SEAL's Virgin: A Bad Boy Military Romance Read online

  “What’ll it be, boys?” She winks at me. “Hello there Jensen. The usual?”

  I nod a greeting at her and say, “Yep. Whiskey and coke for me, and for my brothers here too,” but then I look away.

  She’s the main bartender here so I see her all the time, and until last week I thought she was hot. Totally my type. But now I can’t seem to get the mysterious Riley out of my mind, ever since I met her at the jail.

  I don’t know what happened to the old me but now it’s like no girl compares to the one I can’t have. It’s knocked me off my game, and I don’t like it.

  “I assume since you’re walking around a free man that your bail hearing went well?” my older brother Ramsey asks me.

  “It was fine. Apparently, I’m an upstanding citizen.”

  We all laugh at that one.

  “But I don’t like the lawyer I have.”

  “Get a new one,” Harlow shrugs.

  “I probably will. Even though this one’s free, through the VLA.”

  “What’s so bad about him?” Ramsey asks.

  He’s always been the practical one.

  He doesn’t have a nice curvy ass and big juicy tits like Riley, I think.

  But I say, “He’s trying to say I have PTSD, to use as my defense. I think that’s all they teach them over there at the VLA. PTSD, PTSD, PTSD.”

  “Well, if it works...” Harlow shrugs as Shelly brings our drinks.

  Ramsey doesn’t say anything, which isn’t like him.

  “I never knew there were two more boys just as handsome as yourself,” Shelly says, and smiles at me.

  “Woah now,” says Harlow, as she walks away. “She’s clearly into you.”

  I shrug.

  “I’m just so sick of my VLA lawyer saying that I have PTSD, when I don’t.” I want to get this conversation back on track, rather than focusing on Shelly— or Riley. “That kind of shit going on my record could really mess up my career.”

  Ramsey’s head jerks up, interested.

  “How so?”

  “It’s just a mark against me, is all,” I say, because I really don’t know what would happen if my new job would get wind of my alleged PTSD.

  In the military, I stayed far away from the mental health counseling office, for fear that I’d get lumped in with others who have PTSD and be forced into retirement due to a perceived lack of mental fitness. My new job is much more relaxed about most things than the military was— it’s one of the benefits of having a private contractor essentially run military operations— but I’m sure they wouldn’t like the liability of having someone with PTSD in charge of training recruits.

  Ramsey looks lost in thought, and I’m surprised by his lack of usual focus and candor. He often gives me good advice but today he appears to just want to enjoy his whiskey.

  “Have you heard from Mom at all?” he asks, completely changing the subject. Well, not completely, but mostly. “I’m worried about her. One of us should go check on her.”

  “No, I haven’t heard from her,” I shrug. “And it better stay that way.”

  “You’d think she’d want to know how you’re doing,” Harlow says, with his normal anger about our mom peeking through. “Why are we the ones who are always supposed to take care of her instead of the other way around? She should contact you and try to help you out if she can. Especially since she’s the one who got you into this mess.”

  “Just like every other mess we’ve ever been in,” I respond. “And we always manage to get ourselves out just fine.”

  Neither statement is exactly true, and I wish I had shut my mouth. Ramsey sneaks a worried glance at Harlow, but he’s downing his drink as if he didn’t even hear us.

  “Look, I know we’ve all had our issues with Mom,” Ramsey says, in a slight change of subject. “But I’m worried about her. She’s getting older and in my opinion a little senile or something. We know she’s always struggled with addiction issues and now I really believe there are some mental illness issues going on as well…”

  “Why are you so full of excuses for her?” I spit out, in disgust. “She’s the one who’s supposed to be there for us."

  Both Harlow and Ramsey look at me as if I have a good point but that that point should remain unsaid. Undeterred, I continue, because I'm tired of the bullshit.

