Chapter Three

Valen

“He’s thirty-four, so he’s older than my usual suspect. I think for the first time it’s a good thing, Greer. I mean, it started off really weird and I thought he was being an offensive blow hole, but then I realized he was trying to get a feel for me,” I tell my best friend, pressing the phone to my ear. She’s this leggy blonde with huge blue eyes and a recording contract worth fifteen million dollars. “What do you think?” I ask, when she stays silent. I hear the buzz of voices around her. I know she’s probably surrounded by a dozen of her people, but it never stops her from talking like she’s alone.

“It sounds like your hobby turned into something more constructive.” she lilts, her accent audible. “What are the chances I get to meet him? Bring him up to my smog filled city so I can shake him down in person.” Greer tells someone to ease up on the curling iron because they’re burning her soul instead of her hair. Greer has been my best friend since we were children. Her parents are from Alabama and moved her to San Diego when she was a child.

I giggle. “We had coffee the morning after I met him at Burning Fish. It was weird. It was so quiet and the lights were so bright. His eyes are so fucking green, Greer. Like your weird ass alien blue, his are that odd, but green. Oh, he’s hot, but I’m not sure what to talk to him about. SEALs don’t like talking about their jobs.”

“What hobbies does he have?” She asks.

“I don’t know. He mentioned he has a small dog. It seems kind of weird,” I say, shifting on my sofa to relieve the pins and needles in my foot. “I have work to do now,” I tell her when my laptop pings from in front of me—alerting me to another new e-mail.

“Find out his hobbies and talk about his pet. Ask about his past relationships too. Those are important when you’re in your thirties. Chances are he has some baggage.”

“Way to be positive, Greer,” I mumble, before sipping my diet soda. “I’m not sure I want to delve into that subject then I’d have to divulge the skeletons in my closet. “

Greer scoffs. “He already knows your most offensive skeletons, Valen. You fuck SEALs for sport. He’s a SEAL and he’s still willing to date you. What more could you possibly tell him that would scare him off? I’m glad you’re settling down, though. It’s a good thing to try this out. Even if I’m a little jealous,” she says, before barking an order at the person plucking her eyebrows.

“I don’t know how you deal with all those people around you all the time.”

“I have to let these people around me all the time or I’d look like a trash can in every tabloid at the grocery store, Valen. I miss you. Come see me soon. We can ditch the posse and go incognito in sweats and sunglasses and go to a game or something.”

I smile. Greer loves baseball. I’ve always found it to be such a weird fact about a woman as successful and beautiful as she. “Deal. Good luck tomorrow at the studio. You got that song finished, right?”

Greer groans, and I can tell she’s holding her hand over the mouthpiece. “Thanks. It’s finished, yeah. Even if the little shit took forever getting his lyrics to my people.” She is recording a duet with a squirrelly asshole. I try to squelch my laughter, but I end up laughing some more.

“I can’t believe that’s real life. I always thought they portrayed him poorly in the news and he had to be awesome in real life.”

She groans. “I wish. He’s just as difficult in reality. I swear if he tries to hit on me again, I’ll be in the rag mags. Greer Sinclair beats the shit out of pop superstar. God, can you imagine? I’ll call you tomorrow night to let you know how it goes.”

“Details. I’ll want details.” Her life isn’t as weird as it was when her first record released. It was like watching a shooting star. It was a star who always circled you, but suddenly that star wanted more. Wanted to be higher. She changed, it was inevitable given her crazy life; it took a while for her to return to her former self. “See ya, baby.”

“Love you Vale-Hale. Be good. Go work. And for God’s sake don’t scare him off with that trick with your tongue.”

Laughing, I click off the phone and pick up my laptop. I’m a graphic designer for several large firms. I also do IT for two firms on the East Coast. I have to be up at insane o’clock to coincide with their working hours. Today was one of those days. My coffee is large and cold. I’m on my third pot. Greer always gets up at five to go to the gym so we talk most mornings.

Responding to e-mails and questions is easy and I work through my inbox quickly. Gabe Hutchinson. The name stands out because it’s not a person I typically get e-mail from. Usually my inbox is filled with messages from people I recognize. The subject line says: Date me.

It’s Hutch. A quick google search provided me with your email address. What are you doing this weekend? I’m heading out for a training trip next week, but wanted to see you before I left. I didn’t want to disturb you with a phone call, but figured this was a good way to signify I’ve officially stalked you online. Take that however you wish.

