Chapter Two

Macs

“You owe me fifty bucks, dude. That chick swiped right!” These guys should know better by now. I’m an expert in a lot of things. Hot chick retrieval and capture is one of those things. Pursing my lips to the side, I flip my iPhone to show them. They always demand proof. “That’s as good as mine.” I shake the phone back and forth in their faces. I’m getting a mental stiffy thinking about it. If I swipe right on a woman’s picture and she swipes right on mine, we make a match—a sex date is as good as promised.

I’ve never, not even once, had a relationship. I don’t spend the night with women. They don’t spend the night with me. It’s almost as if this swiping app was developed for my personal enjoyment. It works for me. It works for them. It’s a symbiotic relationship. The give and take is equal and no one ever ends up hurt. Unless my cock gets a mind of its own and does a little punishing, but we can’t get upset with him, now, can we?

Tahoe scoffs, and Moose rolls his eyes. “How the fuck do you do that? You don’t even look that good in your photos. You look like a tool. I commend your hobby, but I still don’t understand.”

A swipe right match is the equivalent to Pavlov’s Dogs for someone like me. It’s sex. Fucking. Plain and simple. This app isn’t for people seeking forevers or potential spouses. It’s brilliant.

“Chicks like tools,” I say. Well, the chicks I want like tools. For a moment I’m scared I am actually a tool. No, no. I can’t be a tool. I’m a motherfucking Navy SEAL. I play a part to get laid because playing a part is easier than being myself in a relationship. Truths. Questions. Honesty. Sharing a bathroom. No. Not when a swipe right gives me everything I desire.

“You know, Macs, I know someone you should probably meet. When we get back from Colorado. Let me be your swipe right,” Moose says. He won’t meet my eyes, but he’s smiling like he’s lost in a memory.

“What the hell does that mean? I’m not swinging that way this week, bro. Maybe when we’re deployed.” I clap him on the back.

Tahoe laughs.

“Fuck off. I know a woman you need to meet. Our date didn’t…ahhh…go as planned. I think you’re more her speed.” He looks at the gym exit.

We’re sitting on a bench bullshitting. Moose watches Smith run on a treadmill full speed. That man works harder than all of us in this gym. He’s a fucking beast. With his awesome scars, he’s basically the Godfather of the SEAL Teams.

“What does she look like?” I ask, breaking my gaze from Smith’s feet pounding rubber. “If you’re passing her off, I bet she’s not my style.”

Tahoe wanders off, mumbling under his breath, a towel slung over his shoulder.

“She’s your style. Trust me,” Moose says, finally meeting my eyes.

“Ah shit, buddy. You fucked her, didn’t you?” I’m not opposed to having sloppy seconds if she’s as hot as he’s insinuating. “A good fuck, or just hot as shit? Either one is fine by me. Sometimes hot as shit is better than a good fuck because I get more ammo for the spank bank.”

“You’re twisted as fuck. You know that, right?” Moose groans.

I stand, turn, and glance at the floor-to-ceiling mirror.

I run my hands through my long, sweaty hair. “Someone has to do the job. Answer my question.” This already seems like too much work. I’m a busy man. The effort must be at the most minimal level if it’s going to work out. I bought a house recently and fixing it up takes more time than I ever thought I could devote to something that wasn’t my career.

My number one priority will always be my job. Sex is just a necessary evil to keep my head straight. I need it as much as I need water—oxygen. I’m not even embarrassed to admit it anymore. The first step is recognizing you have a problem. The second step is telling yourself it’s not a fucking problem.

Standing, he shakes his head. “She’s both. A solid both.” Moose groans. “I’m already regretting opening my mouth. You make us look bad.”

I could resent that statement, but he’s right. SEALs are known for our philandering ways. We take too many trips. We are away from home too frequently. Cheating on a girlfriend or spouse is too easy. It falls into the excitement category. Some have described it as a thrill—a rush. I think deep down they feel guilty afterward, but they would never let that show. Others call it sex addiction, plain and simple. They love their wives and children, but they require the thrill of the chase as much as I require sex to thrive.

When you understand those facts, I’m one of the good guys. I don’t have anyone at home to hurt. I’m alone. There’s no woman to call or text a million times a day. I don’t check in with anyone. I open an app instead.

“Is that code for she sucks awesome dick?” I flex my bicep. The lighting does awesome things for my muscles. They’re tan and rigid, angles and valleys glistening with perspiration and rippling muscles.

He pushes me and it breaks my gaze from the mirror.

“Fine. Fine. I promise to be a gentleman. For the first half of the date anyways. She’s DTF for sure?” I’m surprised Moose has been with a woman like this. Typically he’s known as the good guy. The one who would never slum with a one-night stand.

His eyes widen. “Oh, yeah. She’s DTF,” he replies.

Wow. That fucking good?

“You had a weak moment, bro?” I tease, making my way to the locker room attached to the gym.

