Page 2 of Green Ravens

Well fuck.

He’d heard Oakley wasn’t big on small talk. Sawyer supposed that was one thing he could mark as truth.

Instead of taking offense, he chalked it up to the looming mission. They were buckets up at zero eight hundred. Maybe Oakley wanted to be alone to get his head ready for the fight.

SWCC Chief Warrant Officer Aiken Oakley

“Well shit,” Oakley muttered on his way up the narrow stairs. “I wasnotexpecting that.”

He’d heard a lot of stories about Chief Sawyer and his crew, about his bravery, his sharp thinking, and his unshakable duty to his men and his country. But what Oakley hadn’t heard was how fucking sexy he was.

Sawyer was so damn hot, and he didn’t even realize it.

Oakley had watched him from the corner of his eye while he finished his conversation with Meehaus.

Sawyer stood off to the side with his hands clasped behind his back, assuming an authoritative stance as if it were second nature, and his biceps were big enough to be seen through the thick material of his camo jacket. His green eyes were cast downward, and his sandy-blond brows were lowered in a deepVas if he were deep in thought.

With hair so blond it was almost white, the chief was effortlessly handsome.

Oakley didn’t get much downtime for dating. As a matter of fact, he had zero time for it. But when he was aching enough, he found a guy—or every blue moon, a woman—wanting a couple hours of no-strings-attached fun in whatever country’s port his team was in.

It’d been too many years to count since a man had caught and held his attention.

Maybe it was the way Sawyer stared at him like an admirer, not of his eyes—Oakley kept those hidden—but of his skills.

Most officers he met only thought of one-upping him. Envy and jealousy were two of Oakley’s biggest turn-offs.

The glint of wonder in Sawyer’s light eyes had Oakley hauling ass from him as quickly as possible before he returned the gaze and gave himself away.

Oakley found his crew in one of the rec rooms, shooting the shit like he knew they would be. They’d ditched their uniforms and dressed for a night out, already passing some flasks around.

“All right, you motherfuckers better not get crocked tonight so you’re dragging ass before we go up,” Oakley bitched, knowing his crew would never do that.

He had the most disciplined boatmen in the Navy, and he dared anyone to challenge it.

“You got it, chief.” His engineer laughed and raised his flask in a mock salute. “We’ll be at the Lighthouse if you wanna join us.”

“I’m hitting the goat, assholes. I’m tired,” Oakley muttered and headed back to his room.

After a hot shower and forty-five minutes of going over mission reports, he decided to let up on obsessing over details and do something to clear his mind.

His crew’s lives and those of the SEALs on the ground would be in his hands tomorrow. He needed to be sharp.

Oakley decided to walk to the bar after all. It wasn’t far outside the main gate. The night air was a crisp sixty-five, so the silent two-mile walk would do him good. A couple of beers and talking shit with his boys would be the perfect way for him to take his mind off tomorrow.

There weren’t many cars or bikes in the parking lot, which meant nothing if there was a crowd because most enlisted personnel opted for Uber and Lyft when going to a bar instead of risking a DUI.

Oakley trudged over several yards of gravel until he got to the wooden door of the weathered brick building. He yanked on the door knob shaped like an anchor and was accosted by thescent of grilled meat, raucous laughter, and classic rock blasting from a jukebox that was stupidly positioned at the entrance.

The bar was pretty full for a Wednesday night.

The standing tables around the small dance floor had clusters of people eating, drinking, and cheering to rounds of shots.

Flags, memorabilia, medals, and framed photos of uniformed men and women in action from all branches of the military covered almost every free space of the olive-green walls.

It didn’t take long for Oakley to spot his crew members huddled around a low-top table they’d pulled flush against a large curved booth. His guys always opted for the seats closest to the dart boards and pool tables.

His best friend and second-in-command, Steve Dusmeyer, pointed to the stool beside him when he saw Oakley making his way toward them.

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