Hutch

His voice isn’t even attached to these typed words, but my body hears it anyways and reacts. My stomach tilts, and my face heats. I’m a giddy, fucking, school girl. Laughing to myself, I take a large swig of cold coffee and grimace at the temperature. Gabe Hutchinson. What a hot, fucking name. I always assume SEALs use nicknames, but I guess I wasn’t expecting Hutch’s to be so…normal. I amble to the kitchen to heat my coffee and take my laptop with me. Leaning over the counter in my pajamas I click reply and hit him back with a quick response.

What did you have in mind? I’m free and I won’t be trolling Burning Fish for men who want to fuck me. Perhaps you want to? Just kidding. Or maybe, I’m not. Am I? I don’t know. You can stalk me in person if you want to. You’ve gathered I work from home. 45 Indiana Way. There’s a code to get into the front gate of my condo cluster. 143143. You should probably call first though. I work in my underwear and I’m not really proper for company unless I know I’m expecting visitors. I enjoyed our coffee date. I want to know more. It’s not as easy to stalk you…

Valen

My cell phone rings from the coffee table and I make a dive for it. There’s one client who absolutely detests it when you answer on anything after the second ring. It’s the weirdest thing I’ve ever encountered. I’ve learned it’s better to let it go to voicemail if I can’t grab it after the first ring. It’s not Mr. Ringing Asshole though. It’s Hutch.

“Was that an invitation? You gave me your address and talked about fucking all in the same message. I’m a guy, so you know, I just wanted to confirm my caveman intentions before I barged into your house and took you on the floor barbarian style,” Hutch says, keeping his tone level. My core clenches with desire and heat prickles my neck. Now, a voice is attached to his words and it does everything to my body.

Laughing, rather uncomfortably, I walk in to my bedroom. “I was beginning to think you didn’t have those tendencies in you. I’m glad to know I read you wrong in that department. I do so love fucking in beast mode.” I swallow hard and yank on the hem of my shirt. Hot. I feel hot.

There’s a long pause where he breathes, and I wait for him to speak. “You didn’t answer my question,” he growls.

I clear my throat even as my nipples tingle. “We should probably have a dinner date first. Fucking barbarian style is typically reserved for those in established relationships. Plus, we didn’t get off on the right foot, remember? We probably need to get to know each other a little more before we get mixed up in sex. I should note, I do want to fuck your brains out just because I can.”

Hutch groans. “Noted. Here’s the thing, though. Remember what I was telling you about time? And how it’s not like real time? I’m about to leave for a week and in a few months, I’ll be gone for six months. You have to grab the bull by the horns in relationships. There isn’t enough time to start off slow. That’s for accountants and mortuary attendants, not Navy SEALs.”

“I mean, you make valid points. I was just talking to my friend Greer about you.”

“Greer?” he asks and I can hear the confusion in his voice. It’s an uncommon name, and there’s only one Greer who is a household name.

I sigh. “Greer Sinclair is my best friend,” I admit. Laughing, I tell him the story. The same one I tell everyone about Greer’s and my friendship. I also tell him she wants to meet him.

“And she wants to meet me?” he asks, voice incredulous.

“To see if you’re right for me,” I add. “Not for any other fantasizing reasons, Hutch.”

He seems to realize his mortal, manly mistake. “She’s not my type, but I can’t say I won’t be star struck. You realize she’s the screensaver on my best friend Baz’s phone, right? It’s just an odd twist of fate. That’s all.” If the image is one of the creepy screenshots of her leaked porn movie, I’ll never be able to like Baz.

Greer’s ex-boyfriend was a rising country singer with dimples, worn out boots, and abs that could slice a pussy open. He seemed like a nice, country boy. When he asked to film them fucking she never thought his kind, love-your-mamma manners would allow him to leak the damn movie to a porno conglomerate in Silicon Valley. Greer took him for all his worth in court, and now we hate him with a passion equal to that of the Devil’s fury.

“Well if you play your cards right I could get Baz a meeting. I’m not promising anything though. The last time I made her meet someone she was pissed at me for a week. He tried to lick her feet and asked if he could come on her pinky toe.” The thought makes me crinkle my nose.

Hutch laughs and tells me he can’t wait to tell Baz about the connection. “How about dinner at my house?” I offer, to get the conversation back on track. “I’ll cook something delicious while you watch me move around the kitchen—planning your attack?”

“I’ll bring over the wine and dessert.”

Raising my eyebrows, I say, “Your cock is dessert?” I find myself licking my lips. I’ve never had it so bad.

He chuckles softly. “No. Something sweeter. We can learn more about each other, though. I agree that’s a good idea.”

