Chapter 2
Evan Granger- thirty-seven years old -Las Vegas, Nevada July 5th, 2016
“If people are honest with themselves when they choose a tattoo, the art will represent them better than anything that will ever come out of their mouth. The things that are most important to me are represented in the art that covers my body. My God, my family, my friends, my job, my social and historical beliefs and the aggressive or even violent nature with which I will protect all of them.....basically in that order of importance. Is it scary or repulsive to some people? Yes. Does it change who I am? No. If anything it works as an outward conscience that will forever remind me of who I am and what is important during times of trial or long after my mind starts to fade due to old age if I'm blessed with a long life. Remove”
― Troy Holloway
I sit in the plush gold armchair in my hotel room in my skivvies and watch the other hotel guests from my second-floor window. My room has a perfect view of the pool area, and I lose myself in the view of all that water. Millions of gallons of water just sitting in the middle of the damn desert. Kind of boggles the mind when I think about all the poor schmucks that are killed fighting over a well containing a fraction of what I see before me. Hell, the pool is so large that it even has islands with palm trees and cabanas in the middle of it. Actually, the pool and beach areas were the biggest draws for me when I booked this hotel. Yeah, OK- maybe the night club downstairs pushed it a little further along my list. Still, I explored the pool area yesterday for a good couple hours after I checked in. There are waterfalls, a river for inner tubes and even a beach complete with waves and 3 tons of sand.
Actually, the sand I could do without.
At least there are no windstorms here to contend with and no snipers trying to take me out. I look at my phone and check the time. It's 09:30. There are already a ton of people taking advantage of the water- it must be 90 degrees in the shade. Mostly families with kids though at this hour. Figure most single people are still in their racks after getting shit-faced at the club last night. Which is where I intended on being last night. Instead, I fall asleep in my rack after returning from the pool like I'm a damn senior citizen. Which is why I'm up at o' dark thirty nursing my second gin and tonic in as many hours. I generally don't touch alcohol. I consider my body a weapon and alcohol do nothing but blunt that weapon. But I'm waving my rule this week before I am deployed again in twelve days.
I managed to collect on fourteen days of leave in between stints. Got twelve days left before I need to be back in Norfolk. This time I'm heading to Kandahar province. I'm used to being at The Pointy End of the Spear, but my Suck Meter is getting full. The war in Afghanistan is supposed to be winding down, but any member of the Special Forces can tell you that is a load of crap. I've been a Seal for fifteen years and lost count of how many times I've been deployed. After a while, you stop counting.
It really doesn't matter anyway. I go where they order me to go, kill who they order me to kill, conquer what they order me to conquer. The only question I ever ask is, "How can I plan this next hour, this next day, this next mission so that we meet our mission objectives and no one in my team comes back in a body bag?" That's where I excel- the planning for every contingency and my ability to see the big picture. Situational Awareness. I've got it in droves. If you fail to plan, then you plan to fail. Drummed into me since the day I entered basic training nineteen years ago. Fresh out of high school and barely eighteen years of age. It's fair to say that my skill in planning has been the main reason I have been promoted from a Seaman Recruit to the Commander I am today. I also worked hard to get my college degree on-line. Got a degree in linguistics. I speak Arabic, Urdu, and Farsi fluently. It's come in handy on more than one Ops mission. Plus, I don't need to work with an Terp I'm not sure I can trust when we have to interrogate a prisoner.
I run a hand across my chin and realize my 5’O’Clock shadow needs to be taken care of. Then chuckle a little at the thought of the fresh faced, overconfident kid I used to be. Hell, I didn't even have to shave regularly when I entered basic training. What I did have was determination, self-assurance, intelligence, and a fair amount of athleticism. Yeah, I know I sound like a cocky SOB. But I know my strengths and weaknesses.
In the interest of full disclosure, I will admit that my weaknesses are … Well… a particular past propensity for sins of the flesh. That sounded a lot better than breasts, boobs, butts, and booze. Yeah, I know breasts were listed twice. What can I say? They are my Achilles heel. My downfall. My weakness. Chink in my armor. Underbelly. Well, you get the picture. Suffice to say, I love breasts. Every size and shape will do as long as they are perky and real. No fake shit for me. But give me a pair of D cups to play with, and I will happily spend several hours making the woman in question orgasm. Over and over again.
