Still Her SEAL (ASSIGNMENT: Caribbean Nights Book 10) Page 16

  “This isn’t about me being right or you being wrong.”

  “It always is,” she says sadly.

  “Are we even married?”

  Yes, on a scale of one to ten, this has to be the stupidest question I could ask.

  Hindi leans against the Jeep’s driver-side door, as if a flimsy piece of metal could keep us apart. “I don’t want to fight,” she says. “But yes. The network had people check.”

  There’s something wrong with that last sentence, that her employer had its hired guns checking on her marital status. Why would they even care? It’s a bit of an HR nightmare in terms of taxes and benefits, but it’s not insurmountable. And I’ll bet their lawyers don’t come cheap.

  “Me neither.” I’m so fucking tired of fighting, fighting, fighting. Did it for Uncle Sam in a good cause, came home, and I wanted some peace and quiet. Instead I’m now a centerfold. I pinch the bridge of my nose. For all I know, we’ve got paparazzi hiding behind the palms, documenting our every move. I want to meet her halfway, to find some way for this to be okay, but there’s something niggling at me.

  “Why does the network care? Why are Lilah’s pictures of us in a tabloid?”

  “Lilah’s?”

  “Yes, Hindi—Lilah’s. Your Gal Friday and the woman who’s stalked me with a camera every chance she got. She’s on your side, right? So why would she sell pictures of us to a tabloid in the first place?”

  It takes me a moment to realize that she’s not going to deny it. That Lilah’s pictures in this tabloid aren’t some kind of freak accident or gross betrayal of Hindi’s trust.

  She knew.

  Her face totally gives her away, and I’m not sure why I’m still surprised.

  “Tell me.”

  She winces. “Well, the network wasn’t sure if it wanted to renew me for another season. They wanted more drama, more viewers tuning in. When I found out we were still married, us getting a divorce seemed like something they’d be interested in.”

  I hold up a hand, stopping her. “Why is our personal stuff any of their business?”

  She taps the tabloid. “Because it means ink. Eyeballs. Free coverage. As long as I keep my viewers hooked, they keep me. I like my job. I don’t want to lose it. It’s the only thing I’ve ever been any good at.”

  Well. Fuck. I kind of thought we were good at us, but apparently she was just doing her job. Really, really well. I rub the back of my neck.

  “So the whole time you were down here, you were… trying to boost ratings for your show? You weren’t really trying to work things out?”

  She shrugs and I see red.

  “And Lilah was running around behind my back taking pictures she could sell to the tabloids?”

  Her voice climbs a decibel or six. “No. She leaked the pictures. No one cut her a check.”

  “That doesn’t make it better.” The need for cash might actually be easier to accept. Electricity and running water don’t come cheap, and we’ve all heard the horror stories about rental costs in New York City. Or hell, maybe Lilah has a beloved sister who needs cash for an organ transplant. An elderly mom about to get the bum rush from her childhood home unless someone ponies up the mortgage payments that are in arrears. I’d take a shopping addiction or a gambling problem, too, because yes, I am that desperate.

  Everything she did was a set up.

  Everything she said was a sound bite for her next season.

  I’m not in a relationship with my wife—I’m accidentally auditioning for season four. Five. Fuck if I know what I’m doing here, but I know one thing.

  I’m leaving.

  I’m so out of here.

  Rohan

  A week ago I walked. Six days later I swing by Hindi’s bungalow—and I still have no fucking clue why I do this—just in time to catch the sleek, black car parked outside. As the driver, sweating in his three-piece suit, sets a bright pink duffel bag and a purple roller bag in the trunk, I come to the obvious conclusion. Hindi’s on her way out. Leaving. Going, going, gone. A piece of me feels like the ball in a ball game that’s too close to call. The batter swings hard, there’s a crack and a connection, and then that goddamned ball goes airborne, headed out of the park. For a few glorious moments, all eyes stick to the ball and it’s the goddamned hero, the game-winning player, the star of the show. And then it’s up, up, and over the wall, gone, and the batter tears around the bases.

