SEAL's Promise - Bad Boys of SEAL Team 3, Book 01 Page 2

  T.J. came up behind her. She could smell him before he put his palm on her shoulder, matching the other palm on Frankie’s shoulder while they stood waiting to get poison into their systems quick. The bartender had dropped the first glass he’d filled with ice for her Tom Collins, so the jitters were spreading. But not to T.J. He was rock-solid, steady and undistracted, and she hated every muscle and sinew of his body. Every drop of his blood. Every cell. She hated all of him for being so calm and light-hearted about her disaster of a wedding.

  Not that he’d ever know. She did her best to give him a triumphant, smile. Then she took Frankie’s double scotch and downed it before he could get his hands on it. With the liquor on her lips and a glow spreading down her chest, she didn’t care how they looked at her. She was a bride on a mission. Her day. Her time, and they better fucking play her game or she’d take them both on.

  T.J. gave her an appreciative return glance. Frankie was still trying to figure out what had happened as he told the confused bartender to give him the scotch he didn’t get the first time.

  “Okay. I’m good. Good now. Time to face my audience,” she said and wafted off as if she was wearing a dress of white potato chips. She’d deal with Frankie after he found the courage to look at her. Until then, she didn’t want to be anywhere near him or his fuckin’ devil of a best friend.

  Okay, so that was number six.

  T.J. WAS ENRAPTURED. The bride was storming across the wooden floor of the fellowship hall, bloody entrails of his heart guts, if there was such a thing, caught in the hem of her dress. No woman had ever made him feel that way before. He was completely powerless to focus on anything else until she was out of sight.

  “Glad that’s fuckin’ over,” Frankie said with a croak, and then coughed.

  That brought T.J. to life, but he found it hard to talk.

  “I’m never going through that again. Something happens to her, someone else wants to have a big wedding, the answer is no, and if that means I stay a bachelor my whole life, so be it,” Frankie said.

  “You’re not a fuckin’ bachelor. Too late for that, man. You’d be a widower. Not a bachelor.”

  “Whatever the fuck they call it.”

  “You know, Frankie, I wonder if you realize what you’ve just done?”

  “I don’t catch your drift.”

  “You’ve committed yourself to one woman. You really sure this is a good thing?”

  Now, why are you even talking about that? Oh yeah, to cover up the fact that the bride is the object of your fantasies. Right now that fantasy involves a number of very unholy images. And you’re standing next to the only man on the planet who has any right to have such fantasies. This is the guy you’d lay your life down for without a second thought…Oh, thank God, there is Miss Fresh Face walking through the door and aiming for me, just in time.

  “Hi, T.J. I thought I’d find you hanging around the bar,” Cindy said.

  God, she was a welcome sight. She was the drink of water that wouldn’t save his life, but would definitely make the next few minutes possible. He was almost ready to ask her if she would suck his dick and be quick about it.

  “Cindy, you’re lookin’ mighty fine,” Frankie said, eyeing her. “I was getting a lecture from my best man, asking if I knew what kind of shit I was getting myself into, and you walk back into the room, and now we can talk about something really important.”

  Cindy giggled. She stood on tiptoes and gave Frankie a lip-lock. “And don’t you forget it. I’d have spent my life with you, Frankie, and you wouldn’t have had to walk down any aisle or dress up like a penguin.” She whispered soft things to Frankie, and T.J. could see he liked it.

  Until Shannon showed up. Of course, Shannon would blame T.J. If she’d look at him, that is. She was shooting daggers at Cindy. Frankie removed his palm from Cindy’s ass and was, once again, red in the face.

  This was not turning out to be one of Frankie’s better days.

  Chapter Three

  ‡

  IT WAS DAYS before T.J. could get Frankie away to enjoy a beer at the Scupper.

  “You ever think about settling down?”

  T.J. returned a glare he knew Frankie would feel deep in his gut. “Don’t ever ask me that fuckin’ question again, Frankie.” He watched some lovelies who strutted in with unbelievably tight cutoff jeans and knotted tee shirts that showed a good portion of smooth, flat abdomen—just his favorite kind of eye candy. All the girls who wanted to make it with a SEAL did this on Friday and Saturday nights. One of them snagged T.J.’s appreciative smile and gave him a wink.

