A SEAL at Heart Read Free

be so much easier as a dog. Someone is there to make the meals, walk side-by-side, play, and run. Was that what he wanted? Did he want someone feminine, curvy, and sweet to be there, too?
    He’d be better off with a dog. With his schedule he didn’t know if either was a realistic wish. His ideal state was being deployed, which didn’t leave much time for a home life.
    Gripping the cold bottle of beer like a lifeline, he lifted it to his mouth and drank deeply. God, that tastes good! And it’s predictable. Every swallow is the same.
    Off to the side, he could hear the faint buzz of cars and trucks as they sped down Orange Avenue, confirming that everything was in sync here, normal. That was reassuring to a degree, witnessing the commonplace; this is what “everyday” was supposed to resemble. Calm. Steady. Regular.
    Why isn’t that me? His mind and body couldn’t slow down. Closing his eyes, he forced himself to let this familiar place and a beer soothe him. At least he hoped it would. McP’s was a special home for his kind. Owned by one of his brethren, there was Navy SEAL memorabilia on the walls, a trident on the T-shirts, and oftentimes the bar would fill with sightseers and froghogs—women who hopped from frog to frog. In the Underwater Demolition Team, or UDT—the precursor to the SEAL Team—these Navy sailors were called frogmen. Later on, the name was changed to better show their areas of operation: SEAL—SEa Air Land—but the age-old name for the women who pursued them never got updated.
    Half his Teammates were in committed relationships, and the rest dicked around almost constantly. Lately, his celibacy walk had turned into a preference. It had begun as a way to concentrate on work, and now…
    Maybe he just didn’t have what it took—a crap tolerance—to be in a relationship.
    The back of his head exploded with a sudden and sharp pain. His hand lifted automatically, rubbing over the healing wound and stubbly blond hair.
    “Red Jack!” His eyes whipped open, and for a second, he could have sworn that he’d heard Don. That was impossible. His swim buddy was dead, and there was nothing that could bring him back.
    Pain squeezed his neck. His vision blurred and for a moment an image of his friend flashed before his eyes.
    The rush of emotions for his swim buddy was the kind of tidal wave that could take out a city, and equally as devastating as it crashed over him again and again. He’d have done anything to have Petty Officer Second Class Donald Dennis Kanoa Donnelly alive and well. Sorrow punched his heart, but he’d never show it, especially not in public.
    His phone vibrated. Jack had the cell in his hand before he remembered he was supposed to be on vacation—no one would be calling him for sudden deployment.
    Punching a button, he accessed the email. Appointments had been scheduled for him: group therapy and individual sessions. Can’t this Frankenstein wannabe leave me alone? I don’t need a doctor.
    He just needed to keep it together long enough to go operational again. Being on medical leave was like swallowing two-inch nails whole: it hurt the entire way down and out. He had way too much time on his hands to think. He needed action.
    “Petty Officer First Class John Matthew Roaker.”
    His name was a command that had Jack sitting up straight in his chair. Any other service would have a guy standing at attention before the rank and name had been completely spoken. Spec Ops was different, more laid-back.
    “Taking a trip down memory lane?” commented a gruff man with salt-and-pepper hair and a long bushy mustache. His sideburns were like hairy caterpillars perched on the side of his face. The man took a step closer to Jack and grinned. A fat cigar was clamped between his lips and his voice had lost the hard edge and was warming progressively. “Shit, you look like a newbie jarhead, Jack! We’re going to have to mess you up a bit! So you look like a fucking SEAL.”
    “Good to see