Chapter Four

Macs

Teala doesn’t respond to my text right away. This is already more work than swiping at my cell phone screen. Maybe she has no clue who I am, so she’s ignoring me. I text a little more detail. Moose gave me your number. I work with him. There, now she’ll know exactly what she’s working with. Literally and figuratively. I’m not lazy. It’s quite the opposite. I’m one hundred percent constantly. Keeping things like women and dates less complicated is a requirement for my sanity. I drum my fingers on the side of the cabinet as I let my imagination get the better of me.

After a daydream moves from me killing a bad guy while fucking a bottle blonde, I realize there’s still no response. If Moose hadn’t told me she was worth it, I wouldn’t have even bothered with explaining. I tap my foot to the beat of the music as I alternate my gaze from my cell phone to the kitchen cabinets I’m currently trying to put up in my dust bowl of a house. My friend Tahoe is outside with the table saw and a cooler of beer. For a drunk Saturday, he’s gotten more accomplished than he usually does. He’s the one friend who knows how to do everything. He’s a kickass SEAL and he built his own house from the ground up.

He lumbers through the front door with an armful of unpainted molding and drops the stack on the counter in front of me. “Time for paint,” he says, wiping his brow with a tattooed covered forearm. Tahoe is his nickname because he’s built like a motherfucking SUV. He has everything including that third row in the back most other trucks are void of. Picking his beer up, he polishes off the contents in a few seconds flat. “What the fuck are you doing in here?” he asks, his brow furrowed at the accumulating molding.

I shrug, finish my own bottle of beer, and set the empty down in front of me. “I’m exercising,” I say, flexing my bicep as I make a show of popping the top off another brew. “Painting will be quick. You’re doing the time-consuming part outside.”

“Fair point. Maybe we should trade places.” He scoffs and digs for his cell phone in his pocket. A huge grin breaks out on his scary face.

He flashes the screen my way.

“Nice rack,” I say. “Is it new?”

Tahoe is a bigger player than I am. His game is a little sketchier than mine.

“I don’t know. I don’t have this number programmed into my phone.” He smiles widely.

I shake my head. “I don’t know how you keep them all straight. You need to tighten your game.”

Licking his lips, he sets off to text back. “Nope. My game is airtight, bro. Watch this. ‘Those are the most beautiful tits I’ve ever seen. I want to test their density. Meet me tonight? Where?’” Tahoe reads the text aloud, then makes a show of hitting send.

“What if her face doesn’t match her rack? What then?” I ask.

He cracks his neck, tilting it from one side to the other. “Then I fuck her doggy style while holding on to the prettiest part of her body.”

I grimace. “Fucking dog.”

“Dog. Yes. Doggy style. You’re finally getting it. You swiping any pussy tonight?” His question reminds me about my unanswered text.

I glance down at my own phone.

“You’re such a modern playboy. I’m too old school for that shit,” he drawls. A man like Tahoe can procure women however he sees fit. He’s just leaving my avenue alone. Brotherhood runs deep. Sort of.

Teala is texting back, the gray bubble forcing excitement down to my cock. “Looks like I might be doing it the old school way tonight, bro. A chick Moose set me up with.”

Tahoe raises one bushy brow. “Moose? As in I don’t like women, Ryan Perry?”

“One and the same,” I reply. I don’t want to give away any of Moose’s secrets, so I don’t say anything more. “Friend of a friend or something,” I explain when he flicks a confused look my way, then focuses his attention back on his own cell when another text message pings.

Teala finally responds. What did you have in mind? She’s a grammatically correct texter. That’s a good thing. I have a few pet peeves outside of the typical ones, and grammar is one of them. Women who can’t be bothered to spell out the word ‘you’ annoy me.

What do I have in mind? Well, thanks to Tahoe, doggy style is edging to the top of my list. I pick up the pile of molding and bring it over to the bench in my living room and spread it out—no need to return the text right away when she took her time. Tahoe comes over, a shit-eating grin still on his face, and starts painting the long pieces of wood a bright white. He’s humming some melody as he works only he manages to make it sound creepy.

I run my hands through my hair and take a sip of beer. The room swims a little. I’m not sure how best to convey exactly what I want the outcome of our date to be. I pick up my phone and see she’s writing again. I text before hers comes through. Whatever you want. Free tonight? That’s vague enough. It’s also pretty clear.

Dinner? Her reply is swift.

Ah, dinner. That’s more than I usually do. I’m buzzed and this isn’t my usual circumstance. I can be a good guy like Moose. At least for an hour or two. Sure. La Samba at eight, I reply, glancing at the clock. It’s four.

“I’m off alcohol for the rest of the afternoon,” I proclaim, draining my beer, one finger in the air to drive my point home. “I’ll head outside to sand,” I reply amidst Tahoe’s sudden outburst of booing and cackling. I have to be somewhat sober if I’m going to fuck her properly. You see, there must be rules if my game is to stay in tip-top shape. Inebriation in any form past buzzed isn’t allowed from either party.

