Chapter Twenty
I glanced around the Dirty Plank, leaned closer to Jack, and whispered, “Don’t tell the guys, but In-N-Out is better.”
He busted out laughing.
It was lunchtime. The place was hopping.
Jack hadn’t told me anything about the place so I hadn’t known what to expect, but even if he had, I still wouldn’t have envisioned an upscale tiki bar right on Seacoast Drive.
There was outside seating with a view of the Portwood Pier Plaza and the Imperial Beach Pier.
Rent on this place had to be wack. Though with all the tables full and every stool taken at the bar, I’d bet they turned a mighty profit.
“My lips are sealed.”
God, I hoped not; he made magic with those lips and tongue.
“Can I get you two anything else?” our server, Chloe, asked.
I shook my head.
“No thanks, Chloe.”
“I’ll put it on your tab. Have a good day.”
I glanced from the very beautiful woman to Jack. “Tab?”
“What she means is trash,” Jack explained. “When I first started coming here, I tried paying. None of the guys would let me. I got sick of arguing so I just leave a big tip. The guys don’t say shit about that because they like their people being taken care of.”
That was cool of the guys.
“Pete said someone always rotates out and stays back at the bar. Does that include you?”
“Yeah. A month after I got here, the guys went out for a few days. I stayed behind. They’ll probably ask you to pitch in too.”
I took another look around the room. There were no cheesy palm thatch decorations like in a traditional tiki bar.
Instead, it was a mix of surfer and Team Guy.
The guys had played off the old Navy tradition of original crew members being Plank Owners.
There was a huge slice of live-edge wood hanging behind the bar.
A Trident was burned into the far right side; on the left, Big Navy’s anchor insignia.
Between the symbols, a rusty rectangle of metal was screwed into the wood with the words Here I Am. Send Me. engraved on it.
Isaiah 6:8.
The monstrosity was out of place, yet it fit perfectly.
Those five words embodied the men who owned the bar. Rotating out, leaving one behind, but all of them wanting to be the one to charge into battle.
The walls were cluttered with surfboards, wood skimboards, beer brand plaques, stickers of all kinds. There were a few framed black-and-white pictures of the guys together in various places around the room, all in uniform. It was cool and hip.
Right now the patrons were fifty-fifty male, female. Couples, women having lunch together, men sitting at the bar. The vibe was chill and relaxed. I’d guess the evening crowd would be the same ratio of men and women, but no doubt the vibe would be different. Women would be on the prowl.
“How rowdy does this place get at night?” I asked.
Jack’s lips twitched, and his brow raised.
“Frog Hog heaven?” I guessed.
“Nailed it,” he told me.
I got it, men in uniform were hot. In the Army, there were plenty of Barrack Bunnies sniffing around, looking for a soldier to spend the night with, but they weren’t all that picky.
Sure, you had the ones who could spot a Ranger or Spec Ops guy, but for the most part they were after any hot guy in a uniform.
But the women who sought out Frogmen were a whole different breed.
They could spot a color or a number from a mile away.
Though West Coast Frog Hogs didn’t need that added sixth sense, seeing as Group One only had numbered teams. The East Coast women were like heat-seeking missiles with the accuracy of their hunt.
There was Group Two, whose teams were numbered, then there was Devgru—the holy grail for a Frog Hog—and they were grouped into colors.
If a woman could sniff out a Red Team guy and get him to take her home, that would be akin to winning a gold medal.
No joke.
They took the hunt to an extreme.
My eyes skated back to Jack, my head tipped, then I asked the stupidest question a woman could ask her man. “How many women have you—”
“None.”
“You didn’t let me finish.”
“Don’t need to. I’ve never taken a woman home from this bar.”
I didn’t need to probe or prod, I believed him.
But he’d said “this bar.”
“Will I be running into your women from other bars—”
“There were no other women. Not in Idaho and not here, not since I met you. There was only my hand and you in my mind.”
Nine months.
He’d gone nine months with no woman. And I didn’t think it was because he was waiting for me, when he said himself he never thought he’d see me again.
“What about you?”
I didn’t miss his hands on the table curling into fists, bracing for my answer. I’d be lying if I said that didn’t send happy tingles up my arms.
“No one.” His relief was palpable, but there was a small detail I needed to be honest about.
“I did go out on a date.” His gaze journeyed to mine, and his eyes narrowed.
“Before I moved to Arizona. A friend asked me to go with her on a double date. I went, mainly because I was bored, but I also wanted to test the waters, see if I could get over you. He was a cool guy. Interesting, high-speed job, driven, ambitious. But five minutes into talking to him, there was nothing. Then I spent the rest of the dinner pissed off and missing you. We said goodbye at the restaurant with a handshake.”
“High-speed job?”
“He flew Hornets out of Oceana.”
“An F-18 pilot.”
I didn’t answer because there was no need. Jack obviously knew what a Hornet was.
A slow smile pulled at his lips. “Good to know I beat out the sky jockey.”
I rolled my eyes.
“You ready to get out of here? Pete’s place in Jamul is about forty-five minutes away.”
No, I wasn’t ready. This was nice, it was normal, just me and Jack eating lunch.
A date.
I was on a date with Jack Donovan.
The absurdity of that hit me. I’d slept with the man. I’d admitted I loved him, wanted to have his children, we’d already named one, and here we were on our first date.
He reached his hand across the table, pulled mine closer to the middle, and commenced tracing my fingers with his.
“It’s funny,” he said.
My eyes flicked from our hands to his face.
“We did it backward.”
It was a little freaky how he could read my mind.
“We did,” I confirmed.
“I like the way we did it.”
My lips pulled up into a smile. “I bet. You didn’t even have to buy me dinner before I gave up the goods.”
Jack’s eyelids slowly lowered. The gesture would’ve worried me if his shoulders weren’t shaking with silent laughter.
“Smart-ass.”
Yup.
That was me.
Totally a smart-ass with zero concern I had to pretend I was someone I wasn’t.
I was me.
And Jack Donovan T-totally loved me.