Save Me, SEAL Read online

  Save Me, SEAL

  Sylvia Fox

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  8. Epilogue

  HUCK: Chapter One

  HUCK: Chapter Two

  Copyright © 2017 by Sylvia Fox

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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  1

  “What are we doing for New Year’s Eve?” Taylor asked as she fell onto the bed next to me, stretching out her long, lithe body.

  “No idea. There’ll be a party somewhere, I’m sure,” I replied from my spot lying half-buried in pillows in the corner of our mutual friend Christina’s bed. It was a memory-foam California king and it was heaven at the moment.

  “Another Tech party, right? Blargh. I can’t do it. I want to party. Not hang around with whatever losers had nowhere to go for the holidays,” said Christina, or CC, as we sometimes called her.

  “Losers who have nothing better to do and nowhere to go. Hmm. You mean people like … Us?” I asked and laughed, along with Taylor.

  Christina wasn’t amused.

  “We should go to New York. Times Square!” Christina offered.

  “Sure,” I agreed. “I’ll tell Daddy to fuel up the private jet!”

  I was being sarcastic, of course. We’d be lucky to scrounge enough money together to book one seat in coach on a commercial flight. We were poor college students, after all.

  We were all silent in thought for a moment, contemplating.

  Christina spoke up first. “I’ve got it! You know how celebrities host club openings and parties and shit, and get paid for it? We find a place in need of a celebrity and tell them we have Rihanna’s sister. She’ll appear for free, she just needs three first class tickets, accommodations for three, and unlimited room service. How’s that?”

  We all laughed. Twice in one weekend, earlier in the school year, guys had approached our friend Taylor with different versions of a pickup line asking if she was Rihanna’s twin sister. Taylor was undoubtedly beautiful, and she had a slight resemblance to the pop star (probably more than slight after a few drinks) and college guys rarely stop at a “few drinks.”

  “That shit happens more in Vegas,” I countered.

  “Oh yeah, and Vegas for New Year’s Eve sounds awful,” Christina answered. “Besides, what do you know about Vegas?”

  “All Ambrose needs to know about Vegas is that Sledge lives there. Or lived there. Does he, still?” Taylor asked.

  I threw a pillow at her. “How would I know?”

  Christina and Taylor answered in unison: “Because you’re in love with him!”

  Love wasn’t exactly what I felt for Shane “Sledge” Hammer. Lust was a much more accurate word to describe my obsession.

  Shane, known to all the members of the SEAL team he’d led as “Sledge,” was the sexiest man I’d ever seen. Christina and Taylor felt the same way, they just wouldn’t admit it.

  Each of our fathers had been part of Sledge’s team, which is how we came to go to high school together just outside Little Creek, Virginia, and become best friends. The “SEAL Sisters.” Or, according to our haters, the “SEAL Sluts.” Which wasn’t really accurate at all, since none of us had sex until we got to college, and even then, it was only Christina. Taylor and I remained virgins. Jealousy is what got us the pejorative “Sluts” label, envy of our looks, grades, and tight-knit bond, I supposed.

  Christina is half-Latina and half-Asian, an exotic beauty who turns heads wherever she goes. At only 5’1, she’s the shrimp of our de facto sisterhood. Taylor, the Rihanna look-a-like, was a basketball and volleyball star at 5’9. Her sports friends could never understand why she hung around with a cheerleader, Christina, and a band geek, me. (Clarinet. And flute. And some alto sax.)

  If it’s an instrument played with the mouth, I have a knack for it.

  No need to describe my looks. Not that I’m necessarily a slouch, just that standing next to Christina and Taylor, I sort of disappear. Not my boobs or butt; they never disappear, much to my chagrin.

  But let’s just say I’m used to being ignored by guys when my two best friends are around.

  We really are like siblings, and despite whatever little arguments or fights we inevitably have among ourselves, we always have each other’s backs when the chips are down. Christina Cruz, Taylor Dupree, and me, Ambrose Wellington.

  Yeah, I know, my name is not only awful, it sounds like it should belong to a dude, right? Or like I should be some sort of royalty.

  That’s how it’s done in the South, evidently. I was born in Tupelo, Mississippi, the birthplace of Elvis Presley. Ambrose was my maternal grandfather’s name. Ambrose, Jr. to be exact, son of a World War II hero. My granddaddy was a decorated Green Beret in Vietnam, worthy of being honored, the only problem being that his only daughter, my momma Shelly, had only one child, that being me. A girl.

  A girl named Ambrose.

  It was probably inevitable that my momma, prom queen Shelly Duchamps, would marry a military man, and when her high school beau, prom king Luke Wellington enlisted and started down the path to becoming a SEAL, it was kismet. They were married, and six months later, out popped the chubbiest little blonde baby in all of Tupelo.

  Yeah, I was conceived prior to my folks entering the sacred bond of matrimony. Scandalous for a southerner.

  Anyway, our little family bounced around, as military families are wont to do, before settling down outside Little Creek, a stone’s throw from Manassas. That’s where my dad’s SEAL team was based. As fate would have it, two members of the team, Lamar Dupree and Alex Cruz, had daughters the same age as me. Instant bond.

