A good night out is a lot like a well-coordinated mission. You have to know your enemy, and your squad has to be sharp. It all starts with nailing down the perfect location. My wingman and I would default to The Pits if it was a Friday night, or Cal’s Place if it was Saturday. When you’re out on a raid, you can’t Rambo it up, barge in and blow up the place. I mean, you can, but you have to do it sneaky-peaky like, you have to use a light touch. You twinkle in there with grace and a smile… and then you blow up the place.

My old SEAL cronies are excellent marksman, decorated soldiers, all that jazz. But when it comes to charm? That’s my MO, baby. If you needed strings pulled, if you needed some shifty eyed official to soften up and turn off the CCTV, hell, if you needed to schmooz an old village doctor to get him to part ways with that secret box he had in his medicine cabinet… then I was your guy. And that’s why I was every lady’s guy, too.

The trick to getting people to give you what you want is making them think that they’re getting what they want from you. Women are the simplest beings in creation. They want to be told they’re beautiful, they want to believe they’re unlike any other women you’ve met, and that you feel ways about them that you’ve never felt before. That’s it. There isn’t a woman alive I haven’t told those three things to that didn’t beg me to fuck her eventually. Sneaky peaky like at first, then you blow up the place, see? Easy.

So, you have the location nailed down, you’ve got your game honed down to an art, you’re looking good and now with a little bit of luck, the night can unfold. One of two things happens. You find a chick who’s down for it. She’ll want to play a little, tease a little, make sure everyone knows it’s you who seduced her. I call this the Easy Target and for the most part, you just have to play up how surprised you are that a nice girl like her can be so damn naughty and how she’s the boss. Oh, and of course that she’s beautiful, unlike any other, and you’ve never quite felt like this before.

An Easy Target isn’t common, though. I’ve sometimes walked away from one just because I wanted a challenge. And nothing is more challenging than a Fence Sitter. You’ll know her when you see her. She’s come out with her girlfriends, she’s dressed up pretty but this whole scene isn’t really her thing. She’s conflicted, right? Let her hair down or behave? Let go or be responsible? I step in and help her, uh, decide. I love Fence Sitters. See, the thing is that she wants to be coaxed. She’s the one waiting for an asshole like me to come along and make being bad look good. Here, the strategy is crucial: you have to go in hard.

You ease the Fence Sitter in one drink, one flirty glance at a time. You stick with her all night, letting her know that as slow as she wants to go, she will give it up eventually, and you’ll be there when she does. Seduction? Not really. Nobody is ever convinced to do something they don’t secretly want to do already. Find the right girl; look into her naughty little eyes, lean in close, right up close… and then push. She comes off that fence in a hurry, believe me.

Then there are the Cold Bitches, too, and the only thing they want you stroking is their ego. You can always tell them a mile away: they dress up, whip out the push up bras and heels, but have this kind of disdainful look in their eyes for all the fools that dare to look at any of it. I say fools because the quickest way to end a good night is to get tangled up with a Cold Bitch.

Years in the field have taught me to spot these girls. I don’t want to get too philosophical about it, but it’s all in the eyes. It’s all in the small movements of their hands, in their posture. On deployment, you learn to distinguish between civilians and… everyone else. Terrorists, assassins, guerillas, they all seem like ordinary people, but look into their eyes and you’ll see it right there. I can’t explain it but it’s a little like that with a Cold Bitch. You don’t need to know the details, but you feel in the pit of your stomach that she’s equivalent of an explosive vest under that tight cocktail dress, and if you come too close, she’ll detonate and blow you both to kingdom come. Or something. Like I said, it’s more of a gut thing. And I always trust my gut. I run on intuition, and that’s why if I head out on the hunt, I always, and I mean always, get what I want. You have to understand your mark… and nobody understands women like I do.

I peeled my eyes open in the dim light and let them adjust. I gave my brain a few moments but it wasn’t come up with any memories beyond around 3am the night before. I was on a bed, in an unfamiliar room that smelled vaguely of vanilla. But this in itself was a pretty familiar part of my life. I stretched out long and turned to see a tumble of blonde hair on the pillow next to me.

Ah, so that’s what happened.

And still sleeping.

Good.

I realized I was naked. Without moving, I scanned the room to locate my clothing. Great. I’d grab my underpants, hoist those on and move out pronto. I scanned the rest of the room. It was nice. Too nice for a girl as young as… well, whoever was in the bed beside me right now. It couldn’t be a parents’ home, I vaguely remember making her scream last night. Loudly. So, possibly a rich kid or a housemate situation. She was definitely an Easy Target, but something in my gut told me she’d also be the kind to get all emotional in the morning, and try to weasel some croissants and coffee out of me. A pro knows when a mission is over. And if you let things go on until the coffee and croissants stage, you’ve fucked up somewhere along the line.

I took a deep breath, looked over at her once more and wished I could remember more about last night. Kylie? Carla? Oh well. I oozed slowly out of bed, carefully so as not to squeak the bedsprings under me. Bedsprings. Oh yes, now I remembered. We gave those fucking bedsprings hell. I had her on her hands and knees and she had her little ass straight up in the air. In my memory, her head was smooshed down into the sheets, and her blond hair was tumbling all over her face, just as it was now. Damn. The thought of getting some more of that had me thinking that maybe I could make an exception and sit through coffee and croissants…

Nope. Mission was over.

