Nashville SEAL: Jameson: Nashville SEALs (37 page)

“You should call her mother,” whispered Lizzie.

“I will. Wow. I’m sorry,” Kendra shook her head. “I really don’t like the fact that she thinks she can bring this into my house.”

“I don’t know. I guess I should be surprised, but I’m not.”

“I’ll pick one of the other girls from the babysitting pool next time. Sorry.”

“It’s not that big a thing.”

They shared a glass of ice water and then decided to head for bed. Kendra made up the couch for Lizzie, leaving the girls asleep together in the other bedroom, and settled in for the night. Just before she turned off the lights, Lizzie fingered the Rumi pages and read several erotic poems.

When she closed her eyes, she saw Jameson’s bare frame looking down on her, the feel of his kiss on her neck so real she had to open her eyes to verify he wasn’t really there.

She knew, despite what she told herself, she’d be dreaming about him all night long.

‡

T
he Halfway to
Heaven was packed with the first of Jameson’s three farewell concerts. He sat in his dressing room signing tee shirts, glossy pictures Reed had made up for the event, and occasionally, an arm or a thigh encased in a tight pair of jeans. It was flattering how the ladies still wanted his attention, and he had many offers for nightcaps and all-night parties. He declined them all.

Kyle, Cooper, and several of the other SEALs had come back with him for the weekend, and he had plans to show them the back streets and dark stories of the Nashville scene, sort of like they’d done for him in San Diego.

He’d been working out so much that the shirt he had planned to wear didn’t fit him anymore. The definition in his shoulders and upper arms made it so he could hardly wear anything that wasn’t made from stretchy material. Even his jeans were snug, his thighs packed in so tight they almost hurt.

His boots fit, though. He hadn’t worn them for months.

Kyle showed his face around the doorway. “How’s it hanging, Elvis?” The name that the first BUD/S instructor had called him had caught on, and he was evermore known as “Elvis, the singing SEAL.” He wasn’t sure how he liked it, but part of his acceptance in the community was predicated on the pranks and practical jokes that he could tolerate. Nicknames were brutal, and as nicknames went, Elvis wasn’t nearly as bad as “Moron” for the Mormon kid he roomed with on one training or “Papa Smurf” for the short tight little package from New Jersey the girls called “Sugar Buns.” The poor guy was barely five feet tall, and for some reason, all the six-foot-something beach volleyball players loved him, which was a constant sore subject to the taller SEALs.

“I’m good. Maybe you could help me with this. My usual shirt with all the fancy beading doesn’t fit me anymore. I mean, I feel like I’m gonna pop a seam.”

He held up his arms and showed Kyle how tight the back and chest were. “And look at this,” he showed Kyle how little room his biceps had.

“You wanna just play in your white tee shirt? Might be more comfortable.”

“No. This is a tradition. I never thought I’d have to have this damn shirt altered. It’s my lucky shirt.”

Kyle pulled the fabric wide at his upper torso. “You need more room here. I’d say give ’em what they want and unbutton an extra two. That’ll make the room you need.”

Kyle unbuttoned the shirt.

“Now I feel like Tom Jones. Only thing missing is all the gold chains,” laughed Jameson.

“And the wolf patch on the chest. Don’t forget that. Although I guess that’s not really in anymore.”

“I think Elvis did it, too,” added Jameson.

“Oh yeah, I think he just shoved his shirt into his pants without buttoning it at all, especially toward the end. And then he kicked and danced around on stage with his coattails flying. Been a long time, but I saw him on TV as a child.” Kyle adjusted the shirt so it hung on Jameson straight. “Perfect, cowboy. I think we’re good to go.”

“Okay, thanks, man.”

“You need to pray? Do I need to do a laying on of hands or anything?”

“Shut the fuck up and get outta my room, you prick.”

“Okay,” Kyle said, feigning being careful, tiptoeing out the door. Just before he closed it behind him, he whispered, “Give ’em hell, Jameson. Let ’er rip. You’re a fuckin’ guitar-playing-fuckin’ U.S Navy fuckin’ badass SEAL.”

Jameson kicked the door closed and left a boot print on the wood.

He closed his eyes and he saw Lizzie’s face.

Damn.

He’d been staring at the cover of his cell phone for nearly twenty-four hours, since they hopped aboard the transport plane and landed at the Naval Air Station. He was looking for a text or a call from Lizzie, but none came. With only five minutes ’til show time, he knew it wasn’t likely she’d be there. He consoled himself with the fact that perhaps he’d call later tonight or tomorrow morning and catch up, maybe invite her to one of the last two concerts. They were going to deploy in a couple of months, and up until that time, their training would be intense, without any weekend leave. So this was the last time they’d have off before then.

Grabbing his guitar, he realized he hadn’t brought the rum and coke into the dressing room with him, and he’d been so busy, he’d forgotten to order one. The club body guard—a huge woman named Debbie who sported tats and wore all black leather, with bright pink lipstick matching her two-inch long, scissor-like nails—barked her question that sounded more like an order.

“You ready, sugar?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She grinned from ear to ear and sauntered over to him, not minding a bit that her enormous tits rubbed against the bare skin on his chest. Her fake eyelashes were nearly an inch long.

“Look at you, cutie. You’re sweet as sugar. Man, I’d love to fuck your brains out. You game afterwards?”

In spite of himself, Jameson blushed.

She squealed with delight. “Ah, sugar, sugar, sugar, I want you to suck my pussy dry and then fuck me wet.”

“That’s very tempting, Debbie,” he said, hoping the panic in his voice didn’t show. “But I got a date,” he lied.

