Soak (A Navy SEAL Mormon Taboo Romance) (3 page)

Chapter Three

Ryder never would have figured that military training could
come in handy during a Mormon family Saturday dinner, but then, the world was
full of surprises. Here he was, sitting on the edge of a straight-back chair,
trying with all his might to avoid cursing or casually invoking sin. According
to Johnny, “sin,” for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints was a lot
different than “sin,” for the fallen Catholics, in that Mormons found a lot
more stuff objectionable. That was one nice thing about his Ma’s mass in
Queens, which he’d endured twelve years of until the old lady had died. You
could do anything, small or big, and so long as you went to confession you were
golden. It seemed there was no such dice in Provo.

“So, Mr. Strong,” Johnny’s father continued (for this was
the sixth or seventh question in a great big litany of the third degree...)
“How did you come to end up in the service?” Ryder bit his tongue. He thought
about the ritual calming exercises he’d been taught in the hospital. His skin
rankled when civilians used terms like, “in the service”—even though he wasn’t
sure what other term they were supposed to use. Or perhaps it was just the way
Mr. Christiansen said it, “in the service,” with that insider smirk. As if they
were in similar professions. Mr. Christansen at his big creepy castle in Utah,
versus
him
, Ryder, on the ground in Syria, arm-to-arm with terrorists.

“Well, sir,” (Ryder also couldn’t decide if he was supposed
to refer to his host as Mr. Christiansen or Elder Christiansen—so he’d been
sticking to familiar guns) “I enlisted when I was eighteen.”

“Just out of high school?”

Well, just out of the GRE.
“Sure. I mean, yes.”

“Mighty young to take on a commitment that big.”

Ryder buried a snort. One could have said the same thing
about Mr. Christiansen’s wife, who had clearly gotten busy making babies while
her peers had been attending their proms. But one well-placed look from Johnny
silenced Ryder’s inner devil. He knew he had to be kind to the Christiansens.
Not least because they were his hosts, but because they were the family of the
only family he had, except for his weird Aunt Tilde in Brooklyn. Johnny
Christiansen had saved his hide too many times for Ryder to write off the man’s
whole religion, and besides the many acts of valor, he’d proved his character
in a hundred ways. Plus, it wasn’t like the world was lining up to offer him
soft beds and decent food. Provo was home, for the time being—and the time
being was all Ryder had ever known.

“I wanted to go to college,” Ryder explained, trying to
sound civil. “And it was the only way I could afford it. Of course, once I got
into the service I sorta found my calling. I stuck around.”

“Will you go back, do you think?” This was the youngest kid,
Martin. Ryder liked him, there was something shrewd about his little baby face.

“Martin, hush,” Mrs. Christiansen hissed, swooping in. “Mr.
Strong doesn’t have to think about that right now. He’s on a kind of vacation
from the military. He’s been very brave.”

“It’s not a crazy question, Mrs. Christiansen,” he shot
back. “I do think about it sometimes, Martin.” This sent a dark lull over the
table.

Though he hadn’t experienced a ton of family dinners, Ryder
knew enough to know that the Christiansen dynamic was a little unusual. There
was no talking over one another at the table, no lively chatter at all—except
for Martin, the little one. The three sisters each ate with their eyes
downcast, like they were being punished. He noticed they spoke only after making
eye contact with their father, who seemed to grant his tacit approval before
they could speak.

It was a shame, Ryder thought. They were pretty girls. The
twins were a little young for his taste, but they were the kind of
goodie-goodies that rock stars wrote songs about deflowering. Their hair was
tied up in virginal braids, and they each wore loose jeans and button-up shirts
with high collars. No make-up, and minimal jewelry.

Then there was the oldest sister, who seemed to Ryder
especially dour. Though she wasn’t dressed like a pilgrim (he could tell, in
fact, that Little Miss had a nice body beneath her lumpy jumper and
long-sleeved t-shirt), she had hardly spared him a smile since he entered her
precious house. He pinned her for the most religious of the bunch, with that
thin, prim nose and those wide blue eyes. She’d practically had a seizure when
he’d accidentally-on-purpose shown her his pecs in the attic. What a drag.