I drag a hand through my hair and frown at my drink. I am so F.U.B.A.R. What am I doing getting Apple Jacked at 09:30? I would never admit it to anyone in my unit, but I am ready to get out. The fifteen years I have spent jumping out of helos, boats, Humvees and just about every other type of moving vehicle have taken a toll on me. I'm physically and mentally just …tired. My knees and back are shot to hell. I have been paying cash for treatment of my knees for the last six months to a civilian provider. I've hit the wall. Still, no way am I going to let my command know how bad my knees are. They would assign me TDY at a desk for my last year. Not. Gonna. Happen.
I have made sure my assistant CO is good to go when I get out. Still, there is no such thing as short timer syndrome for me. I'm leading my men ‘till the day I go from COMSUBLANT to CIVLANT. Balls to the wall till my End-of-the-World Party. The sailors in my unit deserve my respect, and they have it. They are my family. Every man in my unit knows I would take a bullet for them and I know they have my six at all times. You don't get that level of trust with a group of men until you have looked into the mouth of hell and somehow found your way home.
I've been awarded the Navy Cross, two Distinguished Service Medals, a Bronze Star, three purple hearts and a chest full of other ribbons. Not that a bunch of chest candy could ever make up for the loss of five of my brother-in-arms and my biological brother. That a fuck load of grief. You would think that their faces would have started to blur after so many years. That all the men I have served with would somehow start to fade into the background of my mind. Instead, every one of them burned into my psyche as if someone used a damn blowtorch.
I have spent most of the last 19 years living in either barracks or Bachelor Officer Quarters. Between my hazardous duty and combat pay, I have been earning a good living. No spouse or kids to drain my income. I will have enough to live off my savings for three or four years when I get out. Plenty of time to figure out my next step. Plus, I will have my Navy Retirement to collect, some lucky investments and my mother's life insurance money sitting in the bank. I've never touched a penny of any of it. Went over my finances yesterday and I am more than happy with the number of zero's in my checking account.
Sure, I have occasionally spent my pay on a few toys like my Harley and Ford F150 pickup. Still, I had enough saved that I could pay cash last year for my modern beach house near Willoughby, Virginia. All glass and steel, kind of like the house in the movie, The Lake House. I needed a house on the beach with a big deck, somewhere I could listen to the waves and watch a thunderstorm come in from the bay.
I should be feeling ecstatic. Last deployment. Money in the bank. So why do I feel so on edge? I swear my neck feels like its crawling. Something is going to happen. Just wish I knew what. It makes no sense. Frustrated, I look back out the window toward the pool area. Three women in bikinis walk up with a little guy that must be two or three years old. All three women are gorgeous but seem oblivious to the commotion they are causing; their attention is focused on the little guy as he runs in and out of the water features.
The brunette is probably 5 foot 10 with legs up to her neck and gorgeous black hair that falls in waves to her waist. She looks at least partly Native American and has high cheekbones, a full mouth, and striking blue eyes framed with dark lashes. Kinda rocks the whole Xena Warrior Princess vibe.
The blond is also gorgeous, but petite… Maybe just breaking 5' tall. She also looks a little younger than the other two, probably in her early twenties. With her blond Shirley Temple curls that are cut short, big gray eyes, and a little heart shaped face, the blond reminds me of a curvy Tinker Bell.
Still, it's the red-head that I can't look away from. That body is a killer, but her fiery red hair really seals the deal. I've been a sucker for redheads since Angela Becker in the third grade. Red's hair cascades in crazy red curls down to her waist, but for the life of me, I can't decide exactly what shade that hair is. Yeah, I know men aren't supposed to realize there are more colors than what's written on a box of sixteen Crayola crayons. But I love women… and women come in way more than sixteen varieties. Hence, the need to expand my repertoire of colors.
The morning sun makes Red’s hair change from strawberry to cherry, from cinnamon to nutmeg, and then from apricot to orange. Hell, maybe I’m just hungry. I scoff at my own foolishness but can’t look away, pulling on my swim shorts and stepping out to my balcony to get an unobstructed view. Sunset. Her hair has all of the colors of a Caribbean sunset contained in the strands. I wonder how that hair will feel wrapped around my fist. If it will be silky smooth or kinky. Whether those curls will smell like flowers or something more exotic when I pull her towards me.
