Her One Best SEAL (ASSIGNMENT: Caribbean Nights Book 6) (20 page)

HINDI

It’s surprisingly difficult to win a wet T-shirt contest. You need assets I hadn’t considered when I signed up.

Boobs.

Butt.

Balance.

The first two gifts are Mother Nature-given and there’s not too much I can do to augment my birthday presents from her at this late date. Ordinarily, I’m perfectly happy with what I’ve got. Since winning this wet T-shirt contest, however, means the difference between stopping in at the grocery store and loading up on food versus driving past and making do with tonight’s rather skimpy dinner buffet (peanuts and cocktail fixings I’ve snagged whenever the bartender glanced away), I’m motivated. Right now, if I had a gift receipt, I’d trade my size Bs in for a pair of double Ds. I’d add a curve and some sass to my ass, too, or at least spring for a pair of smoking hot Dasiy Dukes.

I’m Contestant Number Four.

I’m also broke, barefooted, and… I mentally search for another B word. Bawdy? Beautiful? Bold?

Bold works for me. It’s what I’d like to be.

I have arrived at a point in my life that I’ve decided to call
empowered.
If you were looking for synonyms, however, I’d also volunteer
broke
,
shameless
, and
why the fuck
not
?
Wet T-shirt contests get a bad wrap from the feminist crowd, but I’ve always been more of a live-and-let-live person myself. Until tonight, I’ve never felt the urge to compete, but I’ve also figured it was none of my business why other women chose to do so. And if hot guys—maybe of the US Navy SEAL or Marine Corps persuasion—wanted to do their part for women’s rights and feminism, I’d be happy to watch while they gyrated their way down a bar in a wet T-shirt. That’s the best kind of equal rights, and the right to be obnoxious, cheerful, sexual, good-natured pervs has to be part of what they fight for overseas.

It’s also nice to know that we live in a country with a complex judicial system that has a million rules and laws—but all of which say that the penalty for my stolen white T-shirt will be relatively mild (rather than, say, having my hand chopped off in a public place) if I’m unlucky enough to get busted. It’s a sad fact of life that, boobs and butt aside, I actually do not possess the necessary costume to participate in a wet T-shirt contest. My white cotton Hanes size XXL wife-beater is purloined. Stolen. Boosted. One hundred percent
not
mine.

When I pulled over for a pee stop earlier today, I parked next to a Jeep pulled over by the side of the road. The shirt was hanging over the rollbars, but the shirt’s owner was nowhere in sight. His decision to take a swim or a walk on the beach without safeguarding his possessions seemed like a sign. A giant
take me, use me
sign. It’s not even like I could pull a Hermione Granger and leave money under the chicken coop (or on the dash) for my stolen loot because of my state of complete and utter brokenness. Besides, what’s the going rate for a used shirt?

The current contestant performs a complex cheerleader/stripper combo move that I have absolutely no hope of emulating. She has enormous boobs, and if I had the cash to bet with, I’d double down on the fact that she’s really, really ruing the lack of bra support. The scoop-necked, white tank top clings to every generous inch of her girls and she looks spectacular.

“Give it up for Bree.” The cheerleader contestant sashays down to the far end of the bar to pose with the other two contestants for the title of Ms. Tiki Hut Tits. Yes, that’s the job title I’m competing for. Since it comes with a paycheck, I’d be happy to win. A thunderous cheer goes up from the forty or so assembled bar patrons (all male except for the odd girlfriend), along with more than one pornographic suggestion. Ms. Cheerleader smiles and waves as if she’s already the winner and someone’s popping the Titty Tiara (yes, that’s what they call it) on her head.

“Next up is Hindi.”

The bartender’s bellow is all the warning I get. As soon as he yells my name, an icy cold blast from a hose hits me square in the chest. I shriek. The patrons cheer. Holy.
Gods.
I feel like I’ve been transported to Siberia in the heart of a cold snap when instead I’m standing on a beach in the Florida Keys in July. Five minutes ago, I had sweat rolling most unattractively down my back, but now I’m shivering, my nipples tight, hard points beneath the soaking wet cotton.

I’m totally going to rock this contest.

I’ll buy the world’s biggest cake and a gallon of milk and tonight will all be worth it. And then after I’ve downed a million and one calories, I’ll figure out what to do with the rest of my life. And if I don’t come out on top tonight, something will show up. It always does.

The bartender’s assistant boosts me up onto the bar, and the third quality required to participate in tonight’s contest comes into play.
Balance
. The bar is sleek, made out of some really nice teak. I get a little bit of traction because all that gorgeous wood is more than a little sticky, but as I cautiously take one step and then another, I start to slide. The music blasts louder, my audience roars, and screw it.

I dance as if my life depended on it.

ROHAN

The Tiki Hut Titty Queen Tiara Contest is not my usual venue. Not that I don’t appreciate a gorgeous pair of tits—I absolutely do—but I’m supposed to be meeting someone here. A business someone. My intel says that the owner of the small private island I want to buy planned on showing up here tonight, and since I haven’t been able to reach Hindi Alvarez by phone, email, or thorough canvassing of Angel Cay to discuss purchasing her property, I’m here as a last resort.

About to witness a bonus wet T-shirt contest.

Tonight’s contestants are supposed to dance “on stage” while the bartender sprays them down with cold water. The ice bath tightens their nipples into greedy points and makes the girls shriek. Fun times for all unless you’re trying to pick an unfamiliar face out of the yelling, cheering crowd.