“What would you do?” Mr. Christiansen ventured. “If you were
to return to the Navy?”

“I don’t rightly know, sir.”

“Well, what are you good at?”

Ryder pondered, as his fork poked idly at the smashed
potatoes. 

“Combat, I think,” he heard himself say. The answer
surprised him, and it didn’t.

Growing up in Queens, Ryder had been the mousy kid. The
nerd. For years in his mother’s care, and later his aunt’s care, (and finally
his own care), he’d styled himself the outsider. He read books and drove a
scooter and didn’t form close relationships. Whenever possible, he relied
solely on himself.

But the SEALS had pounded the loner-ism out. Within that
community, he’d found purpose, and the kind of fraternity he’d never thought
possible. Action was terrible. He’d known many good men who had died young in
the name of some cause, on distant shores. But even so, Ryder’s best and only
real home had been the Navy, where he always knew what his job was and what was
expected of him. And fuck it—he
had
gotten “good at it.” He was loyal,
strong, and fiercely protective of those he loved. What was so wrong with that?

“Ryder’s being modest, Dad,” Johnny piped up. Ryder had
noticed that his friend had become more demure in his family’s presence, also.
Though he wasn’t quite so defeated-seeming as his sisters, it was very clear at
this table who was man of the house. “He saved my life in Aleppo.”

“Is that true, Ryder?” the game twin asked. He couldn’t tell
their names apart yet, but one of them kept winking at him when she thought her
parents weren’t looking, and the other’s collar was cinched a notch tighter about
her goodie-goodie throat.

“Sure, it’s true,” Johnny continued. “The others left me for
dead in an oil field. Johnny carried me three miles on his back, with shrapnel
in his knee.”

Ryder couldn’t look at his friend. It was one thing to
relate the unspeakable in adjoining ER beds, but quite another to bring a war
story out in the daylight, where it could be inspected and probed by civilians
for holes. He could hear the girls now, reframing their opinion of him.
Deciding to think of him as a “hero.” Yet he’d done what any decent man would
have done, had they been able to master their fear. He didn’t feel like a hero
now, and he hadn’t then. He felt battery-operated, entirely governed by
impulse. He felt like he was always at the mercy of someone else—and tonight,
this someone was Mr. Christiansen. (Or
Elder.
Whatever.)

“My stars,” Mrs. Christiansen said, all but clutching her
pearls. They’d taken his stoic silence for confirmation. Ryder noticed that the
only one who kept eating at the table was Chloe, who’d registered the news but
somehow remained unimpressed. He couldn’t help but smile a little at this.
Bitchy though it might be, at least she’d given him an unusual reaction. He
considered the eldest sister’s face again. Unblemished, but pale. Her frame was
small. Her hands were fine.

Okay, so she was definitely pretty. But who wanted to mess
with what was basically a cult? Who wanted to mess with a best friend’s sister,
for that matter?

“It’s hard to talk about,” Johnny said finally, taking the
hint. The family tucked into the remnants of a bland meal, and Ryder ate
because there was nothing else to do. He wasn’t exactly hungry, as he hadn’t
had a proper work-out in months—though this was mostly knee surgery’s fault. He
had to keep reminding himself that there were things his body would never do
again with ease. Running. Swimming. Jumping. Of course on the flip side, he
still had it way better than Johnny, who’d be recovering from his amputation
for the rest of his life. Their lives, once so purposeful, now seemed aimless.
Without “the service,” Ryder wondered—who was he? What could he do?

Mrs. Christiansen began circling the table, collecting
plates. He watched her supplicant gestures, the reverent way she tended to her
family. Ryder felt a surge of gratitude again. Weird as it was, he needed to
stay focused on the fact that he was on the receiving end of a great kindness.

