The Charlotte Chronicles (25 page)

“Yeah?” I can tell he’s leading up to something rowdy and probably a little raunchy.

“That’s right. Because an eye fuck is an empty promise, and a U.S. Navy SEAL does not give empty promises. We deliver.”

Next to me Nate rolls his eyes, but everyone else at the table laughs. “Then you best get over there and deliver your fucking, or she’s going to go home and tell everyone how you were a man of looks but no action.”

Bride hoots at this and tips his beer toward me. “I like this girl.”

Nate presses a kiss to my temple and says warmly, “Not as much as me.”

We all settle in and watch as Cabby sets off to reel in his fish. The camaraderie between the men is evident, and it makes me happy to think of Nate surrounded by good friends these past years. As miserable as I was, I never once wished that he was unhappy.

Bride and Gonzo role play Cabby’s seduction.

“Why, miss, you look parched and lonely over here. Mind if I buy you a drink?” Bride intones in a deep voice.

“My mother told me not to accept alcohol from strangers.” Gonzo adopts a high-pitched falsetto.

“If you tell me your name, we won’t be strangers.”

Gonzo fake titters, and we all laugh. “Ohh, it’s Tiffany.”

Across the room, Cab and the brown-haired girl are talking. He points toward the parking lot.

“Tiffany, I’m thinking that they don’t serve good enough liquor here for a treasure like you. There’s another establishment not too far from here that has top shelf booze,” Bride says.

“Is that right? Hee hee,” Gonzo replies. In his normal voice, he says, “Watch as the female preens by brushing her hair from her shoulder. Watch as she draws a hand across her chest. This is the classic sign from the Homo sapien
s
female in a small group setting that she is ready to be separated from the pack.”

Bride takes over. “Homo erectus is now engaged. The male stalks forward and lightly beats his chest to acknowledge being chosen. He deftly severs the connection with the other creatures and secures his prey.”

Gonzo glances at his watch. “Shit, that took less than five minutes.”

Bride puts his hand palm up. “I’ll take cash. Small bills only. I’m going to the dollar store later.”

“Dollar store?” I whisper to Nate, still watching as Cabby places an arm around the brown-haired girl, lifts her over the cement fence running around the patio, and then vaults over it with one hand.

“Strip club,” he murmurs under his breath.

The guys at the table hoot and raise their beer in salute to Cab’s success. He gives a lazy wave and then picks up the girl and jogs toward the parking lot, disappearing into the dimly lit night.

After draining his beer, Nate rises and pulls me to my feet. “Let’s dance,” he says. Inside the bar there’s a tiny postage stamp of a dance floor made out of parquet tiles. The house band is rocking blues covers, and the floor is nearly empty.

“Since when do you like dancing?” I tease because the Nate I knew never enjoyed being the center of attention. At parties, he sat down away from the crowds, but people gravitated toward him anyway.

“I don’t like dancing, but I want to hold you.”

A hand on my lower back presses me closer until there’s no room for even a wisp of air to pass between us. I curl my arms around his neck and bury my face in the soft cotton of his T-shirt. His one hand is splayed across my back, and the other cups my head. We sway together, moving as one unit as the guitar twangs a rockabilly melody.

“Are you sure you want to leave all this?” I ask, wondering what exactly he’s giving up for me.

“Can’t stay in forever,” he answers. I’m not sure that’s a complete response, but I push it aside because I don’t want to mar the night.

My heart’s so full of joy that I could stand here forever—which may be a possibility given that the floor is sticky from spilled alcohol. I release a nervous laugh which causes Nate’s arms to tighten and his low voice to rumble in my ear, “What’s funny?”

“I was thinking how I want to dance with you forever and that we might have to because the floor’s stickier than a flytrap.”

He chuckles, and the vibrations of his laughter climb into my body and swirl around, filling me up. The vibrations turn to shivers, and I stare at his eyes, wide-eyed as my joy morphs into excitement and my happiness into desire. His grip on me is almost painful.

“You ready to go?” he asks hoarsely. His eyes are begging me to say yes.

When have I ever turned him down?