What kind of fucking name is Hindi? I scan the crowd of cheering, drinking, staring patrons and try to pick out someone who looks like his (her?) name could be
Hindi
. I draw a blank. The Tiki Hut is your average Florida beach bar. The patrons are shorts-wearing, T-shirt-sporting, sun-bronzed guys with the occasional female who looks like she’s come along either under duress or for the free drinks. It’s a far cry from my last post in Afghanistan.

The difference is part of the reason why I want to purchase my own private piece of the Florida Keys. The first day I was here, I drove past the simple sign staked into the ground at the end of a long, palm-tree-lined gravel road.
For Sale By Owner
. I had thirty minutes until I was supposed to meet my realtor in Angel Cay, and it seemed prudent to rule out all of the possibilities. So I turned right. I drove down that road—and I fell in love. The small island is fucking gorgeous and it needs to be mine.

The sale’s been an exercise in frustration, however, since I arrived here. The island may be for sale by owner, but the owner’s nowhere in sight and I’ve only got two weeks left on my leave. That doesn’t give me much time. I could leave instructions with my realtor and deputize an agent, but I’d prefer to tie up my own loose ends. I don’t leave things to chance.

I just didn’t plan on doing business in bar while watching tits balance. Sometimes, you have to adjust, though. Roll with the punches and come up with a new plan of action.

A guy wearing a T-shirt emblazoned with the Tiki Hut logo helps a soaking wet contestant number four up onto the bar. I arrived too late to catch her name, but it doesn’t really matter. She’s pocket-sized, curvy, and brimming over with enthusiasm. Her hair’s a stripy gold-brown color as if The Big Guy Up There couldn’t decide what color He preferred and then went fuck it, I’ll give them
all
to her. She’s added stripes of blue and violet as well, so the effect is that of a mismatched, vibrant rainbow. It’s shoulder-length and chopped into about a hundred different lengths. She’s also got those bee-stung, pouty lips that make a man think about kissing, too. Kissing—and other, more southern explorations. For just a moment, before I catch myself and exert some fucking self-control, I imagine her slick pink lips wrapped around my dick performing some serious suction action.

The music blasts from a set of speakers set in the sand and Number Four is a go, launching into action. From the beginning, it’s perfectly clear that she can’t dance. At all. She has enthusiasm working for her, along with an ability to…
bounce
. Great tits, too, although they’re definitely on the smallish side and I’m not entirely sure she’s of legal drinking age. I’d put her at twenty. The crowd cheers her on enthusiastically and she gets into it, bobbing and weaving with consummate lack of skill. I get the distinct impression that this is her first time in the wet T-shirt rodeo.

She waves her hands over her heads, swaying to a completely different beat from the one coming out of the speakers. It’s been years since I witnessed a wet T-shirt contest firsthand, but even I know she’s supposed to dance. Shake her ass and her tits. Smooth her hands down her belly and tease the ever-living fuck out of us all with the possibility that her fingers keep heading south until we get the show of a lifetime. Maybe she thought it was a belly dancing contest? She’s sporting enough necklaces and bracelets for an entire harem. Or maybe harems are naked?

No. Not going there. Not thinking sexy thoughts in a goddamned tiki hut while some probably-not-entirely-legal girl prances around on top of the bar wearing an old white shirt and a pair of hot-pink shorts that cup her ass. The bartender turns the hose on her again as the song cranks into the chorus, she squeals, the patrons roar their approval. She’s red-hot in an all-American way you have to appreciate. As the music crescendos, she finds her groove and starts swinging her hips in circles. First slowly, then faster, as if she’s working out an orgasm right there in front of everyone.

That’s when I spot the problem. I’m entirely okay with the public orgasm-in-process. That’s not my issue. Nope. It’s her outfit. She’s wearing an old wife beater—a man’s shirt that’s far too large for her. Despite a neck full of necklaces and being soaking wet, the cotton slips and slides, exposing most of her spectacular tits. The view’s awesome. The problem is the shirt.

A
familiar
white shirt.

That’s my shirt. I thought I’d lost it. When I came back to the Jeep after finishing my three-mile swim this morning, it was gone. I checked the bushes, the road, and even up in a palm tree or six. No shirt sighting. Eventually, I gave up and went with a spare.

All white T-shirts look alike, right? How can I know beyond a doubt that this one is mine? Good question. This shirt has three small holes on the front, near the hem and a tear from an unfortunate tear where the shirt caught a blade in hand-to-hand that somehow still missed my skin. I’ll bet if I look in the neck, I’ll see my nametag, too. My guys nicknamed the shirt Lucky because it took the brunt of that night’s action. I’d prefer to simply call it
mine
because I don’t believe in luck. Preparation’s what counts.

I keep an eye on my girl as the contest winds to a close. She loses, but congratulates the winner and then proceeds to teeter precariously on the edge of the bar, seconds from face planting in the sand.

Fuck. Me.

I dive across the sand and she lands heavily in my arms. A few things register. My front is soaking wet—which is still not enough of a deterrent to stop my dick from leaping up in a
pleased to meet ya
move. She’s laughing. She smells fucking amazing.

“My hero,” she shrieks, throwing a wet arm around my neck and waving to her fans. Who roar in approbation. She may not be wearing the tiara, but she’s won their hearts. So parting with her stolen goods isn’t going to be that much of a loss, is it?

“You’re wearing my shirt,” I growl.

Her eyes widen. “Oh shit,” she says and I agree.

The trouble with SEALs is that we’re fighters.

We hang onto what’s ours.