SEAL Forever (26 page)

Shit!
When the fuck would he feel like himself again?

“Promise me you'll go tonight.” Gich was studying him again. A man's word was a bond that was never broken in the SEAL community. Might as well have said, “Put your balls on the table, and if you don't do as I say, I'll slice 'em off and pocket 'em.”

Gich would badger him until he agreed, and the Commander ten times out of ten knew best. He'd give it a try. What could it hurt? It couldn't be any worse than spending weeks in a hospital bed.

“Yeah,” said Jack. “I'll go.” Though he knew he'd probably not enjoy it.

The back of Jack's head squeezed tight again, reminding him that the head injury was still an issue. But as the Commander was fond of saying, “Where the body goes, the mind follows.” Maybe a little interaction—some puss and hoots—would go a long way toward finding some kind of relief or momentary happiness.

* * *

The beat-up yellow Jeep slid into an empty parking spot only a few blocks from the Naval Special Warfare fund-raiser. Jack didn't bother securing the torn soft top. There was nothing of value inside, not even a radio. Though he did shove the Bluetooth speaker under the seat.

The last vestiges of light were slipping from the sky as the ripe smell of seasoned meat filled the air. He was tempted to ditch the NSW event and go to the Strip Club for a steak.

A memory flashed through his mind of grilling T-bones to perfection with Don, his wife, and their five-year-old daughter. God, it was barely two months ago! They'd feasted and Sheila had announced she was pregnant at the meal. A game ensued of toasting her all evening long until she drove the lot of them home.

“Shit!” Jack swallowed hard and forced the vivid moment from his mind. Dwelling on the past, especially the loss of his swim buddy, was not helping. He knew he needed to deal with his friend's death, but until he knew what had happened on that mission, he didn't know how. Maybe once he remembered, he'd finally be able to look Sheila in the eye.

Rubbing his hand over his head, he lingered on the scar. If his buddy's death was his fault, he'd own it. If someone else were responsible for Don's death, he would bring justice.

Without that missing bit of knowledge though, he was in limbo.

Let
it
go. For at least one night, Jack, you need to be someone else. Take a break from yourself.
He nodded his head, deciding his gut was providing good advice.

Pointing his feet in the direction of Dick's Last Resort, he set off. The slap of his feet against the pavement felt good. Anything physical seemed to be healing. This morning he'd run six miles and swum for an hour. His body had felt somewhat spent, but his mind was still spinning on the hamster wheel.

“Hey, Jack, good to see ya!” Hank Franks, a Master Chief in SEAL Team THREE, slapped his back and then enthusiastically shook his hand. His arm felt like a pump trying to pull up water from a rusted pipe. “Are you on your way to Dick's? Have you met Dan McCullum, our new weapons specialist?”

Jack nodded and shook Dan's proffered palm. “Good to see you again, Dan. Been a while.”

“Yeah,” said Dan warmly. Pointing to his head, he asked, “How's the noggin? I heard there was some action.”

“Healing.” Jack withdrew his palm and looked forward. He didn't want to say anything about the Op.

Franks wrapped an arm possessively around the woman walking next to him. Her heels clicked a swift staccato on the sidewalk, keeping time with their pace. “Hey, have you met my wife?”

The lady beside the Master Chief smiled shyly. “I'm Rita. Happy to meet you, Jack.” The emerald dress hugged her body as if she were a pinup girl, but it was the humor and happiness in her eyes when she looked at her husband and then switched that intense gaze to Jack that held him captive for a few seconds. He caught the residual affects of her joy and the strength was Grade A.

“Nice to meet you, too,” he replied, relieved that he hadn't blurted out some silly comment about Hank's wife having a nice rack or the fact they looked good together. His guess was that Hank had already measured those assets for himself. Giving them all a smile and a nod, he slowed his pace and let them surge ahead.

Social graces weren't his thing. He hadn't been to Dick's Last Resort in years, but his recollection was that the food was tasty and the beer was ample. That had to be enough to work for him tonight.

After making a show of eyeballing his phone, he pocketed it. Then he looked in the windows of several nearby stores.
Stop
stalling!

