Page 8 of Brutal Collateral

Forcibly, she says, “Do not tell anyone what you told me about the waves and the rocks.”

Those words anchor into my soul. The secret I’ll take to my grave. One more fuck-up like today, that’s where I’m headed.

Passing the chow hall, a crowd of candidates watches us with judgment, loathing, and the fiery passion for revenge in their tired eyes.

“Listen up,” Goodwin, one of the commanders, bellows in front of the coffee station. “We will be pausing instruction to take care of some internal business. As of now, you’re all off duty. Be back here tomorrow at 0600 to resume training.”

Eyes race to me, but quickly they turn back to their brothers, stunned looks on their faces. Others like me, who’ve been through this phase, have never gotten some kind of break.

“That’s not a good sign.” Cherise steers me to the medical building.

I’m briefly checked out and sent away with a couple of stomach soothers in a plastic sleeve.

“I need something stronger,” I say, chewing the tablets.

“I saw a great dive bar on the way here.” Cherise raps stubby fingernails on her sunburned cheek.

I need to get lost in loud music and strong whiskey. I finger the loose, saltwater strands of my bleached hair that’s not seen a blow-dryer in two years.

“Did you pack makeup by any chance, Cher?”

“No, but I know where we can get a nice glow-up.”

***

AFTER SECURITY CHECKS, we’re let off the base. Cherise and I find a salon where we get our hair washed with real shampoo. A sweet stylist blows out my long blonde hair and crimps it into sexy waves.

When one of the stylists offers to do makeup for me, I stare at myself during the transformation. A piece of the old me peeks through. I gasp, liking the blonde I had to secretly keep bleaching all these years for the first time.

Dressed in a newly purchased denim mini skirt and white tank top that pops off my olive skin, I step into the dive bar with Cherise next to me, who looks fab in a yellow sundress. I’m technically underage, but no one gives a fuck in a place like this.

I’m not there for five minutes when a pair of midnight blue eyes finds me from across the bar. My heart skips a beat.

“Cher, that’s him.” I motion to the guard from the obstacle course. “The guy who stopped Miller from attacking me on the platform.”

“Jesus,” she mutters, her jaw dropping at the sight of him.

With my head clear, I soak in his features to another degree. And that degree is scorching hot. He’s a stunning example of male masculinity. I look at SEAL candidates all day long and thought I’d be numb to another perfect male form.

Nope. Not this one.

A private security guard is forbidden. I like a challenge.Thatgets my juices flowing.

His square jaw, muscular tattooed forearms, thick thighs, and full head of wavy, rumpled auburn hair have heat flooding my cheeks.Hischeeks are sculpted with old-school wide sideburns connecting to a neatly-trimmed golden-brown beard. He’s in a black-as-night V-neck waffle shirt that hugs his body and mine heats up for the first time in hours.

After a thorough once-over, I see a silver braided chain around his neck and most importantly, there’s no ring on his finger. I have just one thought.

Mine.

I thought I needed alcohol tonight to forget about Rand Miller. No, I need me some ofthat.Although, I doubt he’d be interested in me. I’m one step away from being a cavewoman. But from across the room, he catches me staring.

Raising his glass, he smiles at me. And doesn’t look at all surprised that I’m here. He must have heard about the accident and the rare twelve hours off we were given.

I think that’s it, that’s all I’ll get, a smile and a collaborativegood riddanceto Rand Miller, who I heard left in an ambulance with the status:condition unknown. He probably died and, in some way, it’s my fault.

Right now, I don’t give a flying fuck.

My sexy guard kicks the chair out next to him in an invite. I crack what I remember is a smile. I haven’t smiled in months. Or is it years?

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