Page 3 of Claimed By Brothers

And tonight, the girls and I are celebrating six months of freedom.

“Ladies, I have to say, those kamikaze shots had something else in them,” I say as we trot out of the beach bar in the middle of a starry night. “I’m sure of it.”

“Well, let’s think about it. What’s in a kamikaze shot?” Jewel asks, slurring her words slightly.

Jewel’s a military girl, an Air Force pilot who rarely drinks, so it’s no wonder she can’t hold her liquor. Then again, we’re all way past tipsy at this point. I’ve lost count of how many shots we had on top of the margaritas we opened the evening with. But at least we’re still standing and nowhere near ready for bed.

It would be unreasonable to hit the sack this early, anyway. We only have this weekend to spend in Vancouver. We’re supposed to drive back to Seattle on Monday. Until then, we’re going to enjoy this summery getaway and then some.

“Vodka,” Alicia says, spraining her brain to remember the rest of the ingredients.

I’m laughing my ass off as we make our way down the sandy beach, the Pacific Ocean playfully lapping at our feet. “Triple sec and lime juice,” I add.

“Triple sex?” Alicia blurts out, somewhat confused.

“No, triple sec. S. E. C.”

“What the heck is that?” Jewel asks.

It’s a good thing nobody can hear us. We left the party at the beach bar terrace while the electronic music was still thudding and echoing into the night. More people are pouring into the bar from the city, but the girls and I have decided to go for a stroll along the beach. It was getting too crowded in there. Besides, it’s so beautiful out here as midnight approaches.

The middle of summer in Vancouver is surprisingly hot, but the ocean breeze still manages to take some of the edge off the heat. Under a sea of stars heralded by a full, pearly moon, the girls and I laugh and talk about the fun we’ve had—not to mention the fun we plan on having for the rest of this trip. We rarely manage to get together like this, especially since each of our careers has taken off in recent years.

“It’s a liquor made out of orange peels,” Cynthia explains. “Bartenders use it to make their cocktails stronger. It adds a nice zing to the drink, too.”

“Look at you, Little Miss Know-It-All,” Jewel chuckles.

“She dated that mixologist in Seattle,” Alicia quips. “Remember him? Constantine. Was that his name? Constantine?”

Cynthia can’t help but laugh. “Yeah. Nice guy. He liked snorting stuff, but other than that, he was heaps of fun. And I learned a lot during the short time we dated.”

We’re all barefoot, our fingers hooked through our high-heeled sandal straps as we go deeper into the night and farther away from the bustling, colorful weekend nightlife. I love this strip of beach because it dips along a residential neighborhood comprised mostly of vacation houses built on tall, wooden stilts overlooking the ocean. The sand is warm and soft, beautifully golden during the day, but the moonlight gives it a silvery glow.

The water stretches out for seemingly forever, dark waves trembling under the stars, and as the salty air fills my lungs and I relax, my thoughts are tranquil. I don’t know whether it’s the alcohol or just the overall joie de vivre I feel when I’m around my best friends, but I would love to go for a dip in the ocean.

“Come on, let’s swim,” I say, already peeling off my pale pink sequined dress.

“Isn’t it cold? We’re in the north here, babe,” Cynthia reminds me. “North of Seattle, I might add.”

“Yeah, but it’s still hot! Can’t you feel how hot the sand is?”

Jewel shoots me a cool grin as she slips out of her black tennis dress, dropping her sandals along with it. “I can’t feel anything at this point. I’ll blame it on the triple sex and join you.”

“Triple sec!” Cynthia says with a giggle.

“It sounds more fun the way I say it,” Jewel insists.

Man, I am glad to be with them. We’ve known each other since we were kids growing up in downtown Seattle. Our childhoods were anything but easy—tough family situations, a certain degree of poverty, and a shoddy economy had a noticeable impact on our upbringing, but we stuck together through the years, supporting and encouraging one another without hesitation. I love how we each developed such varied paths and personalities, yet we still work as a team when we’re reunited, like pieces of the same puzzle.

Jewel is the military brat who followed in her father’s footsteps. Sporting short, curly brown hair, delicate caramel skin, and curious hazel eyes, ever the tomboy in our group, she elbowed her way through the military academy and became one of the youngest and most promising Air Force pilots by the time she turned twenty-two.

“All right, fine, I give up!” Cynthia exclaims and sloughs off her shimmery, emerald-green tank top and black leather pencil skirt. Earlier in the evening, we all decided to wear our bikinis underneath our dresses. I guess we knew eventually, it would boil down to this. “What’s the worst thing that could happen?”

Cynthia is the oldest of our crew, a fine woman at twenty-eight and an exceptional doctor. She’s about one year shy of finishing her residency at Seattle General Hospital. She wears her long black hair combed into a tight bun at the nape of her neck, her green eyes constantly scanning everything around us—a habit she picked up from time spent in the ER. A hard-working woman, Cynthia has already seen plenty of tragedy rolling into her ward on bloodied gurneys, yet she’s still fun-loving and warm.

“Hypothermia,” Alicia suggests, but she’s already wriggled out of her baby-blue cocktail dress and has her feet in the icy water. “That’s the worst that can happen. But it might be worth it. Oh, it’s chilly!”

“It’s not as warm as the sand was,” I concede as I go farther out.

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