“Father,” Johnny continued, as if on cue. “I was hoping
Ryder might stay with us for a while. Just until he figures out where he needs
to be.”

“You’ve set him up in the guest room, isn’t that right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, how long is ‘a while?’”

At these words, Mrs. Christiansen reappeared in the dining
room doorway, brandishing a dish rag. “Johannes!” she quipped, looking upset.
He saw in her expression the origin of her older daughter’s sourpuss. “Where’s
that Christian kindness? He has saved our boy’s life!”

All the forks went silent at the table. Ryder had to check
an odd instinct to pray.
Please, whoever’s up there. Let me stay.

“Of course you’re welcome in our house, Mr. Strong,” the
father said, delicately. “So long as you observe our ground rules, you may stay
as long as you wish.”

Johnny was grinning like a madman across the table, and
Ryder allowed him a quick grin. Perhaps he didn’t deserve this kindness.
Perhaps these people weren’t exactly
his
people. Still, it felt good to
have an address. And a pillow that didn’t smell like chemicals and feel like
shit.

“Sir, I am deeply appreciative of your generosity,” he
murmured. Mrs. Christiansen appeared at his elbow, stealthy as a ghost.
Beaming, she took his plate into her pile of dirty dishes. “It’s settled,” she
mouthed.

Chapter Four

He could hear the sisters, as they prepared for bed. For
one, they did it early. Around nine thirty the twins could be heard tiptoeing
up the stairs, whispering to each other. When their door slid shut with a
click, he figured the whole family had drifted to lullaby land. Through the
wall he shared with Johnny, he could tell that his friend had fallen into a
steady and snore-heavy sleep.

It was quiet in Provo. Certainly compared to combat, and New
York City, but also compared to the silent desert he’d been privy to on nights
when no bombs fell. Ryder imagined all the houses on this block and the next, full
up with more and more Mormons, doing their Mormonly activities. Praying to
their lizard God, or whatever it was. He heard Johnny’s voice in his head,
lucid as if it came through the wall:
Lots of people believe in crazier
things, man. Don’t knock it just because you can’t understand it.

But Ryder had always been a doubting man, even during his
brief flirtation with Catholicism. Alone in his room, he stretched his long
body below the austere, somehow religious-feeling sheets, trying to get
comfortable. He hated the night-time. Under cover of darkness, demons sprouted
from the shadows and made games of his mind.

He pulled a battered book from the depths of his duffel bag,
an old friend:
A Confederacy of Dunces.
He flipped to a page at random.
In the early days of his service, he’d circulated this novel through the
barracks like it was a good luck charm, hooking all his fellow SEALs on the
exploits of Ignatius Reilly. Tonight, the book felt like a security blanket. He
gave himself permission to laugh out loud, when prompted to.

Weed would make this perfect,
he murmured to himself.
Then just as fast, he felt guilt. Johnny had made it crystal clear at the
hospital that there was to be no “perks” to his stay at the family house. On
the long list of no-nos for the Mormons, it turned out that marijuana (medical,
or otherwise) ranked pretty high. Even if it had been specially recommended for
a soldier with night terrors.

Out of habit, Ryder flicked his Zippo back and forth, pawing
through the pages. Silence engulfed the house. He kept laughing out loud at the
easy jokes he knew so well, even when he didn’t quite feel it. Laughing in the
face of darkness made his nightmares feel a little further away. The screams
that plagued his sleeping life, the pools of blood, the anguished faces of his
brothers, his peers—they could not tempt him away from a good time.

“Is everything okay?”

Ryder, operating on reflex, assumed an offensive position
when he heard the voice in the doorway. He reached for a weapon that had long ago
been confiscated. His heart hammered in his chest.

“Oh no! I didn’t mean to scare you.” When the invisible
smoke cleared, Strong saw that the phantom was, in fact, flesh. There was Ms.
Chloe Christiansen, apparently a fellow insomniac. Chloe was dressed as she had
been at dinner, in the lumpy frock and shirt. But she’d let her
feathery-looking blonde hair fall all about her shoulders, free from its
binding ponytail. Her hair was what his ex-bunkmate would have called “mermaid
length,” in that it fanned out in pleasing waves right where her nipples would
be, covering her breasts.

