Still Her SEAL (ASSIGNMENT: Caribbean Nights Book 10) (22 page)

If sex with Hindi was a really hot dream, the reality of divorce court is night terrors territory. Ava assures me that she handles plenty of dissolutions, as if it’s supposed to comfort me that she’s an expert in breaking people up. She gives me a checklist, a timeline, and three inches of papers to read and sign. She’ll express the same to Hindi in New York City or wherever it is she spends her time between shows. That I don’t know where that is speaks volumes, right?

Problem solved. Crisis averted. I leave the office and I’m all sorted. It’s sunny outside, the sky blue and cloudless. It’s the kind of day visitors to the Florida Keys crave and I should appreciate it. Should want to go for a swim, a run, surf. I leave the law office and get back in my Jeep. And I just sit there. Everything’s gone slo-mo around me, filled with that charged silence that surrounds me at the start of a mission. The big picture’s still there in the back of my head, but it’s the little details that could kill me and that I pay attention to. The whisper of sound in the palms, the crunch of sand beneath the tires of a car, the emptiness of the seat beside me.

I don’t believe in ghosts, but it feels like Hindi’s riding shotgun. I can still see her bouncing up and down beside me. Riding my lap. Licking ice cream from that gorgeous mouth that says the most outrageous things. She was here. She rode with me. We kissed and touched and I wasn’t alone. We were together.

I turn the radio on and let her music fill up the emptiness. I might even sing along since there’s no one here to hear. Once I’m back at Search and SEALs, I crawl into my bed and stay there. Who cares if it’s only noon? I’m the ass who got what he asked for and instead got what he deserved.

Two weeks later, I’m still lost. Not sure where to go. Ergo, I do the one thing I’m good at—running endless laps around Angel Cay. The longer I run, the faster I push myself, the sooner I can fall asleep at night. Pretty soon, I’ll be passed out before sunrise. Yes, I look like shit. Don’t
give
a shit, either.

A gull screeches overhead. Maybe the bird’s tired of the endless sunshine. Maybe it’s having a bad day. As it flies off to get on with its day, I follow until I’m running along the ocean. And because it’s good to stay in shape, make the effort in my BDUs and combat boots. I need the challenge. At the pace Jack and I are setting, I’m on track to beat my personal best.

Some previously undiscovered spidey sense has me glancing over my shoulder. Or maybe it’s the chorus of
hey fuckwad
that’s a dead giveaway. Vann and Finn pound up the sand toward me. Since I’ve spent the last week avoiding them, I can read
intervention
in their aggressive pace. They’ve decided it’s time to talk, apparently because meeting the women of
their
dreams means that I, too, need to have a come to Jesus moment. As if.

I up my pace until the palm trees whip past us and Jack is in doggie heaven. He’s a competitive son-of-a-bitch, and he’s not letting the others overtake us. Having trained with the two loons eating my dust for years, I know exactly how fast they can run. I have just enough of a head start and a better final quarter-mile. Finn’s more of a sprinter, and Vann tends to kick ass on the long-hauls. I could beat them both back to Search and SEALs. Then it’s easy money that I get the Jeep started and get off before they catch me. It’s not a viable long-term strategy, but I’m kind of living day to day anyhow.

Plus, Finn cheats.

Arms wrap around my legs, dragging me down to the sand. Rex, Finn’s doggie companion, surges ahead with a gleeful bark and tears after Jack. My face bounces off the sand and I grunt. Good friends can kill you with the best of intentions. Just on principle, I roll, fighting the hold. I’ve never been one to go down and stay down. I’ve always preferred taking a swing at my problems, and, conveniently, my problems are wearing Finn’s face at the moment.

As Finn dodges, Vann parks his heavy ass on my legs, severely curtailing my reach. “You ready to tap out?”

Not hardly.

“We could drown him.” Vann actually sounds like he’s considering it. “Not something I’m usually in favor of, seeing as how we’re in the business of saving lives, but I could be talked into making an exception today.”

I flash him the bird. “Price tag’s fifteen years to life on that, but feel free to give it a shot.”

Vann rolls off me with a grunt. “You’re such a killjoy.”

That I am.

Also? These last weeks have sucked, thanks for asking. First my ex-wife paid me an unannounced visit and then she surprised me with the happy news that we were still married. Then my dick decided we should try for a little reunion action while we filed our paperwork and waited on the fine state of Florida to dissolve our union. And on top of that? My ass and my dick seem to be a favorite of the paparazzi and the Internet has now seen way too much of me. Shit like that’s impossible to shake—I’ll be ninety, whooping it up in the veteran’s home, and people will still be bringing it up. I need to get over Hindi, over our seemingly never-ending marriage. Damned thing has more lives than any feline, and it’s more hostile than the feral cat I acquired from behind her rented bungalow.

Although I have Hindi’s number now, Ava has counseled me to avoid reaching out to her. We’re supposed to communicate through Ava’s office, which is apparently the grown-up version of passing notes in school. This is supposedly to “avoid miscommunications,” but I should be honest with Ava. It’s way too late for that.

Vann thumps me on the back way harder than necessary. My chin plants in the sand again and I inhale the better part of the beach. “Shitty-ass week?”

“Week before was worse,” I grunt, elbowing him back.

He offers me a hand up. I could take off running again, but fuck it. Finn and Vann are my boys and my legs are still on fire from my earlier pace. I start walking back to Search and SEALs before my body cramps up.

Finn frowns. “You still on for my wedding?”

It sucks that I’ve had my head so far up my own ass that he has to ask me this. So I nod, and then make a joke out of it.

“You gonna hook me up with the maid of honor, grandma?”

“Hell, no.” Finn actually looks horrified. “You want to do Ava?”

