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Gucci threw back his head and laughed. “You didn’t even get a name this time, did you? Just ‘wild, hot ride.’”
“Actually, I did,” I said, standing up. “Grant.”
“Grant? You sure that’s his real name?”
“Why the hell would it be fake?”
“Huh. What did this Grant guy look like?”
“Jesus, you really do want a play-by-play.” I sighed, cracking my neck from side to side. “Little taller than me, phenomenal body. Pitch-black hair like a—”
“Panther?” Gucci offered, his eyes cutting past me as several other trainees entered the locker room.
“Uh, yeah, I guess.”
Gucci nodded and then slung his heavy arm over my shoulder, and just as I was about to ask him what his deal was, he pivoted us to where the other guys were now chatting and stowing their gear.
A shiver of recognition raced up my spine as I took in the long legs, firm ass, and broad shoulders standing only feet away from me. My eyes continued their hungry path up to a dark head of hair the color of a…panther’s, and that was when Gucci leaned in close to my ear and said, “Please tell me that’s not the Grant you were mooning all over?”
I would’ve paid good money to have the answer to that be no, but as Grant’s piercing blue eyes found mine, my stomach dropped.
“Fuck.”
4 Grant Hughes
Call Sign: PANTHER
WITH THE STRAP of my bag firmly over my shoulder, I stared up at the words written across the cream-colored building: Naval Aviation Fighter Academy.
The last time I’d been here I was twelve, following my father through the corridors as he worked, watching the pilots gear up and wishing I was one of them. It’d been a long fourteen years since then, and though my father no longer served as the top instructor for the academy, his legacy would follow me the moment I stepped through those doors.
I took in a deep breath, squared my shoulders, and reminded myself that I had earned the right to be here on my own merit. No matter what my name was, there was no way a fighter pilot walked through these doors as a favor to anyone. That was how people got killed.
“You plannin’ on goin’ in?”
At the familiar Southern drawl, I turned around. “Well, if it isn’t Houdini himself.” I grinned as I greeted him with a fist bump. “How the hell did they let you in?”
“Oh, you know. Sexual favors.”
Though I knew he was joking, I wouldn’t put it past him to offer up his body in exchange for getting him what he wanted. Houdini was the embodiment of the good ole Southern boy but with a helluva naughty streak. He looked like Robert Redford in the Butch Cassidy days, and he had a constant twinkle in his eyes and a smile that would charm the pants off just about anyone.
Hence the name Houdini: the guy could get out of—and into—practically anything.
“If I thought for one second they let you in for because of that, I’d be in the commander’s office right now demanding they reevaluate. Everyone knows you’re a flight risk when it comes to hookups. That’s something we can’t afford up there in the sky.”
Houdini looked me up and down as he slowly chewed on a piece of gum, then leaned in close to me. “Aww, don’t worry, Panther. I’d make sure you were purrin’ before I’d leave.”
As he threw a wink my way, I shoved him in the arm. There weren’t too many guys I let get away with talking to me like that, but I’d known Houdini for years. Charming bastard. “You’re cutting it a little close, aren’t you?”
“You’re one to talk. I figured you’d already be in there sizin’ up the competition.”
I smirked. “What competition?”
Houdini laughed and slapped me on the back as we headed up the stairs. “Don’t think I’m lettin’ you walk away with bragging rights this time. I ain’t just gonna hand you the trophy.”
“Mmm. We’ll see about that.”
Walking inside, the entrance was exactly like I remembered it, albeit with more security and metal detectors. We checked in at the front desk, and as we stopped in front of the metal detector, I gestured for Houdini to go ahead.
“Ladies first,” I said, causing Houdini to throw me the finger before walking through.
Once we’d grabbed our bags from the conveyor belt, we followed the signs that led to the locker room, where we’d change into our flight suits before orientation. The hallways smelled like fresh paint, the walls a cream color that matched the outside of the building—yet another difference from what I remembered. Back then, they’d been a drab grey.
“Lieutenant Hughes.”
I stopped at the firm tone and looked behind me to see Commander Ancog walking briskly toward us. Tall and imposing, he stopped in front of me, and I straightened to attention.
“Commander Ancog,” he said, his deep voice a rumble echoing off the walls. “I worked with your father.”
