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“Yeah, and did I mention that there are some back roads on the farm?”
He gave her a sensuous look. “Why? Do you wanna park and neck like some randy teenagers?” His eyes dropped to her breasts.
She slipped her finger under his chin and dragged his eyes to hers. “No, I want to see you do a bootlegger turn, and we can compare notes.”
“Oh, babe…there’s no contest,” he murmured confidently, rolling on top of her, and his soft laughter vibrated in the fullness of her chest and the confines of his beautiful home. “...I can drift like the fucking Dukes of Hazzard.”
* * *
Joint Expeditionary Base Little Creek—FortStory, Virginia Beach, Virginia
Shark stood on the beach with the rest of the team. The waves behind them were rolling hard, almost as hard as on the beach at Coronado. Tex was talking to Easy and Brawler, and they looked at their LT with startled looks on their faces. Tex gestured them toward the water, and they double-timed it to them.
“Into the surf,” Tex said. “Get wet and sandy.”
There was a soft murmur as the guys looked at each other. Bondo strode up to them, shouting like a drill instructor. “Are you guys deaf? Move!”
They splashed into the tolerable Atlantic since it was still technically summer. The waves rolled over him, reminding him of his BUD/S days.
Bondo was there again. “What are you waiting for? Move your asses! I want to see sugar cookies. Christmas is coming early this year, boys!”
They jumped out of the surf, and Shark couldn’t hide his smile when he saw Flash doing sand angels with a crazy grin on his face. Bondo came over. “Is this fun for you, Flash?”
“Yes, Senior Chief Zane. Hoo-yah.”
“Give me one hundred push-ups, Shaw.” Flash hopped to his feet, then down into the right position and started pushing them out.
Bondo turned his attention back to them. “That’s right! Embrace the sand monster and get your asses back in the surf.” He drilled them between the water and sand for an hour when between sprints to the shore and back, Shark noticed a truck pulled up and some guys unloaded a log…fuck…a PT log.
“Front and center,” Tex shouted, and they all ran to line up in front of him standing at rigid attention. “I’ve a blast from the past for you. You know the drill.” He looked over his shoulder at the heavy-looking log. “Line up after I call your name.” He stepped closer. “Shark, Twister, Easy, Flash, Dagger, Brawler.”
Tex put them through their paces, and he could feel someone was slacking. Bondo shouted orders for them to hold the log overhead, arms extended, for one minute. By the time it came close to the end of that minute, Shark’s arms and shoulders were damn near depleted. He was getting angrier by the minute. Bondo made them run in the soft sand with the log on their shoulders and to make sure they didn’t get entangled in each other's feet, they had to turn their bodies forty-five degrees to one side. After two hours of this, the weight of the log felt as if Shark was the only one lifting the fucking thing. Bondo then readied them for log push-ups. They set the log at waist carry, crossed their legs, and plopped backward onto the sand. Shark felt his rib cage flex under the weight of the log as they assumed the starting position.
The push-ups weren’t that difficult if everyone was pulling together, but that wasn’t the case. Someone was still slacking. The log rocked dangerously as they pushed it up and down. Several times the behemoth came close to rolling off their palms and onto their faces.
Up, down, up, down, up, down. Shark was sweating profusely from the strain of keeping the log off his chest.
“Now give that sweet log a bath,” Bondo shouted.
Shark winced as they rolled the log off their chests and down their legs. With a terribly coordinated effort, they tried to hoist the log onto their shoulders, but they couldn’t do it. The log refused to lift.
The guys groaned and he turned to find Twister near him. He exploded. “Who the fuck is slacking!” Shark shouted. “Is it you!”
Twister stiffened, just as sweaty, just as fatigued, and just as alpha male angry. He jumped at Shark and they tumbled down into the sand, wrestling. Twister got in a good pop, but Shark returned the favor.
“Enough,” Tex yelled, and Bondo grabbed them by the scruff of their uniforms and broke them apart.
Tex came down to where they were. “What’s the problem? If you were pulling as a team, this would be a piece of cake.”
Heaving an exasperated sigh, Shark gave his LT a long, level look. “Someone is slacking!” Shark growled.
“Yeah, more than one. Easy and Brawler had orders to not pull their weight. Yet you automatically blamed Twister.”
Shark exhaled unevenly and shook his head. The realization dawned on him like a freight train. His anger dissipated as he saw the gash over Twister’s eye. Twister, his teammate, the guy who risked life and limb to get to them when they needed him. He closed his eyes, counting to ten.
That op had fucked him up. Watching Easy drown and then the feeling of betrayal when Twister refused to come to Easy’s aid. It rankled and there was simply no place inside him to handle it. It had gone external, and he’d laid the blame on his CO and Twister. He saw what Tex had done. He’d reminded Shark about what it meant to be a team and how Shark had violated the most basic of their tenets.
His gut twisted and he felt as if he’d just taken a blow to the midsection. Shark stiffened, a cold, numbing sensation engulfing him. Too late. He realized what he’d been doing. Shutting them out. He’d reveled in being away from them during the Crazy Choos op, thinking he couldn’t breathe anymore in their presence, resenting Twister and Tex on an unconscious level deep in his psyche. But now, he had no one to blame but himself. Guilt sliced through him.
