Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 80431 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80431 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
Sawyer was so damn hot, and he didn’t even realize it.
Oakley had watched him from the corner of his eye while he finished his conversation with Meehaus.
Sawyer stood off to the side with his hands clasped behind his back, assuming an authoritative stance as if it were second nature, and his biceps were big enough to be seen through the thick material of his camo jacket. His green eyes were cast downward, and his sandy-blond brows were lowered in a deep V as if he were deep in thought.
With hair so blond it was almost white, the chief was effortlessly handsome.
Oakley didn’t get much downtime for dating. As a matter of fact, he had zero time for it. But when he was aching enough, he found a guy—or every blue moon, a woman—wanting a couple hours of no-strings-attached fun in whatever country’s port his team was in.
It’d been too many years to count since a man had caught and held his attention.
Maybe it was the way Sawyer stared at him like an admirer, not of his eyes—Oakley kept those hidden—but of his skills.
Most officers he met only thought of one-upping him. Envy and jealousy were two of Oakley’s biggest turn-offs.
The glint of wonder in Sawyer’s light eyes had Oakley hauling ass from him as quickly as possible before he returned the gaze and gave himself away.
Oakley found his crew in one of the rec rooms, shooting the shit like he knew they would be. They’d ditched their uniforms and dressed for a night out, already passing some flasks around.
“All right, you motherfuckers better not get crocked tonight so you’re dragging ass before we go up,” Oakley bitched, knowing his crew would never do that.
He had the most disciplined boatmen in the Navy, and he dared anyone to challenge it.
“You got it, chief.” His engineer laughed and raised his flask in a mock salute. “We’ll be at the Lighthouse if you wanna join us.”
“I’m hitting the goat, assholes. I’m tired,” Oakley muttered and headed back to his room.
After a hot shower and forty-five minutes of going over mission reports, he decided to let up on obsessing over details and do something to clear his mind.
His crew’s lives and those of the SEALs on the ground would be in his hands tomorrow. He needed to be sharp.
Oakley decided to walk to the bar after all. It wasn’t far outside the main gate. The night air was a crisp sixty-five, so the silent two-mile walk would do him good. A couple of beers and talking shit with his boys would be the perfect way for him to take his mind off tomorrow.
There weren’t many cars or bikes in the parking lot, which meant nothing if there was a crowd because most enlisted personnel opted for Uber and Lyft when going to a bar instead of risking a DUI.
Oakley trudged over several yards of gravel until he got to the wooden door of the weathered brick building. He yanked on the door knob shaped like an anchor and was accosted by the scent of grilled meat, raucous laughter, and classic rock blasting from a jukebox that was stupidly positioned at the entrance.
The bar was pretty full for a Wednesday night.
The standing tables around the small dance floor had clusters of people eating, drinking, and cheering to rounds of shots.
Flags, memorabilia, medals, and framed photos of uniformed men and women in action from all branches of the military covered almost every free space of the olive-green walls.
It didn’t take long for Oakley to spot his crew members huddled around a low-top table they’d pulled flush against a large curved booth. His guys always opted for the seats closest to the dart boards and pool tables.
His best friend and second-in-command, Steve Dusmeyer, pointed to the stool beside him when he saw Oakley making his way toward them.
“I knew you’d show about this time. Here, the waiter brought this a minute ago.”
Dusmeyer pushed a mug of ice-cold Yuengling Black & Tan in front of him.
Oakley grunted his thanks and downed half of the dark brew in one gulp.
Fuck, that’s good. And just what he needed.
He noticed several of his guys were gone, and a couple of others had girls they were cozied up to, no doubt trying to convince them to make a bad decision for one night.
The few already committed to partners stateside were taking turns at the dart board.
Chuckling, Oakley elbowed his friend in his side and tilted his head toward a brunette with pretty skin, wide hips, and a nice chest, bent over the pool table, setting up a one-in-a-million shot that she banked like a shark.
“Action pretty good in here tonight, huh?”
“If you say so.” Dusmeyer shrugged, his eyes on one of the televisions tuned to Sports Center. “None of these thirsty broads can hold a candle to Miranda.”