  Perfect.

  Frankie watched where T.J. had focused and shook his head. “I don’t know where you get all the energy, Talbot. Keeping stories straight, promising to call them and then—”

  “What stories? Why the hell would you tell them stories? It goes like this, Frankie, ‘Hon, you wanna screw?’ Doesn’t involve a lot of talking, Frankie. And then if they want to talk too much, you kiss them until they shut up.”

  Frankie giggled like he always did when T.J. revealed some of his philosophy on women and the other finer things in life. “I always let them talk.” Frankie shrugged his shoulders. “I’m interested in what they have to say. Don’t you want to know them a little bit first, T.J.?”

  “Well, that tells me you’re not a very good kisser.”

  “Fuck you, T.J. How do you know how I kiss? Shannon thinks I kiss real good. She loves it.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  “I’m not shitting you, man. We get it on, T.J. You should try it. Staying monogamous. Sexy as hell knowing someone is waiting for me at home, and I get to fondle her all night long. And she’ll still want to be there in the morning.”

  “Not for me.”

  “But I love her, T.J. You’d do it too if you married someone like my Shannon.”

  T.J. shook his head and raised a finger. “No. Never like Shannon. I’d have to work too hard.”

  “That’s what you do when you love somebody, T.J. Shannon and I have a perfect love. I’ve never wanted to be so devoted to anyone, well, except for you, of course—”

  “Shut the fuck up. Trying to make me jealous? I don’t go for guys, Frankie.”

  “Yeah, but I love you, man. I wish you could have what Shannon and I have.”

  “You mean you do whatever she wants and have no will of your own.”

  “No, see, that’s what you got wrong. I want to please her. She gets so excited sometimes, like a little girl. I feel so lucky every time I look at her. This beautiful, smart, sexy woman is mine and mine alone. I tell you, T.J., you’re missing something. One night stands are boring, man. This is where it’s at.”

  “Good for you, asshole.” T.J. raised his beer, “To love, then.”

  “And family,” Frankie added.

  T.J. nearly spit out his beer “Family? You’re not seriously gonna make me drink to family, are you? You remember who you’re talking to?”

  “Not your family, T.J. My family. I’m going to have a baby. Shannon and I made a baby together.”

  T.J. wanted to slap him. His insides turned to molten lead. He bit down so hard, grinding his molars he almost bit his own tongue. Procreation was a dirty word. He was halfway convinced he’d go get himself fixed so he never had to deal with that situation. His biggest fear was getting a girl pregnant, perhaps creating another fatherless soul, or having to marry someone you really didn’t want to just to do the right thing.

  And now Frankie was willingly walking into that buzz saw.

  “I can’t believe it. You ready to be a father, Frankie?”

  “Hell yeah. And you know what? You’re about to be a godfather.”

  “Not me.”

  “Yes, Shannon and I talked about it, and you’re going to be the baby’s godfather. We want you to do us this honor.”

  “You sure Shannon okayed this?” T.J. wanted to say no, but he knew it would hurt Frankie perhaps more than anything else he could do or say.
>
  “She knows you’re like a brother, T.J. She knows you would do anything for me, even die for me, you know? Who else could be that baby’s godfather?”

  “Anyone but me.” T.J. had said, but in the end he’d agreed. He remembered the wedding and how nervous Frankie had been, so worried about ruining Shannon’s perfect day. And now he was going to be a father.

  But he knew Frankie, unlike T.J.’s own father, would never abandon his child. Frankie would be there to make sure that child had everything possible. And he’d do it out of love. He wouldn’t farm an infant to some hellhole in another state, allowing him to be raised by sadists and mean women and their asshole husbands. Or raised in an institution like juvenile hall. Left like a leaf floating on the current of a river of no return. Nobody could call himself a man and do that to a child. Unforgiveable.

  SIX MONTHS LATER, T.J. was thinking about Frankie’s wedding day while he and the rest of SEAL Team 3 sat in a bombed-out building, waiting for nightfall so they could proceed to the rendezvous. The target hadn’t been where they were told he would be.