“
L
et
me run to the ladies room,” I answer.

He lets me go reluctantly. As I move toward the short hall marked with the universal female/male bathroom cartoons, his attention is hailed by a friend.

Inside the bathroom, I quickly do my business and then wash my hands. I’m about to leave when two ladies walk in, one locking the door while the other approaches me. I recognize them as women from the table on the patio—wives of Nate’s teammates.

“So you’re the infamous letter writer,” murmurs the blonde. Her name is Patricia, if I recall it correctly. The other woman is blonde too, but her hair is a few shades darker. They look similar, like friends often do, wearing thin-strapped tank tops, wedge heels, and miniskirts.

I smiled self-consciously. “Yes, I am.”

Patricia reaches into her small purse and pulls out a tube of rosy lipstick. She stares at her perfect complexion in the mirror. “Your man’s refusal to welcome any advances has been the subject of a lot of gossip.”

“Is that right?” Where she’s going with these questions isn’t clear, but it’s obvious she’s got something to say, and I’m not leaving the bathroom until she gets it off her chest.

“Childhood friends, huh?” she says it as if she doesn’t believe it.

I grind my teeth together to keep in the retort that it’s none of her goddamned business. It’s not, of course, but I want to make friends, not enemies. There’s a queen in every female group. If you slight the wrong football wife, you are dead to the entire group. The stakes are higher here because these are friends of Nate who belong to a part of his life that he’s excluded me from until now. So I’m going to make nice with this Patricia woman, no matter how much I’d like to lay into her.

“Yes. Nathan, his brother, and I grew up together in Chicago.” I don’t tell her our families are almost one and that the penthouses that we called home for most of our childhood lives were connected by a hallway.

“How is it that you separated?”

“Nate joined the Navy.”

“That usually result in breakups.” She nods knowingly and the other woman joins her, like a strange silent puppet. “My daddy was career Navy.  A major.” She’s very proud of her father’s rank as if that somehow elevates her. “I’ve seen it all—both the young relationships that were never going to last and the ten-year marriages done in by separation. It’s real hard. I bet you told him you didn’t want him to join.”

I bristle because this woman knows nothing about me and less than nothing about Nathan and me. I never got the chance. He left before I got back from Switzerland.

“No, I never told him anything like that.”

She purses her lips and starts applying a fresh layer, slow and measured, making sure that I’m watching every movement. “Being a SEAL is a special calling. They suffer for months, undergo physical hardships that you and I can’t begin to comprehend. Their bonds to each other are deeper than a family’s because they don’t just work together. They live each other’s lives. They are one unit, and Nate is part of that. What is it that you do?”

“I’m a fixer,” I answer. And then, deciding I’m done with the private interrogation, I move toward the door which is blocked by Patricia’s friend whose name I can’t remember. She looks past me toward Patricia but doesn’t resist when I gently push her aside. “I’m happy that you care enough about Nate to ask these questions, but there’s no need to ambush me in the bathroom. How cliché. We’re adults. If there’s something you want to know, feel free to ask, but we’re done here.”

With another small but soft shove, I clear the door and walk out, leaving a sputtering Patricia behind me. So much for placating the queen.

As I reach the end of the hallway, I see Nate across the room. He’s smiling and talking to another man. As if he senses me, his head raises and our gazes meet. Then his smile broadens as I sense Patricia and her silent friend behind me. He is clearly delighted that I’m making friends with the wife of one of his friends. I paste on a smile for him and turn to the nosy woman. “I own my own business. I help professional athletes relocate and make their trades or signings on new teams as effortless and frictionless as possible. I meet many men and women whose lives are different and extraordinary.”

She raises her eyebrows in disdain. Patricia made a judgment about me before I even entered the bar, although I’m not sure why. “Not everyone is cut out to be a SEAL’s woman.”

Casually I respond, “I suppose that’s a special calling as well?”

My retort doesn’t faze her at all.

