Chapter Three
WYATT
May
Don’t ask. Don’t tell. Wyatt spent his entire military career alone to keep in line with the defence directive. One-night stands, weekend flings, and the occasional month-long tryst satisfied his sexual needs but nothing else.
After thirteen years of service, Wyatt came to the realisation that he’d sacrificed one aspect of himself long enough. Walking into the recruitment office at the mall, he’d been twenty-two and fresh out of college, not completely aware of the difficulties to come with wars, deployments, and hiding his sexuality. Even with his injuries, heartache, and loneliness, he’d do it all again without hesitation.
I serve my country.
I served my country.
Past tense.
“Are you serious about this leaving shit?” Trace sat across from him at one of their favourite bars in Coronado—McP’s Irish Pub. “I thought you’d be in until you hobbled out with no hair or teeth, clinging to your walking frame.”
“They pay you by the joke?” Wyatt flicked one of his onion rings across the table at him. “I’m done—nothing left for me to accomplish.”
“Weak sauce. Utter fucking weak sauce.” Trace leaned forward with his elbows on the table. “It’s the gay thing, isn’t it?”
Wyatt didn’t even blink in response. He waved the bartender over for another round of Guinness; Hamish had gotten all of the SEALs hooked on it. “What gay thing?”
“The fucked up policy that says you can’t serve if you’re open about who you are.” Trace pushed the plate of nachos to the side. “None of us give a shit who you fuck—or who you love.”
Wyatt knew the men under his command respected him, thought of him as a friend. SEAL teams were almost always tight-knit units. They only had each other to count on in the middle of treacherous missions. “None of you?”
“None of our element.”
“Right.” Wyatt gratefully took the glass held out to him. He chugged down half of it, wiping the foam from his lip with the back of his hand. “Adam and Cole okay with you speaking for them?”
“On this.”
They sipped their drinks in silence for long minutes. Wyatt had a feeling Trace was waiting for him to say something. He didn’t know what even by the time he got to the bottom of his glass.
Trace had gone through selection with Wyatt. Adam and Cole had gone through it together several years later. The four of them had a tight bond—closer than they did with the rest of the team.
Of the four, Adam would’ve been the one he worried about the most. He could be a real hothead when not in uniform. The navy hadn’t managed to knock the chip off his shoulder completely.
“Did you really think Voodoo and Scorch would have issues with you?” Trace tossed a couple of tens on the table and stood up. He grabbed Wyatt by the shoulder to force him up out of the chair. “Let’s go.”
All of the SEALs had nicknames, for various reasons, but mostly to avoid names in the field. Wyatt’s moniker came from his name—Earp. Trace, being one of the breaching specialists in their unit, was usually called Breach, also because he’d infamously broken several doors during basic. Scorch referred to Adam Wallach, whose grandparents emigrated from Syria in the fifties. Voodoo’s, or Cole Willis, parents lived in New Orleans, having moved over from Haiti in the seventies, and both actively practised the religion.
“Voodoo—”
“Voodoo is bisexual and has a massive voodoo doll tattooed on his back.” Trace interrupted him confidently. “So much for the great Earp’s observation skills.”
“Can the shit, Breach. I’ve seen his tattoo. And it’s not like we wear our sexuality on our sleeves.” Wyatt shoved him hard in the back, sending his friend barreling out the front door and down the path. “You sure you can drive?”
Trace flipped him the bird. “I texted Scorch.”
“Sure he was thrilled to be pressed into the role of designated driver.” Wyatt could still remember when Adam had earned his nickname. They’d been attempting to teach him how to start a fire, only for him to set his jeans alight. After they had managed to stop laughing, Trace had immediately named him Scorch. “Have you ever thought about what you’ll do when you’re out?”
“No.”
“Liar.” Wyatt gave him another push. “Up for a game of poker?”
“You only want to play poker when you know we’ve got cash to spare.” Trace narrowed his eyes on Wyatt. “Fucking hustler.”
They bickered back and forth while waiting for their ride. They’d only had a few beers, but Wyatt had always stressed the importance of being safe at all times. The group always had a designated driver, even if they had to wake them up in the middle of the night.
After the training exercise had turned into a rescue mission, the four SEALs, along with their British counterparts, found themselves in a joint operation. They’d returned to Coronado tired and ready for a break. Wyatt, on the other hand, came home with a fire in his gut to make drastic changes in his life.
Hamish had started his thoughts whirling when he mentioned his own intention to retire over the summer and set up a private security firm based in Wales. He’d invited Wyatt to be a partner in the business with him. They could find as much success out of the military as they had in it.
Right?
Yeah, okay then, say it a few more times, Wyatt, and you’ll start to believe yourself.