  "She’s the mom and we’re the kids," I say. " Or at least that's how it's supposed to be. But it’s never been like that. She’s chosen her no-good boyfriends and her booze and pills over us every single time she’s had the chance. So now you want us to care about her? Maybe it’s not ‘mental illness’ but just plain not giving a fuck who she hurts or how, whether it’s herself, or us, or Dad, or anyone.”

  “Jensen, I didn’t mean to upset you,” Ramsey says, putting a hand on my shoulder. “I know you’ve been under a lot of stress lately—”

  “That has nothing to do with it.”

  “I just… I can’t help but care about her because she’s our mother. It's true that she's definitely not the greatest mother, but how can we just sit by while she destroys herself?”

  “Let’s go to Closed Door,” Harlow says suddenly and decisively. It’s a rather seedy strip club that he likes to frequent.

  “Nah.”

  I blow off the idea. I’m glad he changed the direction of the conversation, but I don’t want to go to Closed Door.

  “What? No scantily-clad dancing ladies for you tonight?” asks Harlow. “What’s gotten into you, brother?”

  “It’s called conditions of release,” I lie. “I’m not even supposed to be in here, but a strip club is just asking for trouble.”

  “Ah man, that fucking sucks,” Harlow complains in a whiny voice.

  Sometimes it seems he hasn’t changed much from when we were kids. Except that he has, a lot. And he's been through a lot— even more than even Ramsey or I have.

  Emotionally, though, Harlow is still our little brother, and it’s hard to separate my vision of this grown man who has been through so much— too much— with my vision of the 11-year-old kid brother who wants to steal all my video games from my room and then pretend he didn't take them, or tag along as I try to go make out with a girl for the first time.

  “I’ll go with you to Closed Door for a while,” Ramsey volunteers.

  He’s very protective of Harlow— of both of us actually, but ever since Harlow’s accident he’s been particularly fatherly to him.

  I’m glad to be let off the hook. And glad that neither of them called me out on my bullshit. It isn’t really conditions of release that have gotten into me. I've never been a rule follower and I'm not about to start now. Instead, it’s a lawyer named Riley, who isn’t my type, who isn’t even in my realm of possibility, but who won’t get out of my goddamned head.

  Chapter 11

  I take the enchiladas out of the oven at 6:55, because my parents are due to arrive at seven. I can’t help but sneak a piece to test the flavor. I have to admit, they taste delicious.

  I'm always trying to diet but carbs are my downfall. I try to exercise and eat well but I’m very busy and I often have to eat on the run. And when I do have time to cook, I like to enjoy what I make.

  As I finish off the last bite and then set the table, I glance at the clock. My family is late, as usual, and I’m not surprised. Sometimes I wonder why they demand a nice home-cooked dinner once a month, if they can never be bothered to show up for it on time.

  For once I have nothing to do but sit down and stew. How dare they be late. How dare Charles blow me off yet again tonight. He's supposed to be here, but he's not, of course. How dare Jensen not swoop me up on his way out of the holding room and make love to me right in front of the judge.

  What the hell has gotten into me? …

  The doorbell rings, interrupting my strange thought process.

  “We were running so late, I didn’t have time to stop and pick up the cake,” my mom says right away, in lieu of a greeting. “Don’t be mad.”

&nb
sp; Well, great.

  Now there’s nothing for dessert. But that seems like small potatoes compared to all the other items on my list of gripes today.

  “All right,” I tell her, and usher them in. “Who’s hungry?”

  “Well, we know you are,” quips my sister Samantha. Her latest- in- high fashion- trend clothing hangs off her skinny frame.

  “Girls, don’t fight,” my mom says cheerfully.

  I bite my tongue and begin serving the enchiladas.

  “These are kind of cold,” says Samantha.

  “The microwave is right over there,” I tell her, in a tone that even to me sounds chillier than the food she’s complaining about.

  She's right that it's cold. But it's not my fault they were so late.

  “Be nice to your little sister, Riley,” my dad says.