“I don’t mind. I’ll bet she has a nice little ass that we could both enjoy. Or she could watch, and I’d bet she’d be so hot she’d let you fuck her from here to the moon and back. You know like that sign they have in the expensive gift shops? ‘Love you to the moon and back?’ That kind of a fuck.”

She’d been a topless dancer in her younger years, one of those who was naturally well-endowed, and a Nashville favorite. Her string of nasty boyfriends had her taking self-defense, and when she couldn’t get a job working for the Nashville Police Department because of her past drug use, she took to being Reed’s enforcer, and sometimes mistress. But only if she was feeling generous. Reed practically had to beg her to go to bed with him, and he was walking behind the bar with a continual hard-on, Thomas told him.

She stood before him, poured into the size-twenty leather pants that showed every curve. “Laters, baby,” she said and blew him a kiss.

Jameson took in a big gulp of air, sort of grateful for the entertainment, which was a lot wilder in his dressing room than whatever was going to happen on stage tonight.

Thank God.

He heard his name being called out, and the crowd erupted into cheers, the likes of which he’d never heard before.

The band had started their warmup late, barely breaking a sweat by the time Jameson came out on stage and began playing.

He began the set with his American Patriot song that the crowds always loved and sang along to. He gave the front-row ladies winks and the chance to become stars, leaning over the stage to give them one shot with the microphone, their friends screaming in the background.

He launched into a three-set heartbreaking series, singing about cheaters, drunks, and girls who chose somebody else. He mopped his brow with a shirt someone had thrown him and then decided to slow it down a bit.

“Okay, let’s have some fun. Who here has the most tattoos?”

Instantly, the SEALs stood, ripping off their shirts, displaying Celtic crosses, barbed wire rings, naked girls, skulls, and of course, the frog prints going up their forearms. Nobody else came close.

“Honestly, I think you guys are the winners. Why don’t you come up on stage? Or better yet, let’s have Kyle Lansdowne come up here and show off his tats. He can be the symbolic winner.”

Jameson happened to glance stage right and saw Debbie’s ample ass covered in hearts of all different sizes and colors, all with a man’s name written in script beneath them. And sure as shit, the bright red one on her left cheek read
Jameson
. She started to take her pants off when Kyle hopped up on stage, his eyes wide as saucers. “Holy shit,” Kyle said.

“You don’t know the half of it, Kyle. Unless you’ve got a month’s supply of penicillin, you don’t go near that,” he whispered in Kyle’s ear.

Kyle paraded like a body builder across the stage with whoops and hollers from the crowd, which was mostly made up of women.

Jameson played a few bars of
Miss America
, and Kyle flipped him the bird. Jameson then shook his finger at Debbie and pointed to her pants down around her ankles.

“Reed,” he purred breathlessly into the microphone. “I think Debbie’s ready for you right now, from the looks of it.”

The club owner dove over the bar and came running backstage as Debbie yanked on her leather pants, which were very stubborn. She, too, gave Jameson the finger.

“Thank you, Kyle. Ladies, give it up for one of America’s finest!”

Kyle hopped off the stage and returned to the rear with the other SEALs.

Jameson gripped the
microphone and gave them the warm buttery voice he knew the crowd would like. “I’m gonna sing a song I’ve never sung before, something I’ve recently written.” He turned around and nodded to the band.

“These guys haven’t even heard it. So it’s gonna just be me.”

He picked up his acoustic guitar and leaned into the stool with one leg straight and one knee bent, balancing the guitar on his thigh. The melody was simple, but one of the sweetest ones he’d written, eliciting something deep inside him. He began to unburden his soul and let the words flow out of him.

You loved the spring in Carolina

With the dogwoods all in bloom.

I couldn’t pay the price of that small time life,

Second story, one room view.

He’d practiced some intricate fingering he was proud of. It made even Thomas stand up straight behind the bar as he gave Jameson the thumbs-up.

He scanned the audience, warmed by their rapt attention. He was ready for the second stanza, and as he leaned into the microphone, he noticed Lizzie walk in through the door.

He inhaled, but discovered he’d temporarily forgotten the words. Seeing Lizzie had taken his breath away. Her red dress was anything but demure, and she’d let her hair go back to blonde, just like he remembered her. She was the woman he’d loved all those years ago, and she was here again, after all that had happened between them.

“You know, folks, I liked those words so much, I’m thinking I should sing them for you again. How’d you like that?”

The crowd was into anything he was going to do on stage, and he thanked them for their support. Then he smiled at Lizzie, as if she was the only girl in the bar, and sang the words again, this time just to her.

You loved the spring in Carolina

With the dogwoods all in bloom.

I couldn’t pay the price of that small time life,

Second story, one room view.

His heart melted when he saw her discreetly wipe tears away with the backs of her hands. Her girlfriend pulled her to a table, and they sat. Though she was only one out of over a thousand people waiting to hear him sing, she was the only person he focused on.

He continued with his song until the last two stanzas.

And the words you said still ring in my head

While I’m lost here in San Diego.

He stepped back from the microphone and bowed his head. Nothing ever again would be as special as singing his song of love for Lizzie in front of a room of mostly strangers. And nothing was sweeter than seeing her softly sobbing, her shoulders shaking, as she tried to stop, but couldn’t. She waved off her friend, who was shooting daggers at Jameson. But he didn’t care. It was one of those magical nights. He’d gotten to mess with his new LPO, the girl he loved with all his heart sitting in the distance, knowing how he felt about her; while the grunts and groans of Reed and Debbie’s lovemaking punctuated the air and had the band laughing so hard they could barely play. On a scale of one to ten, this was clearly a fifteen.

A perfect night, if only she’d let him touch her, he could right the axis of her soul, kiss her tenderly, and swear to her there wasn’t anyone else in the universe he’d rather be married to.

And he’d mean every word of it.

‡