Page 14 of Eight Years (The Trident Trilogy 1)

Chapter Eight

Millie

Virginia Beach, Virginia

2019

Mills, I’m still slammed at work. Can’t meet you at the bar. Sorry. See you tomorrow. Don’t be late. They’re freaky about punctuality.

I’ve been staring at Raine’s text in the bar’s parking lot for about five minutes. I can’t decide if I should go in without her or not. I’m not in the most social mood, but I need a change of scenery from the hotel room, and I could really use a drink. What the hell. Let’s do this.

The bar is already in full swing by the time I walk in. I notice immediately that I don’t look much like the rest of the women in here. They’re wearing the ultimate bar-battle gear: micro-short dresses, full makeup, dazzling manicures, and hair that has been curled and sprayed to perfection. Honestly, I’m a little jealous. Even if I wanted to look like that, I wouldn’t know where to begin. I grew up at the beach. Being in and out of the water that much didn’t lend itself to makeup, managed hair, or manicures.

I stand at the bar’s door and watch them for a second, the coiffed ladies perched on their barstools, ready to pounce if any man looks their way. Most of their flirtatious smiles and longing gazes seem to be fixed on one place: the pool tables. I look over there to see my new SEAL team holding court. I don’t recognize them immediately. They don’t look much like the official navy pictures in their files, but it’s them. If there was a central casting call for operators, they definitely would fit the bill—scraggly beards, long hair, lean, compact, muscular, tattoos, scars. They remind me of my dad for a second, and that sends an intense shot of pain down my body. I definitely need a drink.

I’m trying to get the bartender’s attention. Apparently, his name is Pete and boy, let me tell you, Pete is not having a good time. There is a gaggle of drunk girls just to the left of me screeching at him for another round. I feel you, man. They annoy me, too. Finally, Pete makes his way over to me. He just stares at me. I don’t think he likes newcomers.

“Dirty martini, please,” I say, sincerely hoping it’s okay for me to talk. I’m really not sure from the way he’s looking at me.

“I don’t make martinis, and I have no idea what a dirty one is.”

“Just add some olive juice into the martini. . .” It’s just registering with me that he said he didn’t make martinis. He’s glaring at me.

“How about a Maker’s on the rocks?” I ask quickly.

“I have Wild Turkey,” he says as he turns around and starts making my drink without asking me if Wild Turkey is okay. It’s not, but I sure as hell am not telling Pete that.

I turn my stool around to view the pool game. Mason Davis is staring right at me. Maybe he’s already figured out who I am. Raine told me he’s quick. I have to say his official navy picture doesn’t do him justice. He is clean cut in the picture, looking pretty average, but tonight he looks gruff, and intense, and just really, really sexy. His file says he’s thirty-five, but he looks at least five years older. His skin looks weathered, which I remember from my dad is a side effect of the job. He has sandy blond curls coming out the sides of his baseball cap. He looks like he hasn’t shaved in at least a month. His beard is getting scraggly, with wisps of gray hair shooting out here and there. The file lists him as six feet, 210 pounds, but he looks a lot leaner than that. His T-shirt is baggy and untucked, but it’s not doing a thing to hide his absolutely chiseled arms. I notice what looks like the tip of a trident tattoo coming out of his right sleeve. It probably starts on his shoulder. I’d really like to explore this theory further.

He’s not saying much, but all eyes are on him—men and women. He’s definitely the center of attention. I’m watching as he lifts the front of his shirt to wipe something off his face. I just see the ripped stomach muscles that wind down and disappear into his jeans before he puts the shirt back down. He looks up at me again and smiles confidently. He knows the effect he has on women. He’s so arrogant that it makes me feel a little light-headed. I cross my legs to keep from falling off the stool. I smile and look away quickly just in case he’s staring for other reasons. I don’t want to encourage him. This is strictly business. But, damn, he’s not like anything I’ve seen in D.C.

Pete finally makes it over to me with my drink. I down it before he can walk away, and motion for another. He nods. I think sign language is going to be my best bet with Pete. I swivel back around to watch the pool game. It looks like Mason is partnered with Butch. They’re just putting the finishing touches on this game. Butch is talking all kinds of smack with a deep Southern drawl. He’s looking for their next victims and waving around a hundred dollar bill, daring anyone to challenge them. Well, I guess there’s no time like the present to meet the team. I might as well put to use some of the skills I learned in college.

“I’ll play,” I say as I slide off the bar stool, and walk over to them.

They all stop in their tracks, none trying to conceal the once-over they’re giving me. In Mason’s case, it’s two or three times over, and it’s definitely making me sweat.

Finally, Butch speaks up. “You’ll play with us? Not sure you know what you’re getting into, ma’am?”

Oh, sweetie, I so do. I know everything about you and your friends. And, what I know about all men is they’re rarely paying enough attention to know they’re getting hustled until it’s already way too late.

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