“Come baring answers.”

“All this talk of coming is making me hard,” he says, teasing with a low growl.

I groan away from the phone and blow out a frustrated breath. The tenor of his voice sets every nerve ending on edge. It’s a promise of testosterone induced thrills and exhilarating orgasms. “Me too,” I reply. “I mean, I’m not hard. Just wet.” Biting my lip, I open my fridge to see what I have and what I need to buy.

Hutch sighs. “I’m not saying I want to take it slow, but I don’t date just anyone and given your...past conquests, I’d like to make sure it’s going to work out before we bypass the heavy petting stage.”

The one thing I never thought of when I was bagging those hotties was this circumstance. The one happening right in front of me—almost prohibiting me from getting the one thing I desire the most. Would I have made different decisions if I could see the future? If I knew I’d want to settle down with a SEAL and try for something more meaningful? I don’t think so. It’s who I am. I’m assertive. I know what I want and far be it from anyone to judge me on previous conquests.

In the same token, I can see why he’s wary. “Do you think I have some black book filled with names of men I’ve slept with? That is way too much work, Hutch. I offered to cook. Anyways, I should be concerned with your motives. A man who wants to take it slow and get to know me first? A man like you? Is this real life?”

“Ah. It’s definitely real life. How to explain this? I know what I want. I see brothers die on a regular basis. I see the aftermath—the remnants of their families. The emphasis on life holds a different meaning for me. I don’t waste time,” he explains. His admission chills me to the bone and forces awareness to a fact I haven’t even considered yet. The volatility of his life. The chilling thought causes a full body shudder.

“I hope I’m not a waste of your time,” I deadpan.

Hutch clicks his tongue. “No self-deprecating. That doesn’t suit you. I’d rather not have an extra notch on my bedpost, that’s all. I’d like to give more to my future spouse. And in this case—less is in fact more.” Spouse. Future. Words that make my ears ring and my heart stutter.

There was this one time when I was having sex with this guy. He wasn’t a SEAL. I think he was a rock climbing instructor or something like that. He was lean and lithe—his muscles stretched out in a way that made him good at his job. He made me feel special. Expected me to spend the night at his house and asked me if I wanted to use his toothbrush. It was all too much, too soon, after having an orgasm. I considered spending the night, but I didn’t see a relationship with him. Was it because I wasn’t ready, or because I have too many hang-ups with my requirements?

When Hutch admits he wants to give things to his future spouse, I can’t help the pang of envious jealousy that slices deep. My palms sweat because I find myself considering, once again, not if I’m ready; but if I can unlock my heart and give away the key. This time all my requirements are met. The asshole can be expected, but the rest is unparalleled as if I had asked a man be made specifically for me.

“That’s charming. I can respect your decision to keep the key to your chastity belt locked even if I don’t agree with it.”

Hutch bellows. “I’m not barring you from my cock, in fact my cock is calling your name right now. I’m merely stating I expect to be in a committed relationship before my cock slides home. There’s a difference, you see?”

“I see you can work dirty talk into a plain conversation about boundaries. So, bonus points, dude. Mad, fucking bonus points.”

“Honest War,” Hutch says.

“What the hell is Honest War?”

“It’s when you have to answer truthfully and or speak the truth on your mind without remorse or regard for another’s feelings.” His tone is matter of fact.

I narrow my eyes at the clock above my stove. “Okay. Honest War.”

“It’s not that I don’t like you swearing. In fact, I swear a fuck-ton when I’m with my buddies, it’s your choice of swear word that I take offense to.”

“Fucking?” I ask. “I’m confused.”

“Anytime you say it my dick jerks.”

Laughing, I call him a liar in three languages. It’s a rapid-fire response I’ve developed while growing up in a tri-lingual household.

He doesn’t return the humor. “I’m not a liar, Valen. I’m a man with a strong response to you saying the word fucking.”

I choke on a sip of my now warm coffee. “See you at six?” I ask, instead of responding to his odd request. “I’m telling all my friends you’re coming over, by the way. If I end up in a ditch somewhere, they’ll know it was you.”

“Now that’s offensive,” he says, sighing. After a brief pause he growls, “Make it six-fifteen. I need to buy duct tape.” Then hangs up the phone.

Walking over to the large mirror in my living room I study my face. “Fucking,” I say out loud—stretching my lips out on the ending syllable. Tilting my head to the side I say, “Fucking,” annunciating it a different way. He’s out of his mind, I think.

I love the idea of Honest War, though.

Shaking my head, I vanish into my bedroom to get dressed for my dinner date.