I hit the urinal, relieving myself with a long groan. Moose does the same next to me.

He finally responds, “I don’t know what the hell I was thinking. I guess I thought trying something new might be a good thing. Break up the monotony, you know?”

“Sex is always a good thing.” I make an inappropriate joke that would get me banned in all fifty states, and Moose merely rolls his eyes. I start one of the showerheads and wait until the water turns lukewarm and grab my bottle of soap.

We thought Moose was gay for a long time. He’s probably the best looking guy on the Teams, behind me, of course. He doesn’t sleep around at all, and I think I’ve only seen him date one blond chick like five years ago. His mother set him up with her, and she looked absolutely terrified at the beach party our command throws yearly.

“Do you sleep around a lot?” I ask. Curiosity wins out in the end. Is he a closeted version of myself?

I glance sideways to glimpse his face. He shakes his head, his eyes closed as soap streams down his face.

“You know I don’t. Carina set me up with her friend. Smith was there, and I couldn’t reasonably say no. She owns a yoga studio. Her head is on straight.”

For the moment I squash the image of fucking a woman with her legs bent behind her head in humping dog position in favor of learning more about my friend. “Carina’s friend? So she is most definitely hot as fuck?” Well, sort of learning something about my friend, mostly worried about my prospect.

He cranks the water off. It halts with a groan. “Of course she’s hot. I just told you that. She isn’t looking for anything serious. Her morals line up with yours. She’s serial.”

“Now I see why you couldn’t say no. Alcohol involved?”

He shakes his head as he wraps his towel around his waist. It barely makes it around. “Teala knew what she wanted before she took one sip. And she didn’t want a second date, or even the possibility of more. Trust me, I asked.”

Teala. I like her name. It’s different. I grew up in Florida, so the Caribbean was always where my family would vacation. The teal blue waters quickly became what I associated with my family and being together. I still head down to an island when I run into time off.

“I asked multiple times actually. It was hard to believe,” Moose says, eyebrows raised.

“Jesus, Mother of Mary. She really is me in woman form. I appreciate you thinking of me, buddy. I’ll call her tonight. What about you, though? Going to swipe right and keep up your awesome streak?”

Moose doesn’t have the app on his phone. He would never. I wonder why he even agreed to the date with another woman when it’s so obvious he’s hung up on someone else.

He laughs. “Not for me. You hold the lion’s share in that market anyways. I wouldn’t want to steal your panty-dropping thunder.”

He closes down—the wall he builds around his personal life slams into place. I accept the closure and prattle on about an upcoming trip and how I’m working on built-in shelves in my living room. He gives me a few tips and tells me about how his cousin’s television slopes to the right because he fucked up his own shelves so thoroughly.

“You’re so supportive of my DIY obsession. Please, only tell me stories if they end with perfection,” I bark, smiling at my friend.

“Just fucking with ya. His shelves came out perfect,” he counters.

Moose and I make plans to meet at the gym tomorrow morning before work, and we go our separate ways.

The sun sets in the distance on my drive home. I pull up to my house and admire everything I’ve accomplished on the outside. The stucco is fresh and the shutters are newly painted. I had to replace every single window in this fucking beast. The bay window in front is in the shape of a half moon. My kitchen is on the other side of it. Every single tiled shingle was installed with my own two hands. I’m in the mindset of if you want something done right, you do it yourself. Even if you have no fucking clue what you’re doing. I learned as I went. Friends taught me. YouTube was there for me, and that’s the end of story.

There would be no way I could afford this house if it wasn’t a fixer-upper. Southern California real estate is something of a unicorn. Everything is overpriced. Even the shanty shack bungalows down by the Mexican border. I got this for a steal. It’s in a great neighborhood and I even have a little bit of land. My neighbors are far enough away that I can’t smell their morning dragon breath. It’s a luxury.

I unlock the door and disarm the security system. It smells like paint, wood, and sawdust. I’m pretty sure I’ll be cleaning up sawdust for the better part of a decade after I’m finished with the renovations.

Tossing my keys on the farm house table I built last week, I head for the fridge. It’s not a kitchen. Not yet, at least. No cabinets or drawers exist, but I do have beer and eggs. I pop the top off a Sam Adams and head for the sliding glass door in the rear of the house. My view overlooks a canyon and the sun is setting over the ocean in the distance. If I had unlimited funds, I would have bought a small condo right on the water so I could surf every morning and all weekend, but something inside me urged me to buy the bigger house and tackle all the projects that came along with it.

Once the burnt orange sun disappears completely, I take the last swig of beer and head inside to the sofa in my living room. Using the remote, I click on the oversized TV sitting on the floor. I can’t help but hear the way the news anchor’s voice echoes through my empty house. I need more furniture. Or another beer.

Beer is probably the answer.

Sometimes the silence I’ve created is too fucking loud.