No. No, I don’t. She’s a gorgeous woman, but I appreciate her the way you do a work of art—from a nice, safe distance. You don’t think about rubbing your dick on a Picasso, no matter how naked the woman on the canvas gets. Ava is a friend and I respect the shit out of her, but there’s no way we go out. I’m entirely certain she feels the same way about me. In fact, she spelled it out for me once, just to avoid “misunderstandings.” Yes. She used finger quotes. Ava likes her shit to be crystal clear, so I’m surprised she didn’t send me a memo to sign off on as well. The two of us will never, ever hook up.

Ever.

Thank Christ.

Finn’s wedding is in two weeks. Vann and I are the best men—Vali says we can each grab an arm and drag Finn up the aisle if he’s stupid enough to get cold feet. Which he won’t, because he’s a nice guy and not an asshole. He knows Vali’s the best thing that’s ever happened to him. Pretty sure he’d rather sprint up that strip of red carpet to claim the woman who loves him every bit as much as he adores her. Yeah. It’s disgustingly cute.

I’m happy for him. I really am. I’m just—lonely. That’s all it is. He’s got his Vali and I’ve got this hole. That wasn’t part of my plan. When did Hindi move into my life and take over? Did it happen when I met her dancing on the bar of the Tiki Hut and losing an epic wet T-shirt contest? When she jumped me in the ocean, laughing and kissing? Or did it happen when she tried to coax that recalcitrant, cranky feral cat to eat from her hand? Was it when she looked at her ice cream like it was the one thing she was dying to have and then she dove in and enjoyed the fuck out of it—and I wanted her to look at me the same way?

I told her to go.

I ran her off.

And now I miss her and me. I miss the
us
.

I don’t know where she is or if she’s okay. The network was giving her shit about publicity and ratings. Have they stopped? Does she have the contract? What is she doing right now? Is she walking up some busy New York street and do they have the right kind of ice cream there? Is she alone, or has she replaced me? Has she found some smart guy who appreciates her and isn’t afraid to tell her that he—

Isn’t me.

Is willing to commit to her and give her all the words she deserves.

“You
are
coming, right?” Finn glares at me as if he’s developed mind-reading abilities. Apparently, he has his doubts. No, I don’t want to go to any wedding. But I’m also not actually a huge fan of storming beaches or clearing rooms of enemy insurgents—they’re simply job requirements, the same way hanging at Finn’s wedding is a friend requirement.

“Yes. Absolutely.” See? Even Ava would be proud of that answer.

“Are you a plus-one?” Finn lobs that sucker at me as I reach the porch of my bungalow. Yowly slinks out of nowhere, ready for his dinner. He’s reconciled himself to his forcible relocation from Hindi’s rented bungalow and we’re slowly working out the terms of my surrender. I pointed out to him that I’m a sure thing when it comes to popping cans of Fancy Feast; he peed on my boots to make his point; we came to an agreement.

He’ll use me for my food.

I’ll put out.

Food, not sex. Cat’s got his priorities in the right place.

“Single,” I say firmly. I ignore Vann’s snort of amusement at my newly acquired feline companion. If Marlee wanted a cat, the man would clear out the SPCA for her. Hell, he gave her a baby when she asked. The mini-me will make an appearance in a few months and Vann already has a ten-page birthing plan. He’s mapped out and test driven the route to the hospital. He’s read books on home birth “just in case” and he’s brushed up his EMT certification. He could deliver sextuplets on the side of the road, bring them home, and have enough diapers. And while Finn and Vali haven’t expressed an interest in reproducing, Finn is always bringing home strays. People are constantly tucking kittens, puppies, and spare rabbits into his Jeep. Neither of them is in any position to give me shit over a single cat.

Finn looks at the cat and then looks at me. “Are you sure?”

“She wanted a divorce. I’m giving it to her.”

This time Vann flat out laughs. “Sure you are.”

Hindi

S
anta doesn’t really exist. I know this—have since I was four—but if he did and if I’d written him a letter listing all of my deepest, darkest wants and desires, it’s safe to say that he’s come through. He’s dropped the entire sleigh-load beneath my tree, my stocking overfloweth, and there’s nary a speck of coal in sight.

I’m golden.

On top of the world.

The queen of having it all.

My agent Dorrie called two days after I skulked back to New York City. The network loved me, she said. They wanted more, more, more—and how about a fifteen episode commitment? Dorrie isn’t the kind of woman who squees with glee or grabs your arms to happy-dance you in circles while on the train, but I think she might make an exception for our new contract. The network bigwigs are eating my drama up. Sales are good, the red line on my 401K statement is headed for the stratosphere, and the early reviews for the new line I’m debuting at Miami Fashion Week are equally glowing. Look at me. Saint Hindi, who can do no wrong. My career is so on fire it makes a volcano look like a weekend marshmallow roast, and it’s happy, happy, happy all around. I’m an ungrateful bitch for being anything less than one hundred percent satisfied.

When Dorrie asks/orders me out to celebrate the plethora of good news, I agree to go. After all, it’s not like I have anywhere else to be but work. When I answer the door to my loft, however, she pushes past me carrying a pizza box and a six-pack of wine.

“Change of plans,” she announces.

Do I care? Nope. Not at all. Today’s simply another day that ends in
y
, and I can do pizza in my sleek, little black romper just as well as I could do tapas and two-hundred-dollar wine. I kick off my heels and trail her into my living room. The sleek, industrial space is super modern and chic. The realtor promised me it would be a good investment, so I bit. Light pours through the skylights in the thirty-foot ceilings and lights up the expensive, cream-colored leather couch. Or it would, if I hadn’t buried the couch in all my clutter. Fabric swatches and trim samples are mixed up with empty diet soda cans and chip bags. Yes, I’ve been subsisting on comfort food. The network forgot to write the size of my ass into my new contract, which is another piece of happy news.