Page 52 of Axel Martin

AXEL

“I told you this was a bad idea,” I said, catching the pacifier just before it hit the dashboard.

Lark, beside me in the passenger seat, was furiously typing into her weather app. “It’s not a bad idea. It’s science. And technically, she’s asleep.”

I looked in the rearview mirror at our daughter—bundled in pink, cheeks round and peaceful, strapped into the most secure car seat money could buy. Her name wasScout,because of course it was. We didn’t exactly do normal.

“She’s six weeks old,” I reminded my wife. “She doesn’t even know what thunder is.”

“Exactly! We’re building early exposure. She’ll have a storm IQ of 160 by preschool.”

“Is storm IQ a thing?”

“It is now.”

I sighed and took a left toward the lookout point. Behind us, the sky was darkening. Lightning flickered over the mountains. Scout snorted in her sleep, smacked her lips, and farted loud enough to shake the windows.

Lark beamed. “That’s my girl.”

I shook my head, smiling. “I used to be cool.”

“You werenevercool,” Lark said without missing a beat. “You were always that guy who organized the emergency kits by category and cried when he got me a toaster that also defrosted bagels.”

“That toaster is a masterpiece of engineering.”

“Scout agrees,” she said, pointing to our daughter, who was now awake and chewing on her mitten like it owed her money.

I pulled into the overlook, parked the SUV, and reached into the back to hand over a baby bottle. It was warm, Lark-approved, and labeledSTORM MODEin permanent marker.

“We’re a circus,” I said.

“We’re a team.”

Then, just as the clouds opened and the rain started to pour, Scout let out a triumphant wail and puked all over my shoulder.

Lark snorted so hard she startled the baby. “Welcome to fatherhood, Mr. Martin.”

I mopped off the spit-up, kissed Scout’s forehead, and reached for Lark’s hand.

She grinned at me with that spark in her eyes—the one that saidI’m yours, and we’re insane together.

God help the weather. The Martins had officially arrived.

The End

Keep reading for more SEALS on FRAISER MOUNTAIN (Huck Fraiser)

48

Marley

If I had to rank my worst decisions ever, sleeping with Frasier in Tunisia would still be number one.

Right above “cutting my own bangs during a sandstorm” and “pretending to be a documentary filmmaker to sneak into cartel territory.” Not the actual things we did, I’ll never forget those hot steamy nights. It’s because he’s from Fraiser Mountain.

To be fair, I didn’tknowFrasier lived on Frasier Mountain. I thought it was a name. Like Huck Frasier…. Cool guy. Broad shoulders. Terrible with shirts. Three nights in a five-star hotel with a view of the Sahara. We never told each other our names. That made it even more naughty, and believe me it was naughty.

It was supposed to be one night and done, but that turned into three nights and done. Very little talking, if any, and neither of us wanted it to end.

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