  Just substitute my heart for that poor, lonely, stupid as fuck ball, and you’ll get the picture. Might have been better to hit me in the head with the bat because when that front door flies open, I jerk forward. And yes, I can’t breathe, can’t wait, can only hover there by the rental car like the worst kind of idiot. I had feelings for Hindi and she used me. She was the one who broke us up and I was the loser who got stuck with the bill.

  But it’s Lilah stepping out onto the porch. I wait a beat, but nothing. Nada. No lively, glorious, fan-fucking-tastic explosion of color behind her. No Hindi.

  Lilah has words for me, though. She spots me immediately and raises the middle finger on both hands. “You suck,” she yells, loud enough to be heard on the mainland.

  “Is Hindi—” Nope. I have no idea how to finish that sentence. Not a clue. Since Lilah’s pissed off, however, she jumps all over me.

  “Gone home.” She marches down the stairs and straight over to me. She hits hard, too—her fists drill into my chest and it’s no accident that the four-inch spikes on her boots land on my toes.

  I back up a step. You think I should let her go to town on me? Because she’s a girl and Hindi’s her friend? Not this time. Not my problem. Hindi caused this.

  I state the obvious. “This is not my fault.”

  “Oh, Captain Bullshit, that is so not true.” Lilah fires this off with a sincerity that makes me think she doesn’t know exactly what went down between Hindi and me. “I ought to Photoshop your head onto the body of a turd with the world’s tiniest dick.”

  I don’t even have the heart to point out exactly how and where she’s gone wrong. I just turn and head in a different direction. Whatever. Hindi’s headed back to… wherever it is Hindi lives. Yeah. I have no fucking clue where that is, but since her television show shoots in New York City, she must be within commuting distance. See? That’s a nice, practical observation. I used to be the king of logical deductions. B followed A in my universe, two and two added up to four, and relationships only happened in math class.

  And divorce is the only logical solution to our situation.

  I’d like to say I don’t know where we go from here, but I do. We’ve got a one-way ticket to divorce court. I leave Lilah getting into the car to return to whatever circle of hell she regularly inhabits, and make a solo visit to Ava’s office to verify next steps.

  If sex with Hindi was a really hot dream, the reality of divorce court is night terrors territory. Ava assures me that she handles plenty of dissolutions, as if it’s supposed to comfort me that she’s an expert in breaking people up. She gives me a checklist, a timeline, and three inches of papers to read and sign. She’ll express the same to Hindi in New York City or wherever it is she spends her time between shows. That I don’t know where that is speaks volumes, right?

  Problem solved. Crisis averted. I leave the office and I’m all sorted. It’s sunny outside, the sky blue and cloudless. It’s the kind of day visitors to the Florida Keys crave and I should appreciate it. Should want to go for a swim, a run, surf. I leave the law office and get back in my Jeep. And I just sit there. Everything’s gone slo-mo around me, filled with that charged silence that surrounds me at the start of a mission. The big picture’s still there in the back of my head, but it’s the little details that could kill me and that I pay attention to. The whisper of sound in the palms, the crunch of sand beneath the tires of a car, the emptiness of the seat beside me.

  I don’t believe in ghosts, but it feels like Hindi’s riding shotgun. I can still see her bouncing up and down beside me. Riding my lap. Licking
ice cream from that gorgeous mouth that says the most outrageous things. She was here. She rode with me. We kissed and touched and I wasn’t alone. We were together.

  I turn the radio on and let her music fill up the emptiness. I might even sing along since there’s no one here to hear. Once I’m back at Search and SEALs, I crawl into my bed and stay there. Who cares if it’s only noon? I’m the ass who got what he asked for and instead got what he deserved.

  Two weeks later, I’m still lost. Not sure where to go. Ergo, I do the one thing I’m good at—running endless laps around Angel Cay. The longer I run, the faster I push myself, the sooner I can fall asleep at night. Pretty soon, I’ll be passed out before sunrise. Yes, I look like shit. Don’t give a shit, either.

  A gull screeches overhead. Maybe the bird’s tired of the endless sunshine. Maybe it’s having a bad day. As it flies off to get on with its day, I follow until I’m running along the ocean. And because it’s good to stay in shape, make the effort in my BDUs and combat boots. I need the challenge. At the pace Jack and I are setting, I’m on track to beat my personal best.