  With the team deploying regularly, our families took every opportunity to get together whenever everybody was in town. Backyard barbecues, that sort of thing. That’s where Taylor, Christina, and I really bonded, at those get-togethers.

  We’d spent most of our childhood avoiding the annoying younger kids and gawking at SEALs to whom we weren’t related.

  Warm weather meant football games, and shirts would come off. If you’ve never been around a bunch of shirtless SEALs, I highly recommend it. The testosterone and beefcake on display at those football games was delicious.

  And none were tastier than Shane “Sledge” Hammer.

  Sledge was 6’2 with a thick shock of dark hair and a square jaw. He was a few years older than the rest of the guys. He’d been married once, losing his wife to a car accident while he was away hunting for Bin Laden. Since then, he’d been a bachelor, definitely by choice, rather than chance. With his movie star good looks, ridiculous pecs, and assorted scars, he could have any woman he wanted. Losing his wife, on the heels of losing two members of an earlier incarnation of his SEAL team, left him wounded. He got close to his guys, but kept everyone else at a distance.

  A notable exception was, for whatever bizarre reason, me.

  He’d greet children and spouses of most of his team cordially, a handshake or hug, but he’d never say much, and tended to stay on the periphery of our gatherings. He was closer to my dad than any of the other men, from what I could gather due to something that happened on the battlefield. I never pushed for details. But I got the feeling that maybe my dad had saved Sledge’s life somewhere along the way, and
that he felt a debt was owed.

  As a result, I’d receive much more affection from him than any of the other kids would. Longer hugs, warmer smiles, and occasionally actual conversation. He even showed up at a few of my recitals, something my mom had to twist my dad’s arm into attending.

  Imagine what getting attention from a man like Sledge, above and beyond that given to my mega-hot best friends for a change, did for my ego? It didn’t hurt.

  It also didn’t hurt my clumsy adolescent fantasies either.

  These were, of course, masturbatory fantasies that more and more often turned to being saved by a SEAL. A grizzled, older SEAL, who was all too happy to accept my body as a reward for having saved me. In the dark of my room, all alone, late at night, I was all Sledge’s.

  And he was all mine.

  Just before high school graduation and right after I’d turned 18, Sledge retired from the military. The Navy had gotten twenty-five years from Shane Hammer, and he’d gotten a lucrative job offer in Las Vegas, working personal security for a casino mogul.

  The planned graduation party for Taylor, Christina, and me became a joint-going away party for Sledge, and at the behest of my friends and the cajoling of his team, Sledge and I danced to “See You Again,” that Charlie Puth and Wiz Khalifa song that commemorated Paul Walker.

  The dance began awkwardly, neither of us knowing where to put our hands, but halfway through, Sledge said, in his deep, gravelly voice, ‘Oh, to hell with it,” and pulled me close with a hand at the small of my back.

  I’d gasped at his strength and melted into his chest, mashing my breasts against him and feeling his heartbeat. The moment was surreal. All that was missing was a kiss at the end.

  We danced, slow and close. Every time I inhaled, it was all him, all man, and I never wanted to stop smelling him.

  He kissed the top of my head when we finished, but I wanted desperately for him to throw caution to the wind and kiss my mouth.

  But I also didn’t want my dad to have to fight him, so I’m glad he didn’t.

  I never told anyone this, not even Taylor or Christina, but Sledge was hard while we danced. I don’t mean his muscles, either. I could feel it. And in feeling it, I guess I may have ground against it a bit. As much as I dared.

  When we finished, I watched him carefully. He blended into the crowd and then disappeared around the corner behind a low wall. And he adjusted himself. I swear to God. He took that big slab of manhood that had been pressed against me and he gripped it through his jeans and tugged at it.

  And, as fate would have it, of course, he lifted his eyes and looked right into mine as he did it.

  What was he trying to do to me?

  That afternoon was the last time any of us saw Sledge. He opened his attempt at a Facebook page, and I was one of the lucky few friends he accepted, but he rarely posted a picture or status. There were a few pictures from Vegas, and he seemed to be doing well. Dad spoke to him a few times a month and always told me Sledge said hello.

  Anyway, when it came time for the Three Amigas (that’s what Christina’s dad called us) to pick a college, it was only natural that we’d matriculate together. We picked a small women’s college in the mountains, Martha Jefferson College. The school offered scholarship money to all three of us, it was just a couple hours from home, far enough to be away, but not too far away to come home on the weekends to do laundry. Christina had a crush on our high school’s valedictorian, Trent, who picked the University of Virginia, in Charlottesville, an easy drive from Staunton, Virginia, where we were.

  If any of us had a car, that is. Which we didn’t.

  Our dreams were definitely bigger than our bankrolls. Vegas, and even New York, might as well have been on the moon. The best we could hope for would be to pass around a bottle of champagne, or something stronger, that our fake IDs and pooled money could buy us while we watched the festivities on television.

  We were the definition of broke college kids.

  After they embarrassed me by reminding me of my crush on Sledge, we were quiet for a while, just singing along to Ariana Grande and Selena Gomez songs.

