Chapter 1

Wyatt

The sun beats down on my toned, sweaty, tanning body as I throw a forceful fist against the passenger side of my car door.

My punches are hard, but my cock is harder as I watch the neighborhood women checking me out, practically throwing themselves at me, while walking their dogs.

As I wipe beads of sweat from my forehead with my muscular forearm, the intensity of the sun attempting to test the integrity of my SEAL trained body, a new little slice walks by, keeping my attention for longer than my usual following.

She’s got a tight waist, wide hips, and a stride that whispers fuck me. As I pull my eyes to her face, she has a gaze to match.

She’s pushing a stroller, and as she pushes her sunglasses down her nose to get a better look of this perfectly chiseled body, she mouths the words “‘Hey, Daddy”’ at me and winks before pushing them back up and strolling past.

My cock throbs hard in my dark blue, ripped up jeans. There’s a perfectly positioned hole in it where them I could push my cock through to bend that bitch over and fuck her right here on the hood of my car, leaving a whole new impression I’d have to beat out later.

I could have this girl screaming my name to the entire neighborhood, and having a new chick at my door every day, ready to bang, just from this one, spontaneous fuck.

But I don’t need it. Banging this broad, and all the others, is all in their heads; I don’t even want them.

My fist comes full force against the metal of the door, it bending against the shape of my knuckles, as I continue beating this fucking dent out.

While I like the attention day in and day out of these everyday hotties, I don’t know that if any of them can handle me for what it’s worth.

I’m built like a Greek god, but I’m troubled just the same. Fucking fantastic to look at, but I’m a damaged goods.

I take a break to crack open another beer and guzzle it down in one go.

Nursing a beer is for sissies. You open that fucker, and you suck that shit like it’s the clit of a gorgeous woman, and you don’t fucking stop until the job is done.

As much as I know and as fucking fantastic as I am with pleasing them, it’s almost a fucking crime that as these ladies stride by me. I flirt and show off, but only ever at a distance. I refuse to let any of them come up the driveway or into my house; I’d love the company, but I’m not hurting anyone.

Not after last time.

My time in the SEALs left an impact on me. I know impeccable survival tactics, strong conviction, and I have strength that mirrors an adrenaline rush in most people.

But the SEALs scarred me. It took a young, naive boy, and molded him into a man. It hardened me more than I could have ever imagined or wanted.

When I left the SEALs, I made a vow to myself and to those around me that I wouldn’t let anyone down the way I did ever again. I would protect myself and others at all costs. And the price to pay for me is to not let anyone get too close.

As I throw my fist into the car door one more time, I take a glance at the outside of the door, seeing that the metal is now almost perfectly even, leaving the imperfections invisible to the untrained eye.

When I brush my hands together, I realize I’m filthy with dirt and sweat—all product of a hard day’s work. Some days, I wear my stench like a badge—solid proof of the labor put in—but today, it’s hot as hell outside, and a shower is in my imminent future instead.

As I step in to the shower, water droplets rain down over my musky body, my scent melding the true marker of manhood with some Irish Spring soap. The smell of the soap takes over my whole body as I lather the sudsy mixture all over my sun-kissed skin.

My eyes close, letting the streams of water flow over me. I take in a deep breath, open my eyes, and gasp at the sight before me.

My heart is racing. My palms are sweating. I can’t keep my eyes on any one thing. There’s commotion everywhere.

I’m aboard a ship, and we’re under attack, as different booms and echoes travel across the air. Waves are crashing around the ship, rocking us from side to side, adding to the chaos.

What the fuck am I supposed to do?

I wipe my face, and as I think hard, I get myself in the zone. I run across the ship, dodging various projectiles coming my way, and get to the emergency closet, grabbing all kinds of supplies for myself and my mates. As I take my weapon in hand, I snap.

And I’m back in my shower at home. My hands are shaking, my body’s perspiring again, and my breathing is shallow. Fuck.

If I could go a month without one of these fucking moments, I would be okay. I would be normal. Or at least closer to it.

It’s this kind of shit that makes me know I’m fucked up, and that anyone that’s around in one of my spells isn’t safe. They’re just so real. When I’m back in those places, it’s all like it’s just happening.

I don’t get to question how I get there, because I’ve always been there. I don’t get any warning when I slip in or out. I don’t get any reprieve when I come back to reality because I only ever fall back to the worst experiences of my life.

And there’s no one out there who can handle all of that anymore, anyway.

There’s one woman that’s stayed in my mind, but I’m afraid that ship sailed a long time ago. We’re not even the same people anymore, I think. I don’t even know how to reach out to her.

I splash the warm water against my face and rub it in, cleaning the scruff along my cheeks and chin. Some days, I like the look of my chiseled jaw making itself the defining feature of my face, but, today, I’m sticking with a gruff, bearded look. The ladies love it, and, like I said before, I like the attention.

As I rinse every concave and convex part of my defined body, I sigh. I reach out of the shower and lean my head out as I take a long and, much needed sip of Maker’s Mark on the rocks.

Nothin’ like a good whiskey to get you back into your right head.