  I resist the urge to roll my eyes. He insists on acting like my sister and I are still adolescents, except when he demands to know my career achievements and accomplishments, and acts as if I should already be a Supreme Court justice by now

  “Where’s Charles?” asks Samantha. “Does he have cold feet again?”

  “Very funny,” I say. “He had a networking event for work.”

  But she's right. I go out of my way to please Charles's dad— not just because he's my boss but also because he's my boyfriend's father— but Charles never returns the favor. He often seems annoyed to be with my family.

  I can't blame him for that, because they are annoying, but it's just something that people in a relationship are supposed to put up with and do. I'm beginning to realize, however, that Charles and I don't have much of a relationship. Instead, we just have a big, fake show we're putting on for the sake of his dad, which benefits both of us but makes neither of us happy.

  “That’s nice. I guess he has his priorities in order. I might bring a guy I’ve been dating to your next dinner. He’s in finance. He’s, like, a billionaire.”

  You don’t say.

  “And how’s work going?” Dad asks.

  I swear he only comes to these dinners so he can check up on his investment of my law school tuition.

  “It’s great, Dad. Mr. Holt and I are working on a really big case that’s going to trial soon. I get to handle a lot of the trial, which I’m really looking forward to, even though I’m nervous.”

  “Will it make you partner?” Dad asks.

  “It could definitely play a big role in it,” I tell him.

  “Good. I can’t get over your luck. Engaged to the founding partner’s son. And now handling a trial with your bigshot future father-in-law.” He nods proudly as he eats the enchilada. “This is spicy.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  My parents don’t like spice and although I tend to use a lot of green Chile in my cooking, I tried to tone it down for them.

  "Also, we're not engaged."

  I've corrected him on this so many times but he always conveniently forgets.

  “It’s her hard work, dear, not her luck,” says my mom.

  I smile at her gratefully.

  “Her hard work in the bedroom,” snickers Samantha, prompting me to glare at her.

  If she only had a clue.

  And then my mom adds, “All those late nights spent studying, and now working, instead of having family time.”

  I roll my eyes at one of my mom’s favorite complaints.

  The rest of the dinner progresses “well,” as in, better than usual. But by the time it’s over, I’m anxious for them to leave so I say, “I need to work on a brief for a while tonight before I turn in.”

  “Well, we will definitely get out of your hair,” my mom says, with a jealous pout.

  “I didn’t mean it like that…” I quickly say.

  “Let her work, Luanne,” my dad barks at her. “She has an important trial coming up, that she needs to do well on.”

  It’s like he’s talking about my senior year AP Algebra test. And my mom wants to have family pizza and game night instead of letting me study. Some things never change.

  “All I have to do tomorrow is get a pedicure,” Samantha chirps.

  Some things really never change.

  I walk them to the door, grateful that they’re leaving, although not looking forward to the pile of dirty dishes they left behind for me to wash.

  An hour later, I sink into a tub full of bubbles and try to relax. Visions of Jensen soon return to my mind— it’s as if they never fully leave.

  I imagine him walking through the front door in a military uniform, bringing the cake that my mother forgot. We feed it to each other while undressing each other. He smears it all over my body and then licks it off me.

  My hand sinks underneath the bubbles to pleasure myself the way that I wish Jensen would. If only I had chosen a guy like him instead of a guy like Charles, maybe my life would be a lot different right now.

  Maybe I still can choose a guy like Jensen, after all… I can't help but think. I'm sure Charles's dad would be fuming, not to mention my own dad. But I'm tired of living the life everyone else wants me to live.

  I picture Jensen lifting me out of the tub and making love to me on the bathroom floor. Even just fantasizing about him makes my life seem so much more exciting.

  Stop it, I tell myself. Stop thinking about Jensen when you're still with Charles.

  Then I think, maybe it's time to do something to change that.

  I'm thinking about getting out and grabbing the magic bullet from the drawer under the sink. But just from touching myself, and thinking forbidden thoughts about Jensen, I already feel a spark quite similar to what I'd felt while using the vibrator.