Red is wearing a gold bikini with some dark green fabric tied around her waist. What are those things called again? Sarongs, pretty sure that's right. Worse invention ever. Invented to frustrate the hell out of every red-blooded American male ever born. Still, I can see Red has a tiny waist and a curvy backside.
The little guy runs up to her and drips water on her leg. He has a big grin on his face, and I swear I can see a twinkle in his eye. The kid is gonna be a lady killer in a few years. Pretty sure he belongs to the dark-haired, leggy woman because they have the same coloring. Red gives a little shriek when the water slides down her thigh and then bends over to ruffle the little guy's hair. The sarong pulls up more in back when she bends over. I get a flash of her backside. Damn. That is a mighty fine piece of ass.
I realize I am holding my breath as I watch Red straighten back up and turn to her friend…giving me my first view of the front. Her skin is creamy white with a smattering of freckles on her breasts. Breasts that are threatening to spill over her bikini top. I'd say 34 DD. Arrow straight to my …err…Achilles heel. I manage to tear my gaze away from those big, beautiful, breasts (nice alliteration, huh?) and look at Red's face. Then my mouth goes absolutely dry. Gorgeous green eyes framed with long lashes, high cheekbones, a button nose and a bow shaped mouth with lips the color of poppies. I see a flash of white teeth as she smiles at Xena. I'd say Red is in her mid to late 20's- maybe ten years younger than me. With her innocent face and porn star body I'm sure she is used to male attention.
The gold bikini and all that gorgeous red hair seem to reflect the sun. She is all sunshine and innocence. I hear her laughter ring out and can’t place why it sounds so familiar at first. Then I realize she laughs just like my mom used to. Full of life, full of happiness, full of music. Damn. Something about this woman makes me feel alive again. Like there is a life outside of loss, outside of grief, outside of war. I want to know everything I can about this woman. Not just her name or what she does for a living. No, I want to know everything. What she smells like, what side of the bed she sleeps on, whether or not she puts the lid on her toothpaste, and if she likes to watch lighting in a thunderstorm. All of it. I don't know why. But I know I need to know.
Red's hair and body captivate me, but it's her smile that seals the deal. Because when she smiles, Red is simply so full of life. I don't know anything about this woman, but I already know that she has been through a lot in her life and somehow come out on top of it. It's written all over her face. She wakes up every morning and sees the day as a gift.
I chuckle when I see a guy near the group gets smacked in the chest by his wife for looking too long. Only an idiot makes it obvious that they are looking at the dessert tray when they are on a diet.
I realize my dick is at half-mast and turn around briefly to adjust myself. Then turn back around to watch Red again. This girl makes me feel like I’m back in high school. She must feel my eyes on her because she turns around and looks right at me. I see a shy smile on her bow shaped mouth, so I give her a shit-eating grin and a salute. To my surprise, she gives me a fairly crisp salute back. Damn, is she military too?
I don’t usually date women in the service because it always ends badly. When both of you have to contend with travel orders, deployments and different duty stations, it just adds too much stress to the relationship. Plus, I don't believe in pissing where I eat. I look closer and see her nails are way too long to be within regulation and she has two ear piercings on each lobe. Nah, I think she is a civilian. Probably a military brat.
My grin gets even bigger as a watch Red's slow perusal of my shoulders and torso. Her gaze goes even lower before she blushes and jerks her eyes back up to mine. That blush extends all the way to the tops of her breasts, and I realize I need to know where it starts.
One more thing you’re going to learn about her, Evan.
My body is swinging over the side of the balcony before I even realize what I'm doing. Not thinking with the right head. Still, I have scaled cliffs and buildings a heck of a lot taller than two stories. I get a handhold on the gap between the balcony floor and the railing and dangle myself down as far as I can before letting go. I hit the ground with a little too much force on my knees but keep the grin on my face as I turn to Red. Her mouth is open in a little O, and her eyes are wide as she looks at me in astonishment.
I wonder if that is what her mouth looks like when she orgasms.
I shake the thought out and move in close enough to smell lemon and jasmine. Evan Granger, you are so screwed. I put as much sincerity and desire into my voice as I can when I groan out in a low and raspy tone of voice, “You are the brightest jewel in this whole place. All sunshine and innocence. For God’s sake, tell me your name.”