Page 74 of Fixed Asset

He busted out laughing.

It was lunchtime. The place was hopping. Jack hadn’t told me anything about the place so I hadn’t known what to expect, but even if he had, I still wouldn’t have envisioned an upscale tiki bar right on Seacoast Drive. There was outside seating with a view of the Portwood Pier Plaza and the Imperial Beach Pier. Rent on this place had to be wack. Though with all the tables full and every stool taken at the bar, I’d bet they turned a mighty profit.

“My lips are sealed.”

God, I hoped not; he made magic with those lips and tongue.

“Can I get you two anything else?” our server, Chloe, asked.

I shook my head.

“No thanks, Chloe.”

“I’ll put it on your tab. Have a good day.”

I glanced from the very beautiful woman to Jack. “Tab?”

“What she means is trash,” Jack explained. “When I first started coming here, I tried paying. None of the guys would let me. I got sick of arguing so I just leave a big tip. The guys don’t say shit about that because they like their people being taken care of.”

That was cool of the guys.

“Pete said someone always rotates out and stays back at the bar. Does that include you?”

“Yeah. A month after I got here, the guys went out for a few days. I stayed behind. They’ll probably ask you to pitch in too.”

I took another look around the room. There were no cheesy palm thatch decorations like in a traditional tiki bar. Instead, it was a mix of surfer and Team Guy. The guys had played off the old Navy tradition of original crew members being Plank Owners. There was a huge slice of live-edge wood hanging behind the bar. A Trident was burned into the far right side; on the left, Big Navy’s anchor insignia. Between the symbols, a rusty rectangle of metal was screwed into the wood with the words Here I Am. Send Me. engraved on it.

Isaiah 6:8.

The monstrosity was out of place, yet it fit perfectly.

Those five words embodied the men who owned the bar. Rotating out, leaving one behind, but all of them wanting to be the one to charge into battle.

The walls were cluttered with surfboards, wood skimboards, beer brand plaques, stickers of all kinds. There were a few framed black-and-white pictures of the guys together in various places around the room, all in uniform. It was cool and hip.

Right now the patrons were fifty-fifty male, female. Couples, women having lunch together, men sitting at the bar. The vibe was chill and relaxed. I’d guess the evening crowd would be the same ratio of men and women, but no doubt the vibe would be different. Women would be on the prowl.

“How rowdy does this place get at night?” I asked.

Jack’s lips twitched, and his brow raised.

“Frog Hog heaven?” I guessed.

“Nailed it,” he told me.

I got it, men in uniform were hot. In the Army, there were plenty of Barrack Bunnies sniffing around, looking for a soldier to spend the night with, but they weren’t all that picky. Sure, you had the ones who could spot a Ranger or Spec Ops guy, but for the most part they were after any hot guy in a uniform.

But the women who sought out Frogmen were a whole different breed. They could spot a color or a number from a mile away. Though West Coast Frog Hogs didn’t need that added sixth sense, seeing as Group One only had numbered teams. The East Coast women were like heat-seeking missiles with the accuracy of their hunt. There was Group Two, whose teams were numbered, then there was Devgru—the holy grail for a Frog Hog—and they were grouped into colors. If a woman could sniff out a Red Team guy and get him to take her home, that would be akin to winning a gold medal.

No joke.

They took the hunt to an extreme.

My eyes skated back to Jack, my head tipped, then I asked the stupidest question a woman could ask her man. “How many women have you—”

“None.”

“You didn’t let me finish.”