He forced himself to walk the extra twenty feet, flashed his military ID, and went inside. The din of voices and music was momentarily deafening. A passing waitress pushed a beer into his empty hand. He gripped it gratefully.

His instincts took charge, taking him to an optimal vantage point, one that afforded him an overview of the comings and goings of the bar. Nothing could halt either that habit or the training, except a conscious decision to set his back to the door. When that happened, he'd have to trust the expressions of the people around him to alert him to danger. It was a hard-earned skill to be able to utilize ordinary passersby as mirrors.

As he drank, he watched a couple argue. The wife was seriously pissed. Jack was glad he wasn't in that guy's shoes. At another table, a group of ladies were making plans for later. Then there was the small group of retired military men lined up on bar stools, chatting about the good ole days, wearing jackets that read Old Frogs and SEALs. Across the room near the bar, several wives gathered together, laughing and pointing as they discussed the auction items and sipped delightedly on mixed drinks. Jack smiled as their conversation turned a bit more racy. He was glad he could read lips.

An alarm beeped on his wristwatch. Time to take an antianxiety pill. Anger lanced through him. What was he, some hundred-year-old man who had to take his medication? He would not die without that little pill, and there was no way he'd let himself get in a situation where he was addicted to something… anything or anyone. Unwilling to spend even another minute contemplating it, he stepped toward the closest trash can and dropped the bottle inside. Relief swept through him. He knew he could do better than those “hunt and peck” doctors who were actually using the process of elimination to guess at courses of action. Besides that, he didn't want to pollute his body with crap.

Beer was his only vice. Basically, it was his carbohydrates—liquid bread.

Ah!
He swallowed down the rest of the cold brew.

Another body pushed into his, and suddenly the crowd, the noise, and the smell—everything—was too much. It was overwhelming. And that was his cue to go.

He placed the empty bottle on a passing waitress's tray and headed for the door. He'd done his duty. He came, he drank, and now he was leaving.

The door he had selected as his escape hatch opened before him and a gorgeous brunette stepped through, wearing spikes and a black dress with a very short skirt. Her skin glowed as if she'd just come in from the sun, and she was slightly out of breath. A large basket filled with goodies that she balanced on one hand wavered and then tipped.

In one motion, he was by her side, catching the basket before it reached the floor.

“My hero,” she said. “Is this a side job or do you do it professionally?”

A grin split across his face; he knew it must look pretty goofy, but he couldn't stop it. “Which one do I win brownie points for?”

“Depends…” She smiled, and her eyes sparkled like diamonds in a darkened cave. “I'm Laurie Smith.” She held out a now-empty hand.

He shifted the basket to one side and reached forward to take it.

An abrupt woman wearing a badge that read “Salia Sedgwick, I am the Queen! Don't make me fetch my 9 mm!” interrupted him before their hands could connect. This rude lady was actually standing between them. “Laurie Smith! You're late. Give me that basket. This was supposed to be here two hours ago. How am I supposed to do my job when other people aren't doing theirs?”

Jack inserted himself into the conversation. “Ah, Ms. Sedgwick, I'm sure she has a good excuse, or does Ms. Smith need a note from her mother?”

The woman frowned at him. “Well, I never!”

“Never what?” he asked innocently.

Laurie did a lousy job hiding her smile behind pursed lips.

As the organizer snatched the basket and hurried away, Laurie's laughter burst out. “Thank goodness, she left. I almost laughed in her face.” She touched his arm. “Thank you. Salia Sedgwick is a handful…”

“A handful of what? Pudding? Meanness? Squishy resentment?”

“All of the above,” she said, presenting her hand again. There was something light about her, and as he leaned forward, he could smell a hint of lilacs, as if she'd been rubbing the silky petals on her skin and hair.

This time, his hand connected with hers. As his palm engulfed her tiny fingers, a small bolt of electricity raced up his arm. Perhaps he could stay at this event for a little while longer.

“Hooyah! Hooyah! Hooyah!” The sound of the crowd grew louder, chanting as glasses were raised. The noise grew until his ears rang, yet it didn't stop him from trying to speak over it.

“My name is Jack.”

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