“I’m so sorry!” she continued, stepping into his room. Ryder
tried to pull himself out of “battle pose” in as gallant a way he could muster,
which was unfortunately not very gallant. He tried to look cool and relaxed,
feigning a yawn and stretch. But one look at Chloe revealed that she wasn’t
fooled.

“I shouldn’t have snuck up on you like that. I just heard
the laughing, and I...” she gestured limply. Once again, she was hovering in
his doorway, like a clueless housefly. What was with these Mormon girls? Didn’t
they get the first thing about social etiquette?

“Well I’m fine, ballerina,” he said, making a show of
tapping
A Confederacy
. No sooner had he made the “I’m-busy” play than he
noticed Chloe was toting her own book, which she clutched to her side. One of
her slender fingers was still saving her page.

“Whatcha reading?” he asked, sitting up a little straighter.
His heart rate, thank God, had resumed a steady pace. Chloe’s serious little
face twisted a little. Was it, could it possibly be? The hint of a...
smile?

“
Madame Bovary,
” she said. “But mum’s the word.”

“Why? Is Emma too scandalous for this crowd?”

The smile went South. He should have figured.

“You really think we’re all such prudes, don’t you?”

Ryder shrugged. He was officially bored. Pretty girls came a
dime a dozen, and he sure as hell didn’t need one lecturing him on the tenets
of the faith.

“Look, I don’t know you personally. Just going from what
I’ve read...” he swept his arm about the room in a gesture he hoped would
encompass the house, the town, that big creepy temple he’d seen on the drive
in.

“We’re a cult, right? Racist, polygamist, homophobic
freaks?” His eyebrows arched; he had to admit a little surprise that homegirl
even knew those words.

“Well...yeah.”

“You know, most assumptions betray a prejudice.”

“Where’d you read that?” And then, because he couldn’t
resist: “The Lizard King scrolls?”

“Where do you get off, exactly?”

“Why do you care? And hey, lighten up! I’m
joking.
It’s
like you people can’t take a joke.”

Color was blooming along those high cheekbones, and Ryder
was surprised to see that his body—if not his mind—was responding to the sea
change. Chloe certainly looked a little warmer when she was riled up. Too bad
there was nothing to be done about the stick up her butt.

“You know my brother is one of ‘us people.’ And my father.
You know, the guy who took you into his home?”

“You’re right. I shouldn’t have said anything.” This was
true, he had to admit. It was just difficult to check social impulses
after...well, after everything he’d seen. So little of this life seemed
important to Ryder. Not the documents humans lived with and for, not the rules
they fabricated. He expelled a long stream of air between his lips, letting the
sound flutter. (Another relaxation technique.) Still, Sister Christian held her
ground. She crossed her arms and raised her eyebrows as if awaiting his
come-back. Ryder couldn’t help but notice how round her breasts looked, smashed
together like that. He looked away.

“Chloe, look. I’m really tired. I think I should go to
sleep.”

“Great. So long as you stop laughing like a hyena. Lots of
people live in this house, you know.”

Boy, did he.

There was no time to deliver this last lash to Sister
Christiansen, because she flounced off in the direction of the twins’ bedroom
just as words formed in his mouth. Ryder realized he had no idea where she’d
been hiding the past few hours. Some secret goblin cranny in the house, no
doubt.

He tried to get back to the book, but Chloe’s speech
persisted. He snapped off the bedside lamp, and prepared himself for a long,
typical battle with the monsters. He breathed deep. He rolled to and fro,
trying to get comfortable.

Then, just for shits and giggles, he pretended Chloe was
still in the doorway, watching over him like a schoolmarm. The thought was so
amusing that it managed to keep most of the demons at bay. Ryder fell asleep
with the book still on chest, which hadn’t happened for months.