  Some previously undiscovered spidey sense has me glancing over my shoulder. Or maybe it’s the chorus of hey fuckwad that’s a dead giveaway. Vann and Finn pound up the sand toward me. Since I’ve spent the last week avoiding them, I can read intervention in their aggressive pace. They’ve decided it’s time to talk, apparently because meeting the women of their dreams means that I, too, need to have a come to Jesus moment. As if.

  I up my pace until the palm trees whip past us and Jack is in doggie heaven. He’s a competitive son-of-a-bitch, and he’s not letting the others overtake us. Having trained with the two loons eating my dust for years, I know exactly how fast they can run. I have just enough of a head start and a better final quarter-mile. Finn’s more of a sprinter, and Vann tends to kick ass on the long-hauls. I could beat them both back to Search and SEALs. Then it’s easy money that I get the Jeep started and get off before they catch me. It’s not a viable long-term strategy, but I’m kind of living day to day anyhow.

  Plus, Finn cheats.

  Arms wrap around my legs, dragging me down to the sand. Rex, Finn’s doggie companion, surges ahead with a gleeful bark and tears after Jack. My face bounces off the sand and I grunt. Good friends can kill you with the best of intentions. Just on principle, I roll, fighting the hold. I’ve never been one to go down and stay down. I’ve always preferred taking a swing at my problems, and, conveniently, my problems are wearing Finn’s face at the moment.

  As Finn dodges, Vann parks his heavy ass on my legs, severely curtailing my reach. “You ready to tap out?”

  Not hardly.

  “We could drown him.” Vann actually sounds like he’s considering it. “Not something I’m usually in favor of, seeing as how we’re in the business of saving lives, but I could be talked into making an exception today.”

  I flash him the bird. “Price tag’s fifteen years to life on that, but feel free to give it a shot.”

  Vann rolls off me with a grunt. “You’re such a killjoy.”

  That I am.

  Also? These last weeks have sucked, thanks for asking. First my ex-wife paid me an unannounced visit and then she surprised me with the happy news that we were still married. Then my dick decided we should try for a little reunion action while we filed our paperwork and waited on the fine state of Florida to dissolve our union. And on top of that? My ass and my dick seem to be a favorite of the paparazzi and the Internet has now seen way too much of me. Shit like that’s impossible to shake—I’ll be ninety, whooping it up in the veteran’s home, and people will still be bringing it up. I need to get over Hindi, over our seemingly never-ending marriage. Damned thing has more lives than any feline, and it’s more hostile than the feral cat I acquired from behind her rented bungalow.

  Although I have Hindi’s number now, Ava has counseled me to avoid reaching out to her. We’re supposed to communicate through Ava’s office, which is apparently the grown-up version of passing notes in school. This is supposedly to “avoid miscommunications,” but I should be honest with Ava. It’s way too late for that.

  Vann thumps me on the back way harder than necessary. My chin plants in the sand again and I inhale the better part of the beach. “Shitty-ass week?”

  “Week before was worse,” I grunt, elbowing him back.

  He offers me a hand up. I could take off running again, but fuck it. Finn and Vann are my boys and my legs are still on fire from my earlier pace. I start walking back to Search and SEALs before my body cramps up.

  Finn frowns. “You still on for my wedding?”

  It sucks that I’ve had my head so far up my own ass that he has to ask me this. So I nod, and then make a joke out of it.

  “You gonna hook me up with the maid of honor, grandma?”

  “Hell, no.” Finn actually looks horrified. “You want to do Ava?”

  No. No, I don’t. She’s a gorgeous woman, but I appreciate her the way you do a work of art—from a nice, safe distance. You don’t think about rubbing your dick on a Picasso, no matter how naked the woman on the canvas gets. Ava is a friend and I respect the shit out of her, but there’s no way we go out. I’m entirely certain she feels the same way about me. In fact, she spelled it out for me once, just to avoid “misunderstandings.” Yes. She used finger quotes. Ava likes her shit to be crystal clear, so I’m surprised she didn’t send me a memo to sign off on as well. The two of us will never, ever hook up.

  Ever.

  Thank Christ.