Despite what it may seem, I do care if women are satisfied. It’s not just about me. Well, it sort of is, but my perfectionist ways swing into my sex life as well. I spend hours upon hours training to be the best at my job. It’s cutthroat—the balance of life or death perched between my forefinger and the cold metal trigger. Some of the drive to be successful is bound to drip into my sexual escapades. The need to be the best isn’t something that can be dulled. In truth, it would make my life a little easier if I could subdue that instinct.

The pile of wood that needs to be sanded is large and looming. I set to work with the bright sun beaming down on my neck and bare back. Tahoe has given up humming his death tune in favor of singing Elton John. I shake my head. Crazy motherfucker.

****

My hair is fucking perfect. I slide my fingers through the sides one last time before I turn off the bathroom light. My bedroom and bathroom were the first rooms I finished remodeling and furnishing. If I keep the door shut, I can pretend the rest of my house doesn’t look like a war zone of dust and unfinished edges. My OCD is at peace in here. No one else sees inside this room. Every small detail says something about me or my personality. Be it the finer details, or the weird way I need the bed to be made. These are things I’m not comfortable sharing with anyone—personal sanctities attached people are forced to part with.

My father always said that attachments hold people back from fulfilling their full potential. I was never quite sure what that meant until I grew up and realized he was talking about my mom. And me. His obligation was to his family. He never knew we saw the desperation in his eyes when he turned down a business trip or a round of golf with his partners in favor of whatever activity my mother had planned for that weekend. I can’t say his thoughts had any effect on the way I’ve chosen to live my life, because I give my decisions more credit than that. I control them. No one else does. But maybe some subconscious Freudian shit slipped in and forced my hand a little.

I grab a couple empty beer bottles and toss them in the large trash bin outside before driving downtown earlier than I need to. After I park in the lot adjacent to the La Samba, I respond to a text, confirming a meeting for early Monday morning on base. We have a lot of planning to do with the upcoming deployment. Many training trips are on the horizon. That means lots of variety between my hotel bed sheets along with adrenaline fueled activities. My life is razor-sharp awesome. I have to be careful the blade is always facing away from me.

Someone sends a dick pic in the group text thread and gets banned from our conversation by way of a quick group vote. That happens at least once a week. Typically someone tries to be funny and it ends in a two-day punishment ban for bruising our eyes. I’m chuckling under my breath as I enter the restaurant. It’s busy. The drone of noise and chaos sets my teeth on edge for a moment or two until I gain my bearings. I love the food here, but hate everything else about the location. Everything is too close together.

The bar is crawling with people, and I curse Moose for his brief description of Teala. “She’s hot. Small. Darkish hair. Big lips and a big smile.” At the time it was all I needed to know. As I survey the gaggle of women in front of me, it’s not enough. I’m in Gaslamp. It’s a section of San Diego where the young and beautiful roam in full force: they own every street and trashcan here. I make my way closer when a quick survey doesn’t produce any results. No one looks like they’re waiting for anyone. There are eight brunettes, all caught up in conversation with other men.

With my hands in my pockets, I debate sending her a text message. This feels like the worst idea I’ve ever had. Meeting her here without having any idea what she looks like puts me at a disadvantage. My only hope is that she hasn’t arrived yet. The last thing I want is for her to see me looking desperate. Snaking up to the bar, I order an import beer. With a wink to the cute bartender, I let my gaze wander.

A stunning woman with dirty-blond hair catches my eye. She’s talking to a man, but she’s eyeing me over his right shoulder. A smile creeps across her full glossed lips. Teala.

“Darkish hair, my ass,” I whisper under my breath. I tilt my chin up in a greeting, and I’m rewarded with her full smile. Her eyes crinkle in the corner as she tamps down her glee by biting the corner of her mouth. I watch her intently, taking a sip of my beer as she excuses herself from her company. I stay right where I am. The perfect view of her body as she makes her way toward me happens to be exactly where I’m standing.

She sees another guy she knows and leans over to kiss the dude’s cheek. Her gaze meets mine once again as she approaches me, winding her tight body through the packed crowd, a lowball of clear liquid in one hand. It’s almost full. Even in heels she’s about five foot five…maybe six. Moose didn’t lie. She’s a stunner. Not unlike my usual woman, though. You can tell she works out a lot. Her skin is pale—flawless. She heeds the doctor’s warnings to stay covered in the sun. She cares about aging well, which means she cares about the rest of the superficial things. Like waxing every important part of her body. I’m keyed into everything at once, dissecting every nuance of her body and the way she moves. Reading people is a skilled talent of mine. I use it in my job, but mostly it’s put to use in situations such as these.

Teala extends her hand. “Macs,” she says, pushing her lips to one side. She has blue gray eyes. It’s a color that’s hard to describe. Like a stainless steel appliance wrestled with the ocean and the outcome was a stalemate. I stare a second longer than I should. Maybe she is a touch more beautiful than my normal woman.

