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“We’re ready as soon as we’re clear,” the LT yelled. “Let’s make some noise, Lowe.”
Once the team was clear of the blast zone, Wes set off the remote-controlled explosion. However, the first flick of his hand did nothing.
“Problem?” the LT asked, coming over to where Dustin and Wes stood.
“Nope, still on schedule, sir.” Wes’s voice was calm even as Dustin’s pulse sped up on his behalf. On both of their behalves actually. Had he missed something in checking their work? It would be his neck on the line if so.
The stopwatch the LT was holding, counting down to the exercise’s target time for completion, seemed to be speeding up. But Wes didn’t seem fazed. Ice in his eyes, Wes hit the controller again, and this time they were all rewarded with a spectacular boom in the distance as everything blew to smithereens.
“Hell, yeah.” Dustin celebrated right along with the whoops and hollers of his men. Fuck but he wanted to touch Wes, thump him on the back, look into his face and tell him how proud he was of the job he’d done. But he couldn’t. Shouldn’t even be thinking that way. He was supposed to be no happier for Wes than he was of Bacon taking the kill shot earlier. They were just doing their jobs.
He chewed on that the whole way back to base, even as the enlisted guys made plans for a beer to cap off the long day. On his prior team, he’d been closer with the other officers and had frequently socialized after hours with them. But this LT and him were hardly buddies, so he headed back to his truck, a bit dustier than his arrival, but every bit as alone.
Buzz. Well, what did you know? As he flipped his phone back on upon entering his house, it vibrated with a message from one of those old buddies, Paul Boston, a former SEAL officer who was now raking in the big money in private security work. Dustin hit Play on the message.
“Strauss! My man! I’m in San Diego this week on business. Let me buy you dinner? You pick the place, and I’ll expense it. Call me back.” Paul’s deep-voiced Chicago burr echoed in Dustin’s ear.
He groaned to his empty condo. As much as he liked seeing Paul, there were sure to be pictures of Paul’s lovely wife and babies—another reminder that everyone in his life other than him had moved on, grown up, and coupled up. And there was sure to be another push for him to think about taking the same “early out” program that Paul had taken advantage of, and come join him in the private sector.
Paul did make it sound exciting every time they talked—good money, the latest tech, small teams with a lot of autonomy, and fewer regulations. The complicated command structure and strict regulations were among Dustin’s least favorite parts of the job. He loved small group work, improvising, and immediate results. And playing with new gadgets like Paul got to do was always fun, but he just wasn’t ready to jump. He didn’t know what he’d do with himself if he didn’t have the navy—as it was, he seemed to have too many hours to fill, too much downtime where he thought too much.
Like right now, when instead of messaging Paul back, his finger was hovering dangerously near the chat icon. Wes was undoubtedly out with the guys, getting a much-deserved beer, but the pull to check was so strong that Dustin clicked before he realized what he’d done.
Available. The little icon next to Saucer-Man was illuminated.
Fuck. Dustin wanted nothing more than to message him, maybe chat for a while, maybe put a movie on in the background, listen to Wes’s commentary like they’d done dozens of times. It wasn’t even the cybersex that called to him as much as Wes. Who he couldn’t have, wasn’t ever going to be able to have. He signed back out of the app and threw his phone onto the couch to remove temptation while he went to nuke himself some dinner. This was his life now, and he was just going to have to deal, no giving in to that temptation.
Chapter Eight
The officers and senior chief were talking about him. Wes could tell because of the way both the LT and Dustin kept glancing in his direction. They’d just finished an early morning dive training and were putting the equipment away in the dive lockers. The officers were standing a bit apart from the rest of the men, talking animatedly about something that had Wes’s back prickling.
Finally, they walked over to him right as Wes shut his gear away. His hair was still damp, but he was otherwise in fresh clothes. Dustin, damn him, was looking too good that morning in his uniform. The man’s shoulders seriously should be registered as contraband for all the effect they had on Wes as a stimulant.