  In fact, this was the third time in as many days that the intel had been inaccurate, which wasn’t a good sign. Each day, they were sent further out into the rural parts of the city of Goan. There hadn’t been a shot fired, but the eyes of the people they’d seen were hard.

  T.J. had tried warming up to their new interpreter. Not everyone on the team trusted him. He was no Jackie Daniels, the interpreter they’d used during their last deployment, who had literally saved their lives. This guy was shifty, didn’t look him in the eyes when T.J. spoke to him, and that spooked the hell out of him. The terp was edgier than he’d seen kids on speed in juvie.

  The unease was beginning to rub off, even before the terp told him in clipped English. “Something’s not good here.”

  Well if that wasn’t the fuckin’ understatement of the year. “So tell me the good news, Sherlock.” T.J. preferred using the name more similar to his Pashtu common name, a word no one, even the few of them well-schooled on the language, could pronounce. He was hoping for something slightly positive to compensate for the hairs standing out on the back of his neck, the ache he was getting in his shoulders from crouching quickly to take cover. The terp was doing it ten times more, eyeing corners and turning around to check for follows.

  “No good news, boss. All bad here. Must be very, very careful.”

  T.J. heard several of their platoon swear openly and wished not so many had heard him. He decided to lessen the load on Frankie, who had been uncommonly quiet, as if he had a premonition. He’d thought Frankie was scared the day he married Shannon. That was a joke now.

  “You remember that day when you passed out, Frankie? Your face is at least as red as that day.”

  “That’s because it’s fuckin’ hot, man. Can’t wait for midnight.”

  “I think it was because of all the tequila we drank. And everyone in their Sunday finest.”

  “That was a fuckin’ nightmare of a day, except for the fact I married the girl of my dreams.”

  “That you did, my man.” T.J. leaned to the left to peer out of the hole in the rubble. He couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling about this place. He didn’t like the howling wind, the way everyone avoided being anywhere close to them, like they were lepers. Sand was getting into everything. He was getting a huge blister where one of his socks had a hole, his boots unforgiving.

  An RPG hit barely six feet from them, exploding out a cloud of rubble, sending all of them into the air. While pebbles and body parts rained down on them, T.J. saw they’d lost at least two men—and Frankie was hit. He checked himself and discovered he still had twenty and didn’t hurt anywhere, and then he went to tend Frankie. He’d landed on his back, blood pouring from his mouth. T.J.’s gut tightened but he worked to hide the concern he felt for his best friend.

  “Shit, Frankie. You bite your tongue?”

  “No, man. Got hit in the back. Can’t feel my legs, T.J. What the fuck?” Frankie brought his hands out from behind him. He’d been sitting on them. His fingers were dripping with his own blood.

  T.J. rolled Frankie to the side, far enough to see a metal piece imbedded in Frankie’s lower spine. The blood was bubbling, watered down by what T.J. assumed was spinal fluid. Fredo was radioing for extraction. T.J. swung around so he could hold Frankie’s head up slightly while he checked for combatants.

  “Got Marines on their way, gents,” Kyle yelled out over the cries of their CIA embed, who had been hit as well. T.J. shared a look with his LPO, something he knew Kyle had seen many times before. His Team leader’s tight jaw and unwavering eye contact commanded him he’d better hold it together for Frankie. That’s when he understood Kyle knew Frankie wasn’t going to make it, but they had to convince Frankie he would.

  Sonofabitch. He took a deep breath and barked, “Frankie, getting you home. Bird is coming now. Hang tight. I’m going to go see if I can help out some of the others.”

  “No. Don’t go. I don’t want to die alone, man.”

  “Frankie, you’re not going to die.”

  “T.J., you’re a fuckin’ bad liar. Always have been.”

  “Shut up, Frankie. I gotta stop the sound effects or they’ll know right where to send the next one, and we’ll all buy it.”

  “Trust me, they know. They’re looking to get themselves a turkey. Why mess with a sparrow?”

  T.J. knew Frankie was telling the truth. It still sucked.