“That obvious, huh?” I reply, taking her hand in mine to place a cool kiss on the back. She smells like a vanilla creamsicle—a dessert I want on my cheat day.

She shakes her head, tossing her hair, already on to my overt game. “Ryan told me enough,” she replies, using Moose’s real name. “Plus, I could tell you were looking for someone.” The problem with that statement is she wasn’t looking for anyone. “I’m Teala,” she finishes, letting her eyes wander from my face down my body. Hot chick retrieval officially in progress.

“Sorry to interrupt.” I lift my chin in her companion’s direction. I raise my beer as an excuse. “I’m good if you want to continue your conversation.” I clear my throat and take a quick swig.

She watches my lips intently.

“I’m hungry. Let’s have dinner,” she says. “That was the plan, right?”

“Well, Teala,” I say, tasting her name on the tip of my tongue. “Usually plans are made with the probability of destruction. That’s life.” I catch sight of my reflection in the shiny material of the glass behind the bar and smile. “For the sake of your stomach, let’s stick to the plan and see how it ends.” And then the plan I have for after dinner.

“Oh, man. He didn’t tell you, did he?” Teala says, blinding me with white teeth.

She sips her drink and my gaze dips to her exposed cleavage. It appears silky soft. I want to put my face in between her tits and rub myself against them like a cat.

I sigh. “Didn’t tell me what?”

“Your game won’t work with me. I’m better at it than you are,” she replies, her voice decisive.

Raising my eyebrows, I nod at Teala and signal for the attention of a waitress. I let her know we’re ready to be seated. I called ahead for reservations, and now I’m glad I did. I’m intrigued. As we make our way to a booth in the corner of the room, I glimpse Teala as she nods and waves to several people. My heart rate speeds up. The upper hand. She has it. And I can’t fix it. Not tonight, at least.

After we’re seated and I’ve examined her ass from every angle as she slides into the booth, she sets her glass down in front of her and pins her lips together with her teeth.

“You’re really hot, Macs,” she says. “I assumed you would be, but I have to say you’ve surpassed my expectations and that’s an awful thing.”

I raise one brow. “Awful?”

She can’t possibly be one of those chicks who date down. Not with her looks. I slide closer to her until I’m sitting right next to her. My leg is mere inches from hers. I peer down at her.

“Anything but awful. I think you’re beautiful. Stunning even.” Superficial talk. This is comfortable territory. “Even if every other man in this restaurant shares the same sentiments with me.”

Without taking her eyes off mine, she says, “I own a yoga studio. Half of those people take classes there. I see them regularly. You’re in my neighborhood, remember?”

I zone in on what she didn’t say. “The other half?”

“Are men I have been with.” She lifts and lowers one shoulder. A gesture to signify this is already old news to me.

Fuck. “A plus for honesty. Sounds like we both know what we want then?”

She smiles, but it fades quickly and a mask of confusion transforms her features. I swallow hard. That’s not a promising sign. Fuck.

The waitress comes and takes our orders. We’ve both frequented this restaurant enough to know exactly what we want to eat and drink. To the degree that I’m wondering why I’ve never seen her here before. She scoots away from me, edging her way closer to the exit of the booth.

“Here’s the thing. You’re my type,” Teala says.

I grin. “Funny you mention it. You’re my type too.”

She shakes her head. “You see, the problem with this is that we don’t know anything about each other and we’re able to determine this based on superfluous, meaningless attributes.”

I hold my hands out to the sides. “I still don’t see a problem with that. If you’re trying to explain through thinly veiled statements that we’ll blow each other’s minds while naked, then yes. I agree. Let’s do that. Mind. Blown.”

She watches my mouth, her own lips part, breaths pushing through a little more rushed now that I’ve exposed the elephant in the room for what it is. Sexual chemistry.

I set my hand in between our thighs. “Come on. What do you say?”

Teala looks down at my hand and back up at my face. “I’d usually say, let’s get out of here, but I can’t.”

I blow out a long breath. Our food arrives, so I have time to figure out how to remedy this situation. I drain my beer and notice she hasn’t taken a sip of her own drink since we’ve sat down. She’s purposely staying sober. Why? Because I’m so appealing and she’s trying to hold back, or because she wants to be completely sober when I make her legs tingle? She chews slowly, politely, but keeps her eyes on her salad and far away from me. I’d think it a shy gesture if everything else about this woman didn’t ooze sex and seduction. We talk about mundane things for a second or two. She asks my age, and I answer truthfully.

For the most part, I let my food sit untouched in front of me. During a lull in conversation I tell her what I’m really thinking. “I want you,” I say, my voice just loud enough for her to hear me. “I want to fuck you. Let me fuck you into oblivion, Teala.”

Her fork clanks against her plate. My cock hardens under the table.

Swallowing the mouthful of food, her steely eyes flick up to meet mine. “Tell me about yourself instead.”

In this moment, I’ve never wanted to fuck a woman more. This isn’t insta-love, or even insta-lust. I want to insta-fuck. Plain and simple.