  During a lull in the music, Taylor gave voice to what we were all thinking.

  “By this time next year,” she said. “We’ll all be twenty-one. New Year’s Eve will be a whole different ballgame. We’ll go to a club in D.C. or something. Our IDs might work at the bars around here, but they wouldn’t stand up to the scrutiny in a big city. Forget New York or Las Vegas.”

  “I’m not giving up yet,” announced Christina. “Hey, Ambrose, aren’t you friends on Facebook with Sledge? You should message him. If he works for some casino bigwig, he could fly us out there on one of their jets. Like in the movie Casino, you know?”

  I rolled my eyes. “I’m pretty sure the private jets and hotel suites are reserved for high rollers, CC. And we’re far from that, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

  “Still, what’s it hurt to ask? I bet you could convince him!” Christina and Taylor giggled.

  “You two are incorrigible. I’m so sure. ‘Hey Shane, if you even remember me, can you fly me and my two friends out there and put us up in a suite for New Year’s Eve? Oh, and we’d like bottle service in the club, please’. Are you kidding me?”

  “You forgot the part about demonstrating your woodwind skills on his wood, girl!” Taylor jumped in, pantomiming playing an instrument, which morphed into sucking an imaginary dick.

  I tried to object, but my two friends jumped on top of me on the bed, smothering me with pillows, and we tickled each other until we were gasping for air.

  Dinnertime loomed, so Taylor and I headed home to enjoy one of our final few meals with our folks before heading back to school after the holidays, none the closer to nailing down anything fun to do for New Year’s Eve.

  2

  Mom had made her chicken and dumplings, my absolute favorite meal of hers. Afterwards, Daddy and I sprawled out in the living room to digest and watch Wheel of Fortune and Jeopardy together. What can I say? SEAL families are truly just like every other family at the end of the day.

  Later on, I begged off dessert and went to my room to do some writing. I’d tinkered with short stories since I was little, and I was determined to get something published in the college literary magazine in the spring.

  After a few hundred words of what I was sure was dreck, I let myself get distracted by social media.

  After scrolling through Snaps from friends and celebs alike, and going through endless Instagram pictures and videos, I was almost ready to call it a night when I decided to check Facebook.

  It had been days since I’d checked it, as I found myself drifting away from the omnipresent, omniscient internet juggernaut. Snapchat filters were just more fun, honestly.

  I had a few notifications, mostly invites to play games, and a friend request from a girl I went to middle school with, and I decided on one quick scroll through my newsfeed before logging off.

  Halfway down the page, the handsome face of Sledge appeared on his avatar, next to a rare status update.

  “Being alone is good. Being alone on Christmas isn’t so good.”

  He’d posted it days ago, late on Christmas Eve, in fact. Nobody had liked or commented.

  I frowned and dashed off a private message:

  “Hey, remember me? Nobody should be alone on Christmas! You should have come to Little Creek to visit us! Miss you!”

  To my surprise, my phone dinged almost instantly.

  “Miss you, too. Wish I could. Work. Hope all’s well with you and your folks. Talked to your dad a few weeks ago, he’s sure proud of you.”

  I lay on my back on my bed, holding my phone over my face. Incidentally, with the number of times I’d dropped my phone on my face from just such a position, you’d think I’d have permanent brain damage. But I never learned my lesson.

  “We had a great Christmas, mom made so many cookies,” I replied.

  “I miss those green ones. The ones she makes
with Corn Flakes.”

  “She should have sent you a box!”

  “At my age the last thing I need is to eat cookies. Any big plans for New Year’s Eve?” he asked. It occurred to me that this might have been the longest “conversation” we’d ever had.

  Shane Hammer was usually a man of few words.

  I laughed, recalling the conversation I’d had a few hours ago, at Christina’s house.

  “Funny you should ask. CC and Taylor think we should come to Las Vegas to celebrate. Or New York. They want to do it up. Unfortunately, our dreams drastically exceed our budget,” I offered.

  “My boss is in Hong Kong until the second week in January,” Sledge explained. “Which is a little closer to North Korea than it’s safe for me to be, so I had to stay home. My condo has a good view of the Strip. I’ll be watching from up here. People tell me it gets pretty wild.”

  I recalled a mission my dad’s team went on when I was in middle school, a top-secret kind of mission. The night he got back, after he tucked me in, I snuck out of my bedroom to the top of the stairs to listen to the conversation Mom and Dad were having in the kitchen.

  One of the SEALs on the team, the father of a boy named Mitchell I went to school with, had been killed. I’d never heard my dad so upset. I remembered him mentioning “Korea” to my mom, but it was difficult to make out much more than their deadly serious tone.

  The entire mission was kept out of the news and never discussed in my presence. I wondered if it had anything to do with Sledge having to avoid that part of the world.

  “I’ve watched it on TV, it looks fun to me!”

  “Crowds aren’t my idea of fun. But I bet you and your friends would have a ball.”

  “Next year. We’ll all be 21 by then. This year looks like a bowl of popcorn and a champagne toast with mom and dad at midnight.”

  I added a series of frowny-face emojis to indicate my displeasure.