Page 2 of Surfer's Paradise

He cracked his window, letting the warm night air whip through the truck, music pounding through the speakers as he pulled into the city. Let’s fucking go, bitch.

* * * * *

Isaac tipped his head back, the burn of whiskey hitting just right, his grin slow and easy as Shay Kavanaugh held his pint on the bar.

Isaac side-eyed him. “You gonna keep babysitting that, or you actually gonna drink it?”

Shay flipped him off, taking a slow sip. “I’m savoring. You wouldn’t know shit about that, since you inhale everything like you’re still in SERE school.”

Isaac snorted. “Didn’t see you savoring that MRE last week when you were damn near licking the wrapper.”

“Yeah, ‘cause I was fucking starving, thanks to you.” Shay shook his head. “I swear to God, if I ever let you talk me into anotherextended dive op, you have full permission to shoot me in the face.”

Isaac grinned. “You say that every time.”

Shay glared. “And yet, every time, I end up freezing my balls off in some dark-ass current, following your dumb ass into a goddamn underwater cave like I’m in a fucking horror movie.”

Isaac laughed, tapping the bar. “Hey, you signed up for this shit, not me.”

“No, you signed up for it,” Shay corrected, shaking his head. “I was voluntold by the LT, who, by the way, hates your guts.”

Isaac smirked. “He does not.”

“He absolutely does.”

Isaac shrugged. “That’s just ‘cause I don’t kiss his ass like you do.”

The dive bar was packed, the air thick with laughter, music, the scent of sweat and alcohol. Their table was full—half-empty glasses, a few scattered napkins, and the kind of energy that made a Saturday night feel untouchable. Isaac leaned back against the bar, drumming his fingers against the rim of his glass, feeling good.

“Goddamn, it’s good to have you back, Rayleigh.”

The voice came from across the table—Chris Rawlings, one of Isaac’s old L.A. boys, an injured SEAL on desk duties. Built like a linebacker, his brown hair messy from running his hands through it too many times.

Isaac smirked. “Of course it is.”

“No, but for real,” Shay continued, shifting in his seat. “Six months of nonstop ops, back-to-back deployments, and what do we have to show for it? Shitty sleep, zero personal lives, and the ever-growing certainty that our knees are gonna explode before we hit forty.”

Isaac scoffed. “You didn’t have a personal life to begin with.”

Shay gestured with his beer. “And you make damn sure yours stays a dumpster fire.”

Isaac grinned. “It’s controlled chaos, thank you very much.”

Shay, still laughing, clapped his hands. “Alright, alright. What’s the move, boys? Another round? A better bar? Or do we just keep working the cougars here?”

Chris glanced at his phone, then grinned. “Actually… we should go meet up with Rosie.”

Isaac, in the middle of taking another sip, froze for half a second. But he played it cool, because he always played it cool. “Rosie’s out?”

Chris smirked, typing something back. “Yeah, some hipster dude is trying to work her over. Thought we’d go save her.”

Isaac snorted, shaking his head. “She doesn’t need saving.”

“Yeah, well, she probably needs a rescue from having to pretend she gives a shit about some guy’s vinyl collection,” Chris said.

Isaac chuckled, about to throw in some joke of his own, when Shay hesitated.

It was subtle, but Isaac caught it—the shift in his expression, the way his drink hovered an inch too long before he took a sip.

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