Page 84 of Down and Dirty

“Yeah, well, they can have ’em.” Chummies was a less-than-flattering name given to SEAL groupies who hung around Coronado, the name based on chumming, a strategy fishermen used to draw fish into an area where they could be easily hooked. It was an effective method for prize fish as well as arrogant men who preferred a free meal to one requiring expended energy and time. Hey, no one ever accused SEALs of being Alan Alda sensitive.

“What’ll it be?”

“Sam Adams, in the bottle.”

Zach slapped a few bills on the bar, then turned, longneck in hand, and leaned his elbows back on the bar. He took a long pull on the cold beer and surveyed the room, noticing right away the gorgeous babe standing a short distance away. She had long, mussed, black hair, a model-thin body encased in a skintight minidress, and a siren-red mouth that conjured all kinds of images. Slanting her silvery eyes his way, she winked. A chummie, for sure.

Britta had been driving him nuts the past three weeks. He was sick of chasing his tail over her. Sick of teaching women how to run and breathe at the same time. Sick of being on inactive duty. Sick of whacking off himself at night. Sick of being a nonplayer in the dating games. Time to get back to his old modus operandi. Time to forget, at least for a few hours, that he was a father in a pig load of trouble with every frickin’ government official from here to Afghanistan. Time to stop hitting on a thousand-year-old girlfriend who didn’t want to be his girlfriend. He had little free time these days, and he was damn sure going to make good use of this gift from Danny.

He smiled at the woman, and she walked over. “Hi,” she said in a Marilyn Monroe breathy fashion.

A good start. He liked breathy.

“Hi,” he said back. “My name’s Zach Floyd.”

“Linda Lowery.”

“Can I buy you a drink?”

“Sure. Double shot of VO, straight. Over ice. No water.”

Okaaaay.

When Bo handed her the drink, he gave Zach a silent message, as in Whoa boy! This is a hot one. Which soon proved true. She downed the drink in one swallow, then licked her wet, red lips.

Double okaaaay. He put his arm around her shoulder and tucked her into his side, making room for her to squeeze in at the bar.

“Is it true what they say about SEALs and their… uh, stamina?”

“Oh, yeah.” Typical groupie question.

She smiled.

Yep, easy breezy fishing here. He wondered idly if they should cut the crap — uh, small talk — and just take it out to his car for a wham-bam roll in the backseat.

Oddly, that prospect didn’t appeal to him. Before he had a chance to contemplate why, he saw Cage and the gang on the far side of the tavern, waving at him to come over. “Care to join my friends?” he asked Linda.

“Sure.”

He led her by the hand through the crowd, with her hand on his ass… marking her territory, he supposed, but who the hell cared? Soon they arrived at the large round table where Cage, Sly, Geek, JAM, Slick, and Omar were sitting. Slick’s presence was a surprise. He usually didn’t socialize with them, but maybe things had changed since his divorce seemed to be final now. Omar rarely went out, either, being in the same predicament as Zach; he had custody of his seven-year-old daughter.

He introduced Linda to everyone. They all noticed her hand on his ass, if their grins were any indication.

They sat down.

“Man, you’re the only guy I know who wears designer duds to a lowdown bar,” Slick remarked. “And, shiiiiit, are those leather pants?”

“Faux leather,” he replied, used to their teasing.

“I think he looks good,” Linda remarked, rubbing a hand over the sleeve of the silk shirt, then the material at his knee.

“If I wasn’t already Mr. GQ, I’d say you fit the bill,” Sly said to Zach. “I used to model underwear for GQ.”

Linda listened attentively, as if Sly had just told her he invented oral sex.

“I was out to dinner with my dad,” Zach explained.

Linda turned to chat with JAM on her other side about a doctor they both knew at the naval base hospital, and Cage leaned in close to him. “No more Britta on your mind, buddy?”