Chapter 9
The city outside Flynn’s apartment never quite went to sleep. Its pulse thudded through the walls, matching his own.
He knew what he was doing was wrong, turning frustration into touch, but the heat had nowhere else to go.
Each time she whispered his name, he tried to slow down, to make it mean something, but the anger kept leaking through.
He told himself to ease back, to show gentleness, to be the man his grandfather would recognize.
But the ache under his ribs was stronger than his discipline, and every gasp from her felt like permission he hadn’t earned.
He hated himself for hearing approval in it.
Sex, he thought. An outlet with a willing woman. When she clung to him, part of him wanted to stop, to tell her she deserved better than being someone to assuage his disappointment. The rest of him kept moving because stopping would mean feeling too much.
Flynn's throbbing body was on top of sweet, easy-going Brittney Martin, his dick aching and hard as hell. Before he brought her to his apartment, he made sure he knew her name, bought her dinner, took her on a long moonlit beach walk. But even though he wooed her, he wanted sex. That was the bottom line. It was great that she wanted it, too, but he wouldn’t disrespect her by keeping her nameless.
Brittney’s legs were wrapped around him, urging him closer. He didn't need any more encouragement. With a single, smooth thrust, he entered her, filling her completely. She gasped, her back arching off the bed as pleasure surged through him.
He began to move, hips rolling in a rhythm that was both primal and controlled.
Each thrust was deep, deliberate, something he could give her even when the rest of him felt hollow.
At least she’d have a good time. He kept a piece of himself apart from it, watching, searching for release from the bitterness still lodged in his chest. He hadn’t realized rejection would cut this deep, and that thought made him recoil inside even as Brittney met him stroke for stroke, her body drawing him deeper.
Their breaths mingled, hot and heavy, as they moved together.
Flynn's hands roamed her body, cupping her breasts, teasing her nipples until they were hard and sensitive. Brittney moaned, her fingers digging into his back, urging him on. He complied, his pace quickening, his thrusts becoming more intense. He gave her what she asked for, but even while he moved, he knew it wasn’t enough, wasn’t right.
This was selfish, and he excused it the only way he could, reminding himself how little he ever took for himself. He was young, wounded, reaching for comfort and calling it solace. Damn it, he thought, I should’ve known better.
The room was filled with the sounds of their coupling, the slap of skin on skin, their moans and gasps, the creak of the bed. It was a symphony of pure sex, a testament to the physical fire that burned between them.
Flynn's mouth found hers, his kiss hungry and demanding. Brittney kissed him back with equal fervor, her tongue dancing with his. The kiss was as intimate as their bodies, a fusion of flesh and hormones.
He could feel the pressure building within her, her body a coiled spring ready to explode, and his thrusts doubled, more powerful, more urgent. He reached between them, his fingers finding that beautiful part of a woman, soft, erect, and wet for him. He circled her with his thumb.
Brittney cried out, her body convulsing, her pleasure coming in each uncontrollable thrust of her hips. Flynn followed soon after, his release explosive, his body shuddering with the force of it, the deep guttural groan.
For a breath, the world went white and silent.
Then sound rushed back, their ragged breathing, the hum of the city outside the window.
The emptiness that followed was familiar, almost comforting.
Release never lasted long as it never fixed anything.
He lay still, letting her heartbeat steady against his chest, already feeling the restlessness return.
Desire had burned itself out, but guilt hadn’t.
Later, he woke up from a doze, Brittany sprawled across him, skin warm, breath even, the sheet tangled at her hip.
He brushed a strand of blond hair from her cheek and stared at the ceiling, unable to turn his mind off.
She was part of his “Flynn’s Fly Girl” entourage.
The one that followed him around on the beach.
He had his pick, and she was beautiful, tanned, warm, and compassionate.
She was an aspiring actress, and he hoped she made it big.
He should just enjoy her. Instead, his thoughts were racing again, Hell Week videos, the math of the swim and run times, the impossible pull-up numbers.
That damn no, fueling more anger, always laced with determination.
He’d memorized the requirements until he could quote them in his sleep.
The officer standards were even higher. That was what he wanted. Not to scrape by. To exceed.
Brittany stirred, running a lazy hand across his chest. “You think too hard, handsome.”
He gave a small, guilty smile. “Can’t help it.”