  Finn’s wedding is in two weeks. Vann and I are the best men—Vali says we can each grab an arm and drag Finn up the aisle if he’s stupid enough to get cold feet. Which he won’t, because he’s a nice guy and not an asshole. He knows Vali’s the best thing that’s ever happened to him. Pretty sure he’d rather sprint up that strip of red carpet to claim the woman who loves him every bit as much as he adores her. Yeah. It’s disgustingly cute.

  I’m happy for him. I really am. I’m just—lonely. That’s all it is. He’s got his Vali and I’ve got this hole. That wasn’t part of my plan. When did Hindi move into my life and take over? Did it happen when I met her dancing on the bar of the Tiki Hut and losing an epic wet T-shirt contest? When she jumped me in the ocean, laughing and kissing? Or did it happen when she tried to coax that recalcitrant, cranky feral cat to eat from her hand? Was it when she looked at her ice cream like it was the one thing she was dying to have and then she dove in and enjoyed the fuck out of it—and I wanted her to look at me the same way?

  I told her to go.

  I ran her off.

  And now I miss her and me. I miss the us.

  I don’t know where she is or if she’s okay. The network was giving her shit about publicity and ratings. Have they stopped? Does she have the contract? What is she doing right now? Is she walking up some busy New York street and do they have the right kind of ice cream there? Is she alone, or has she replaced me? Has she found some smart guy who appreciates her and isn’t afraid to tell her that he—

  Isn’t me.

  Is willing to commit to her and give her all the words she deserves.

  “You are coming, right?” Finn glares at me as if he’s developed mind-reading abilities. Apparently, he has his doubts. No, I don’t want to go to any wedding. But I’m also not actually a huge fan of storming beaches or clearing rooms of enemy insurgents—they’re simply job requirements, the same way hanging at Finn’s wedding is a friend requirement.

  “Yes. Absolutely.” See? Even Ava would be proud of that answer.

  “Are you a plus-one?” Finn lobs that sucker at me as I reach the porch of my bungalow. Yowly slinks out of nowhere, ready for his dinner. He’s reconciled himself to his forcible relocation from Hindi’s rented bungalow and we’re slowly working out the terms of my surrender. I pointed out to him that I’m a sure thing when it comes to popping cans of Fancy Feast; he peed on my boots to make his point; we came to an agreement.

  He’l
l use me for my food.

  I’ll put out.

  Food, not sex. Cat’s got his priorities in the right place.

  “Single,” I say firmly. I ignore Vann’s snort of amusement at my newly acquired feline companion. If Marlee wanted a cat, the man would clear out the SPCA for her. Hell, he gave her a baby when she asked. The mini-me will make an appearance in a few months and Vann already has a ten-page birthing plan. He’s mapped out and test driven the route to the hospital. He’s read books on home birth “just in case” and he’s brushed up his EMT certification. He could deliver sextuplets on the side of the road, bring them home, and have enough diapers. And while Finn and Vali haven’t expressed an interest in reproducing, Finn is always bringing home strays. People are constantly tucking kittens, puppies, and spare rabbits into his Jeep. Neither of them is in any position to give me shit over a single cat.

  Finn looks at the cat and then looks at me. “Are you sure?”

  “She wanted a divorce. I’m giving it to her.”

  This time Vann flat out laughs. “Sure you are.”

  Hindi

  Santa doesn’t really exist. I know this—have since I was four—but if he did and if I’d written him a letter listing all of my deepest, darkest wants and desires, it’s safe to say that he’s come through. He’s dropped the entire sleigh-load beneath my tree, my stocking overfloweth, and there’s nary a speck of coal in sight.

  I’m golden.

  On top of the world.

  The queen of having it all.

  My agent Dorrie called two days after I skulked back to New York City. The network loved me, she said. They wanted more, more, more—and how about a fifteen episode commitment? Dorrie isn’t the kind of woman who squees with glee or grabs your arms to happy-dance you in circles while on the train, but I think she might make an exception for our new contract. The network bigwigs are eating my drama up. Sales are good, the red line on my 401K statement is headed for the stratosphere, and the early reviews for the new line I’m debuting at Miami Fashion Week are equally glowing. Look at me. Saint Hindi, who can do no wrong. My career is so on fire it makes a volcano look like a weekend marshmallow roast, and it’s happy, happy, happy all around. I’m an ungrateful bitch for being anything less than one hundred percent satisfied.