“Yes, it is a special calling. Not every woman can handle the months of separation. As the girlfriend or even the wife, they can’t tell you where they were or what they were doing for six months at a time. They’ll leave at a moment’s notice. You have to handle your own life and his shore life by yourself. Your air conditioner breaks down? You need to fix it. You have a leak? Get to know a plumber. Your man comes home from a mission with a used condom at the bottom of his ruck sack, you just throw that shit away because his life is so fucking stressful that sometimes he needs to let loose. You don’t let that touch you, your relationship, or your kids. And you live in fear that every doorbell ring is a uniformed officer ready to share that the service of your man was honored.” Patricia’s nearly vibrating with emotion. The source of her unhappiness could be me, but I think it’s the number of used condoms she’s found at the bottom of her man’s pack. Nate was faithful to me for nine years, and we weren’t even together.

Her resentment over his fidelity and her man’s lack of it is the root of her dislike. There’s nothing I can do about that.

“I appreciate your concern, but whether I can handle being with Nate or he can handle being with me is solely our business.” I turn to walk away, but she grabs my wrist.

“In the Navy, his home life is as much the team’s business as anyone’s. Get used to it.”

I let her have the last word, and she stalks off.

Nate strolls over then and leads me out into the fresh air. I thread my shorter fingers between his and lean into his arm. “That looked like an intense conversation.”

“Patricia was advising me that it takes a very special person to understand months of separation and silence.”

He cringes and releases my hand to cup my shoulder and draw me under the shelter of his body. “Did you tell her you already know all about that?”

“No, why would I?”

When we reach the Jeep, he turns me to face him.

“It takes a special kind of woman to keep her heart open for so long and to be willing to forgive innumerable acts of stupidity. The inability to talk about my missions will be like cake for you.”

“I noticed that several of your teammates are not married.”

Running his hands over the goose bumps on my arms, Nate says, “Some think that they can’t serve the team and be a family man at the same time. Others believe they are too broken to have anything worth offering.” He tips my chin up with a finger. “I’m neither one of those, but I’m happy to leave the teams to be with you. We’ve spent too much time apart. Now that you are willing to let me back into your life, I want any scrap you will give to me.”

I want to retort that I’m not the one handing out scraps. He reappeared in my life a couple of days ago. I’m still reeling from the change, and now I’m supposed to make a life decision in the span of time it takes to snap my fingers? But what’s the alternative? Not being together? I don’t want that either. Fighting with Nate is unproductive.

“I don’t want you to feel like you’re sacrificing for me.”

“What’d Patricia say to you?” He shakes his head. “Is she trying to warn you off?”

“She was looking out for you. I love that you have friends who are fiercely protective.” I don’t love how she attacked me, but I can appreciate the sentiment behind it, regardless of how awfully she tried to convey it.

He snorts. “It’s as much loyalty as it is someone trying to prove her dominance.”

I release a small sigh of relief. He has her number. Leaning into him, I say, “I don’t care about Patricia or her role as the queen bee of the South Side SEALs. I only care about us.”

“Me too.” His head descends, and for a time he kisses away all the thoughts of his life in San Diego and my life in Dallas and our troubled pasts. But when we climb into his Jeep, my gut is churning and my chest feels tight. The words of the wife tumble inside my head even as I try to shut them out.

When we get home, I cling to Nate. I run my hands over every inch of his body, trying to replace my old memories with new ones. My throat is tight and hot, and I’m afraid to give voice to any of my fears—as if that will give them power. When he snaps on the bedside lamp as we maneuver into his utterly bland room, I throw an arm across my face.

“No light, please,” I beg.

He pulls me down to the bed but doesn’t turn it off immediately. “What’s wrong, baby?” His beautiful eyes search mine, and I try to hide away my unease and uncertainty.

“I want to feel you,” I say.

“And I want to look at you.” The left side of his mouth quirks up. “I can’t get enough.”

It’s hard to turn down the plea in his eyes. The light stays on, and I focus on his beautiful face. His cheekbones are more prominent, all traces of 
boy 
have been erased and replaced with intense masculinity—from his forehead, down the straight line of his nose, and to his square jaw. I’ve always found him breathtaking, but as a teenager I didn’t have many points of reference. Since then I’ve seen some of the most magnetic males with the most perfect bodies, but none of them compare to Nate.