She shifted closer, the soft press of her body easing against his.
“I don’t know what you’re chasing, but whatever it is, it’s big.
You quit your job, walked away from everything stable, and somehow that makes sense when I look at you.
” She kissed him once, slow and lingering.
“They call us your Fly Girls,” she whispered against his mouth, “but you're the Fly one. Look how that nickname takes the first three letters of your name and makes it soar.”
He laughed quietly. “Fly. Yeah, I like that.”
She smiled, eyes already drifting closed. Within minutes, her breathing evened again.
The room went still except for the hum of the city.
He rolled out of bed, tugged on a pair of shorts, and crossed to the desk cluttered with notes, training schedules, diet plans, printouts of BUD/S breakdowns highlighted and circled.
The screen of his laptop glowed with the image of men running in the surf, helmets glinting in dawn light.
He felt the same pull in his gut he’d felt since the rescue.
He leaned on the edge of the desk, staring at the image until it blurred.
Part of him demanded order, and the other wanted to be useful. Both were starving.
He was still thinking about control when the knock came, how easily he lost it, how badly he wanted it back.
He opened it. Surprise shocked through him. It was the last person he expected to see. “Bear?”
The big man stood there, calm as ever, that same steadiness in his eyes. Beside him was a younger man, Native, lean but carved from the same grit.
“Tomorrow,” Bear said. “Dawn. South end of Silver Strand Beach. Lifeguard Tower Eight. You know the one.”
He blinked. “Where I used to work?”
Bear nodded once. “You said you wanted this. That’s where it starts. Bring running shoes and a full water bottle. If you survive that, we’re going boot shopping.”
A shock of adrenaline hit Fly square in the chest. “Seriously? You’re training me?”
Bear’s mouth lifted, the ghost of a grin. “You’ll train yourself. I’ll just make sure you don’t quit.” He nodded toward the man beside him. “This is my brother, Nathaniel. Meet your swim buddy.”
Fly broke into a grin. “Awesome!” This was it, the beginning of his journey, and he couldn’t be happier, stoked, raring to go.
Nathaniel smiled, extending his hand. “Call me, Than. Nice to meet you, brother.”
He clasped it, feeling that same spark he’d felt on the beach that night, the one that refused to die. The path ahead was real now, and it would begin exactly where it had all started, the sand, the surf, and the dawn.
Outside, the city still pulsed, but now it beat in time with the surf he would face at dawn.
Somewhere in the Bolivian Jungle
The first thing she lost was the sky.
One heartbeat they were airborne over the jungle, the next a streak of fire. The RPG came from her blind side, a black projectile, and then a loud boom that shook the whole bird right into her bones. The helo bucked so hard her harness cut across her ribs, and the world began to spin.
“Eagle Two taking fire,” the pilot barked. “Losing hydraulics—”
Bailee squeezed the frame, not in panic but to anchor her body. Her colleagues across from her did the same, mouths agape, eyes wide with alarm. She didn’t even have a moment to offer them reassurance.
Light twisted. Instruments strobed nonsense.
The world went weightless, then slammed back down.
A sickening roll, the nose dropping. They plowed into the canopy with a violence that tried to rip the soul right out of the body.
The pilots fought it to the end, one whispering a prayer, the other still feeding coordinates through the radio as if words could stop gravity.
Branches snapped like bones. The fuselage ripped open. Her harness tore loose, and she slammed hard, pain detonating through her left shoulder. Then darkness.
She came to with smoke curling through the wreck.
Every breath burned. The stink of jet fuel coated her tongue.
Her ruined harness held her at a cruel angle.
Her left shoulder sent waves of pain down her arm.
Her right wrist answered with a bright, electric throb that warned her every breath would cost extra.
A fine rain of dust and glass haloed the cabin.
Rounds pinged off the twisted metal, a hail of gunfire.
“Mayday.” Her voice was strained. “Mayday, this is Eagle Two, down five clicks north-northeast of grid charlie-seven. Taking fire. Repeat, taking—”
Static answered. Then one voice bled through, calm as a blade laid flat.
“Copy, Eagle Two. We read you.” Joker. Steady. Immediate. “You mobile?”
“Injured, both arms, but I can manage.”
“Copy.”
“Other survivors?”
“Hold,” she murmured, her gut tightening.