls that had spotted something shiny.
Flynn wondered what M he knew it was as much a part of the surf as the salt and sand.
He gave them a lazy salute, one finger lifted, nothing more, and the squeals redoubled.
He wouldn’t call teenage beauties tedious.
He was a red-blooded teenage male and had all the normal urges that came with it.
But they weren’t going to distract him from the job.
If he wasn’t vigilant and someone went under, that would haunt him for the rest of his life.
From the shadow of the tower, Brant, older by two years and perpetually half-burned, half-bitter, made a sound halfway between a cough and a laugh. “Another pair of incipient sex-kitten lemmings for your Fly Girl club, Gallagher?”
Flynn didn’t turn his head. When he’d first come here over two years ago, Brant had him pegged on sight and hadn’t let up since, especially after Flynn took over as lead lifeguard.
He’d dealt with it his whole life. Excellence drew envy.
He couldn’t help that any more than he could help breathing.
He didn’t blame Brant. But the constant needling wore thin.
“Why don’t you focus on your own form, man,” he said quietly, still scanning the water, “instead of pointing out mine. People see what they’re ready to see. Maybe start there, mate.”
Brant rose and planted himself in front of Flynn’s chair, blotting out both the sun and the horizon.
“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”
Flynn blinked against the sudden shadow.
He didn’t pull punches with others, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to start pulling them with himself.
This had been building for months, Brant’s digs, the quiet resentment, but what burned now wasn’t anger.
It was recognition. He was as lost as Brant, only quieter about it.
“I’ve been listening to you put me down for two years,” he said, keeping his voice low but steady. “If this job’s as pointless as you keep saying, maybe find something else. You don’t like the view? Change it.”
Brant’s smirk slid sideways. “Must be nice, being God’s favorite. Some of us have to work for it.”
Flynn stood. The lazy mask fell away, leaving the boy underneath, tired, restless, smart enough to know he was wasting something and too young to know how to fix it.
“You think it’s great being me?” he said quietly.
“Try not having friends because envy eats them up. Try people assuming nothing’s hard for you when every damn day feels like you’re standing still.
We’re both overqualified and stuck. Only difference is, I don’t whine about it.
” His eyes narrowed. “Now fucking get out of my space. Stop blocking the sun and my view, or I’ll toss your ass off this tower after I fire it for being negligent. ”
Brant blinked several times, then stepped aside. “Damn, Gallagher. Who the fuck are you?”
Flynn sat again, but the calm didn’t come back.
His pulse still thudded in his throat. The ocean kept rolling, wide and unreachable, and for the first time he admitted what had been chewing at him all summer.
He didn’t just want more. He needed it. Something real.
Something that counted. Something bigger than himself.
“I don’t know,” Flynn said, lifting the binoculars, tracking a surfer threading a break.
“I’ll let you know when I get a clue. There are surfers breaking the rules. Take care of it.”
Brant snorted. “Got it, boss.” Something in the guy’s voice made Flynn look again. Was that…respect?
“Pretty boy can’t charm his way out of everything, huh? Maybe you’re human after all.”
Flynn let the words hang. They were more bro-ish than boorish this time. “I can try,” he said with a grin, and to his surprise, Brant smiled back. More giggles drifted up from below, and Brant threw back his head and laughed.
“Fucking Gallagher. Maybe make time to kiss my ass.”
The water glittered like broken glass. A pelican skimmed low across the waves, precise, effortless, free. “I’ll pencil it in,” Flynn said. “Right after never.”
Brant chuckled and clomped down the ladder, still laughing.
Flynn let the grin fade, the noise of the beach flattening to a hum. He had the body, the brains, the reflexes that made everything look easy, and that was the problem. Nothing tested him anymore. The rescues, the flirtation, even the tower itself, all predictable patterns.