I sat up and my feet found the ground, then I silently slinked on my underpants and grabbed my shirt and trousers, feeling the weight of my wallet and phone in the pocket. I accidentally stood on the sleeve of her sequined dress, which was half crumpled under a stiletto on the floor. The door was ajar and I slipped sideways through it, like a cat. Brevity is the soul of wit, you know, and a short morning after is the best way to end a good night before.

Without so much as a moaning floorboard I dashed free and tried to find the front door. The house was even nicer than I had guessed. High ceilings. Fancy art on the walls. I had to get out before little miss back there woke up. Then I saw it: the front door was at the end of a long corridor. Bingo.

I made for it, still in my underwear, ninja-footed with clothes bundled in my arms. I silently swiveled the door lock open and was about to step outside.

“Hugo?”

On deployment, I’d hear a lot of guys say how the really traumatic shit, the really scary moments always felt like they happened in slow motion. That whole life-flashing-before-your-eyes thing? Well, it’s real. Distress sharpens the brain and for a few milliseconds, you’re thinking so fast that everything around you slows right down almost to a standstill. That red hair. That plump little fold of the top lip. Those big, watery blue eyes. It was a face I had seen in my memories almost every day, but now, seeing it here, in this house… she might as well have been a ghost.

“Re… Rebecca?”

We stared stupidly at one another for what could have been two seconds or twenty minutes. Her eyebrows tilted and she looked me up and down, mouth hanging open. She seemed on the verge of saying something but couldn’t quite spit it out. I stood there like an idiot, one hand on the doorknob, the other holding last night’s shameful, smoky clothing, cowering a little. I struggled to figure out what to say myself. It had been a long time? I was sorry? I had missed her? I began to wonder if it would be rude to ask her what the hell she was doing here, when she spoke.

“Oh, I see. You’re here because of… wait, is Kirsten still sleeping?” she said and glanced quickly over her shoulder to the other room.

It was remarkable how much judgment she was able to cram into that short sentence. I half shrugged, trying to hold my clothing out in front of me to cover my nearly naked ass self. She was in casual pajamas, her hair was loose, and everything about her was exactly how I remembered it. Well, everything except for that murderous expression she now had on her face.

“She’s…” I began, but Rebecca took a step towards me and raised her voice.

“You’re unbelievable. I’m waking her up,” she hissed.

My heart pounded in my chest. Fuck. The only thing worse in this world than a woman who thought you’d fucked up was two women who thought you’d fucked up. This was bound to happen eventually, right? Was I the handsome lovable Casanova finally getting his comeuppance? Oh fuck.

“Rebecca, please, I was just leaving,” I whispered.

She smirked at me.

“Leaving? Nice. I see you haven’t changed a bit.”

“No, Becky, look, I know this looks bad… I didn’t expect to… Jesus, how long has it been? I’ll um… I have to go now but let’s catch up soon, ok? I’ll call you,” I said, then I flew out that front door like my feet had grown wings and I tumbled away, stepping into my pants and pulling on my shirt as I hightailed it out of there.

It took almost three blocks for my heart to stop pounding. For me to stop seeing that mocking twist in her lips as she looked at me, that shock in her eyes. I’m a pro. I’ve been in dicey situations before and you’d better believe I knew how to handle a pissed off girl. But Rebecca? Of all the women in the world to bump into on a walk of shame, it had to be her? I wandered around the neighborhood for a while, still shaking, like a man who’s had a near death experience. I found a little café and sat down, trying to gather my thoughts.

The last time I had seen her was before I joined the military. A lifetime ago. It was a weird sensation, knowing that she was still out there in the world. That those blue eyes of hers were real, and not just something my memory had made up for all these years. And what was even more real was the raw disappointment I’d seen in them. Fuck. Rebecca was a case I thought I’d closed years ago. How dare she waltz back into my life like this now, especially when I was on a role, in the prime of my life? Obviously, she caught me on my good side, and I don’t mind saying that many lesser women have lost their minds when faced with the prospect of my bare chest. But still. I felt like shit.

The waitress ambled over to my table and took a look at me.

“Sir? Just to make you aware, we do have a dress code.”

“Excuse me?”

She was pretty. An eight, easily, probably a college student, cute, kind of skinny though, and a haircut that just screamed I have a boyfriend.

“Your shoes, sir. I mean, your feet.”

I looked down and then back up at her, blushing. I gave her my best, most foolproof superstar smile and shrugged.

“Huh, look at that. Must be one of those mornings, huh?” I said, and wiggled my bare toes with all the charm you’d expect from a guy who was not even hungover, but possibly still a little drunk.

“Are you, like, ordering something?”

“Come on, don’t be mad. I’ll tell you what happened if you promise not to be too shocked, ok? I was out last night…”

“Sir, it’s kind of busy here today,” she blurted.

Definitely had a boyfriend then. Fine. I ordered a coffee and a croissant and ate it, still smarting, and then mentally catalogued all the reasons that Becky was wrong. I was a superstar. I totally had my life together.