I rub an arm over the hard swell of his biceps and under the short sleeve of his T-shirt. “Fill me up,” I whisper. “Let’s make new memories.”

His eyes widen, and his nostrils flare. He tears at my clothes and then struggles with his own. I laugh, but the sound dies in my throat as his heavy erection springs free. Red and thick, the velvet-covered steel bobs in the air as he stalks toward the bed.

“Find me funny, do you?” he says in mock anger.

“I don’t know how you walk around with that thing between your legs,” I answer primly. I fold my legs together and rest my hands in my lap. It would be a perfectly ladylike pose if I wasn’t nude.

“Maybe we should take a walk while you have this between your legs.”

The thought of him carrying me about the apartment impaled on his cock is pretty damn exciting. I squeeze my thighs together, an action his careful eyes don’t miss at all.

“Another time,” he promises and then spreads my closed legs apart. The gaze he runs along my body is as erotic as any caress. “If the lights were off, I won’t be able to see how pink you get everywhere.” His hands slide from my inner knees to my inner thighs until his thumbs meet at my core. “Or how very wet you become.” In agonizingly slow measures, he inches his thumbs inside me. Every part of me begins to tingle. Sucking in his lower lip, he hisses. “Or how fucking sexy you look with me inside you.”

“Or my scars?” A little self-consciously I rub my finger over the scar where my port once sat, receiving injections of drugs that tried hard to kill off only the bad cells and preserve the good ones.

“I love your scars.” He presses a hot open kiss against the shiny, slightly puckered skin. “It tells your story—one that involves me, the beginning of us, your survival.”

I throw my arms around him and tug him to me until the sparse, coarse hair of his chest rubs against my sensitive breasts. My nipples tighten upon contact, and my eyelids start feeling too heavy to hold open. “I love you, Nathan Jackson,” I whisper.

“I love you, Charlotte Randolph soon to be Jackson.” His mouth muffles any response I might have. He places light licks against my lips and resists my lures to deepen the kiss. Teasingly he nips at the corners of my mouth, my eyelids, and my cheeks. His touch is tender, and the love is evident in every stroke and heated whispered endearment.

His thumbs leave my sex as his hands travel north to cup my breasts in his large palms. He holds my sensitive flesh and bends his head to suck on the peaks he’s created with his rough palms and heavy thumbs. The devoted attention he gives them sends ripples of pleasure throughout me.

Gently pushing me against the bed, he takes himself in hand and slowly pushes inside me. When he enters, it feels almost as reverential as our first time. His possession of me, the ecstasy he pulls from my body is a graphic reminder that there will never be anyone for me but Nate. Careers, geographic differences, nasty people will never be more important than being together.

He latches onto a nipple again, sucking it hard into his mouth as he thrusts all the way to the hilt. I can’t keep my cry of abandon inside. It wails above us, and he responds with a deep, hoarse groan of his own.

“You okay, baby?” His voice is strained as if it is difficult to give volume to each word.

“Yes, more please.” I squeeze my thighs against his hard hips, and my fingers dig into his shoulders.

His strokes are slow and measured, as if he is trying to discover every nerve ending with his shaft. Each movement of his body rubs against my clit and my breasts until I’m drowning in the vortex of dark sensation where there is nothing but Nathan and me and pleasure.

His mouth is wet and hot on my neck and shoulders. Then he’s kissing me again, his tongue thrusting hard as he pounds into me. I pant meaningless pleas and writhe on the cotton under my body, begging for release. My legs hook around his hips as I try to keep him deep within me.

“Open your eyes,” he commands. I hadn’t realized they were closed. His teeth are clenched, and the skin is pulled taut over his cheekbones. He has never looked so commanding or so fierce. I’m helpless under his orders. Our eyes catch, and I see the fire of his love and his passion—all for me. “I love you,” he shouts. “Goddamn, I love you.”

His thrusts become ragged and disjointed as he jets his release inside me. His words, his utter love for me, his hot, wild release triggers my own orgasm. The friction of our bodies hurtle us over the cliff together, and our mouths find each other in a messy, breathless benediction of our love.