He watched the ocean roll in perfect, merciless rhythm and felt a lifetime of restlessness coil tight in his chest. Someday, something would break the pattern. Something that wouldn’t bend to his timing or his charm. That challenge would come for him, and when it did, he wanted to meet it head-on.
God, he hungered for it.
Cormac Kavanaugh's muscles ached as he stood at the water's edge, the cool Pacific breeze nipping at his skin.
Beside him, Indigo Fisher adjusted his face mask, a determined glint in his eyes.
They had been swim buddies since the start of BUD/S, and today's ninety-five-minute swim was their final test before the infamous Hell Week.
Three weeks since they’d stepped onto the Grinder shoulder to shoulder, and now the line was leaner.
Runs, swims, log PT, O-course, surf passage—or torture, depending on who you asked—rock portage day and night, sadistic under moonlight, but he was still here.
Fisher was still here. Their whole boat crew was still here.
He’d found in these men he was gutting out this fight with to be some of the best he’d ever met.
Sand united them, water tempered them, PT conditioned them, and as a whole, everything tested them to their limits, and he freaking loved it.
The cold could go fuck itself, but out of the elements, out of the grind and the pain, he’d learned about brotherhood.
He learned stillness in motion, he learned how to remain calm within and without chaos, he learned humility, not the easiest out of all the information he’d absorbed, but one of the most important.
"All right, listen up," Brick barked, his voice like thunder. "Today, you're going to push your limits. Ninety-five minutes in the water, no breaks, no excuses. Stay together, stay focused, and remember, you're only as strong as your weakest link."
Cormac exchanged a nod with Indigo, a silent pact to support each other through the challenge ahead. They knew what was at stake. This swim was a rite of passage, a test of their endurance and teamwork before the brutal Hell Week that awaited them.
"On my mark," the instructor commanded, his eyes scoring them. "Hit the surf!"
They ran toward the water together, an icy sting as it moved up his legs, a crescendo of pain that peaked when the frigid ocean slapped his balls. They sat in the water to pull their fins on. “You like this part, don’t you?” Cormac asked.
“I was born in the water and have been surfing my whole life. This is the easy part. The hard part is to get your ass to move as fast as mine, Mac.”
“Fuck you,” Cormac said. But it was the truth. The guy swam like a lightning bolt.
Suddenly, Bear was there. "Stay together." His calm voice cut through the water, a constant reminder of their mission. "Keep moving and keep breathing.”
“Hoo-yah!” they called in unison as they rose.
“Try to keep your smart mouths locked down."
“Second-hardest part,” Fisher said with a grin.
They punched through the first break together, surfacing in sync before stroking for the horizon.
Cormac tasted salt on his tongue, and seawater needled the open blisters until they burned, and he thought, not for the first time, that the ocean had a personal grudge.
It chewed them flat at dawn, gnawed on their egos at noon, and tucked them into the surf at dusk like the world’s meanest nurse.
They hit the break zone hard, ducking under a wall of whitewater before it could throw them back.
Brine burned his throat, and the cold made him gasp.
Fisher cut through it like he belonged there, smooth and easy, while Cormac fought the surge, fins beating a fraction too high until Fisher’s hand found his shoulder and shoved him lower.
“Combat stroke, not a damn flail,” Fisher muttered.
Cormac adjusted, forcing the rhythm into muscle memory, reach, pull, glide, kick. The Pacific heaved under them, gray and endless, every swell a mountain. Ninety-five minutes felt like a death sentence.
He glanced sideways. Fisher’s head broke the water in even intervals, calm and precise, his body rolling with the wave instead of against it. The guy made it look like art.
“You teach fish to swim,” Cormac gasped.
“Better than I could teach you,” Fisher shot back, voice muffled.
They found the rhythm again, moving as one length of muscle with Cormac working to keep abreast of his swim buddy, a man he was beginning to…
love like a brother, tension only when a wave tried to separate them.
Cormac hated how easy he made it look. The guy wasn’t fighting the ocean. He danced with it.