  It was happening more and more, light injuries requiring evacuation, and then the combatants went after the helo and got everyone. Of course, that was if the SEALs or a sniper on the chopper didn’t pick them off first. But fifty percent of the time it worked, which was much worse than it used to be.

  “T.J., please hang here for a minute while I finish this mission.” Frankie’s eyes were kind, tears running down his cheeks. “If there was ever anyone in the whole world I would want to take care of my Shannon, could ever see her fuckin’ besides me, it would be you.”

  “Frankie, stop it. I’m not going to fuck Shannon.”

  “Your loss, you dumb shit. She’s going to be a widow, and someone needs to watch over her and the baby. I want you to raise my little girl, T.J. I want you to beat up the first asshole who tries to get in her pants. I want you to hold Shannon’s hand while she’s in labor. And I’ll be right there with you, man. Just not in this body.”

  “Frankie, stop it. This isn’t helping your situation.” T.J. could hear the chopper approaching, but he knew it wasn’t what Frankie needed right now. Frankie needed a miracle, and T.J. couldn’t do anything but watch his friend die. He wanted to hug the big dufus who he’d joked and played around with, slap him in the face and tell him to wake up, that the play was too realistic and was creeping him out. Take the man for a beer and laugh about scaring each other. He wanted to be anywhere but here, doing this thing right now, and not being able to say the things he’d never gotten to say to Frankie. Because if he lost it, Frankie would too. “Hear that? That’s the sound of home, and apple pie, and you getting well and telling her all those things yourself.”

  “Love you, man. Do it, T.J. You promised. You’re our little girl’s godfather, man. You promised, man.” Frankie’s lethargic gaze showed nothing but love. T.J. never had a real brother, that he knew of, and now he was losing the only man in the world who had been more than a real brother to him.

  “Do what?”

  “Promise me. Promise me you’ll take care of Shannon and the kid.”

  “Fuck me.”

  “Do it, goddamn you!”

  T.J. nodded, gripping Frankie’s hand, which didn’t grip back. His blue eyes were as glazed as they had been on his wedding day. Except this time he wasn’t going to wake up. He was already on his way to his next mission—in heaven.

  Chapter Four

  ‡

  SHANNON WASN’T SUPPOSED to, but she was painting the baby’s room. They’d been told the little one, due in three months, wou
ld be a girl. Frankie had been thrilled, and it warmed Shannon, remembering that Skype call that day when she relayed the news. She’d chosen the name Courtney, and hoped Frankie would like it as much as she did. He hadn’t called her last night at their scheduled time. But that wasn’t unusual.

  The baby was getting very active, so she made a mental note not to hobble up and down the ladder so much. Although she was steady on her feet, she didn’t want to risk a fall.

  The doorbell rang and she put down her light pink roller of paint, wiped her hands on an old paint-smudged hand towel and barefooted it over to the front door. Standing with the backdrop of a sunny, blue-sky San Diego day were a man and a woman in white Navy uniforms. The officer removed his hat and tucked it under his arm.

  With a lump in her throat and heart pounding, she barely heard the news, delivered with unwavering eyes filled with compassion. It was a difficult job for them, she could see. It wasn’t a job she’d want, or be able to do as well as they did. But she was thankful they were polished and professional.

  She inhaled at first, ready to explode with tears on the exhale, but there was the baby to think of. Any upset she was feeling would affect Courtney, and that was, thankfully, her primary concern.

  She thought about Frankie, the way he didn’t like sand in his eyes, never told any of his buddies he hated the beach, the worst part of the wet and sandy they all had to endure during BUD/S. And yet, that’s where he died, in a sand hole somewhere far away from her and her loving arms.

  Her eyes stung and her lower lip quivered. The hole in her chest seemed bottomless, but as she let her breath out and mentally calmed herself she slowly came back to present day, this day she would always remember, and asked if they’d like to come in for a glass of water. They accepted, and entered her little bungalow. She puttered around in her bare feet, getting three tall glasses of ice water, filled to the brim with ice as she was lately fond of doing so she could crunch the tension of Frankie’s deployment between her molars.