Page 17 of Keeping a Warrior

Midnight in Tucson, and the shit was already hitting the fan.

“I don’t drink.” Matt’s voice was hard, implacable. “What about that don’t you understand?”

The whole group was standing in the parking lot of their transient quarters. Even at that late hour, even in September, the desert night was dusty and hot.

It reminded Devon a lot of Afghanistan.

“There’s no shit smell,” she reminded herself. “No mortars. No enemy with guns waiting to kill me.”

Only a bunch of SEALs on the verge of coming to blows with each other.

“Look, I said I’d go to the strip club with you,” Matt was saying, “but I’m not gonna drink. I. Don’t. Drink.”

Apparently the tradition in this platoon was the new guy had to show up for his first official PT still shit-faced from the night before. If he puked, he got his ass kicked. If he didn’t puke, he got his ass kicked.

Either way, the FNG would find himself in a world of hurt, which seemed to be the point.

Devon rolled her eyes. Men.

The older, more experienced guys in the platoon stood back, arms folded across their chests, watching. It was the younger ones, the ones least removed from their own status as FNGs, who were giving Matt the hardest time.

They were getting nowhere with him, and finally, the dude Devon would always think of as Mötley caught sight of her. Smirking, he ambled over.

“How ’bout you? You got the balls to come with us?” His eyes were alight with challenge.

You wanna be one of the guys?

Devon’s gut clenched. Four years ago she would have said yes with no hesitation, and she would’ve drunk herself under the table to prove she could keep up with them, that she belonged.

But now...

“I don’t need to get drunk to prove I have balls,” she said coolly. The other dudes had arrayed themselves in a half circle around her. Devon’s fingers itched for her knife, but she forced herself to appear relaxed, in control. She pinned each of them with her gaze. “And back off.”

They did.

Devon could see the older SEALs watching her, assessing, and she locked her knees to hide their shaking.

First gauntlet thrown.

At last Grizz, the most senior guy in the platoon, nodded at her. “You and Soup get our shit unloaded. And you’d better be prepared to gut it out in PT tomorrow.”

Well, that she could do. She slumped in relief. “Hooyah.”

Not far away, the strip-club aficionados were working on Rhys. “C’mon, man. We’ll buy you some lap dances!”

“No,” he said flatly. “Hear that? No. Such a sweet, uncomplicated little word. You guys need to learn what it means pretty darn quick.”

Her eyes widening, Devon stifled a giggle. Next to her, Matt flat-out chuckled.

Mötley took a threatening step toward Rhys, but Rhys didn’t move. Arms crossed over his chest, he stared him down. Before either of them could say anything more, Smudge draped his arm around Mötley’s shoulders. “Word of advice, son,” he rumbled as he led him away. “Do not piss off the doc. Like, ever.”

One by one, the rest of the men wandered away, until it was just the three of them left.

“Hey, new guy.” Matt grinned. “Way to stand your ground.”

“You, too.” She tapped Matt’s knuckles with hers before they got to work unloading everyone’s bags from the van. With Rhys’s help, the work went quickly. It wasn’t much, anyway, just their personal stuff. Their tactical gear would arrive by C-130 later in the week. Still, by the time they’d found everyone’s rooms and delivered it, Devon was soaked in sweat.

She plucked at her damp T-shirt. “It’s hotter than hell, but I wouldn’t mind a run. All that sitting and driving.”