  There it is again, I think. Did I just make myself come?

  Maybe every time I try it, I'll get better at it. And I have to admit that thoughts about Jensen don't hurt that process, even though they do hurt my life goals.

  Chapter 12

  It’s a Saturday morning, and everything is peacefully quiet at McKinnon Memorial Cemetery. I sit down next to my dad’s grave and run my hands over the inscription.

  James Bradford:

  Devoted Father and Beloved Friend.

  Dylan seems convinced that I’ll be acquitted for the assault charge, but I’m not so sure. I haven’t always had the best luck in life, and nothing surprises me anymore. I woke up this morning wanting to come and visit my dad, just in case I end up in the slammer for a while.

  “Hey Dad, it’s been a crazy couple of weeks since I was last here,” I tell him.

  I look around, still always afraid that someone will overhear me and think I’m a nut job for talking to my dead father, but I’m relieved to see that we’re alone. It’s too early for any funerals and there are no other gravesite visitors.

  “I guess my case is going all right, but Harlow thinks Mom should be supporting me more, while Ramsey’s still of the opinion that we need to help Mom because she’s really gone off the deep end lately.”

  I pause and take a breath, not even having to ask Dad his opinion on the matter, because even if he were here to share it with me, I’d already know what it was. My old man was loving to a fault. At one point I kind of lost respect for him because of it because I thought he should start putting himself first for once.

  But with time I’ve been able to see that mercy and justice were things that he strongly believed in. He practiced what he preached, and he was a good man. A much better man than I'll ever be.

  My mind flashes back to when I was a teenager, and we’d all just found out that Mom had left Dad for some no-good vagrant.

  “Boys,” Dad had said, after sitting us down on the couch.

  Ramsey and I were almost bigger than he was— Ramsey was probably already taller than Dad was— but he still called us “boys.”

  “I know you’ve been wondering where your mom has been. And I’m sorry to tell you this, but I don’t think she’ll be coming back any time soon.”

  “How can you just put up with this?” Harlow had accused Dad,
as he threw a sofa pillow across the room in frustration.

  He was still practically just a kid and didn’t know any better. “We know she’s gone. She’s been gone. She’s not coming back. So why are you holding onto all her stuff like this is some sort of free storage unit instead of our house that she left?”

  “Harlow,” Ramsey had said— always protective of Dad, of any of us— “Calm down.”

  “Kids at school are talking,” Harlow had shot back, with a pout.

  “Shut your mouth.” Ramsey had said, quickly and loudly.

  He didn’t want to further hurt Dad by piling more dirty, ugly truths on top of the truth that Dad was just starting to face, even though it had been plain as day to the rest of us for some time.

  Dad had been a prominent political figure and we’d enjoyed a rather privileged, middle class upbringing up until that point. But now kids at school were saying our mom was a slut and an alcoholic, and our dad was a “cuckold.” I’d had to look that one up.

  At the time, I was convinced that life would get better. Mom would realize her mistake and come home, and Dad was obviously willing to welcome her home with open arms. We would be a family again and everything would be okay.

  “You haven’t had an easy life, Kidd-o,” I can almost hear my dad say now.

  It sure didn’t pan out like I’d wanted it to. Mom did occasionally come home but it was only to crash with us when she was completely broke, and to get more money from Dad before she moved on to the next guy.

  Dad had to support us and Mom and her habits— which had progressed from alcohol to drugs, and from seedier and seedier men. We were still always the talk of the town and he didn’t run for re-election because he had slipped into a pretty deep depression and suffered from anxiety and panic attacks.

  From that time on, the Bradford Brothers were on the outs. We were bad news. No good.

  Our family’s reputation was toast and our parents were the laughing stocks of the town. It was our mom’s fault, but for a long time I harbored resentment towards my dad— and I know that at least Harlow did too.