Page 11 of Hero Hair

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My hair is fucking perfect. I slide my fingers through the sides one last time before I turn off the bathroom light. My bedroom and bathroom were the first rooms I finished remodeling and furnishing. If I keep the door shut, I can pretend the rest of my house doesn’t look like a war zone of dust and unfinished edges. My OCD is at peace in here. No one else sees inside this room. Every small detail says something about me or my personality. Be it the finer details, or the weird way I need the bed to be made. These are things I’m not comfortable sharing with anyone—personal sanctities attached people are forced to part with.

My father always said that attachments hold people back from fulfilling their full potential. I was never quite sure what that meant until I grew up and realized he was talking about my mom. And me. His obligation was to his family. He never knew we saw the desperation in his eyes when he turned down a business trip or a round of golf with his partners in favor of whatever activity my mother had planned for that weekend. I can’t say his thoughts had any effect on the way I’ve chosen to live my life, because I give my decisions more credit than that. I control them. No one else does. But maybe some subconscious Freudian shit slipped in and forced my hand a little.

I grab a couple empty beer bottles and toss them in the large trash bin outside before driving downtown earlier than I need to. After I park in the lot adjacent to the La Samba, I respond to a text, confirming a meeting for early Monday morning on base. We have a lot of planning to do with the upcoming deployment. Many training trips are on the horizon. That means lots of variety between my hotel bed sheets along with adrenaline fueled activities. My life is razor-sharp awesome. I have to be careful the blade is always facing away from me.

Someone sends a dick pic in the group text thread and gets banned from our conversation by way of a quick group vote. That happens at least once a week. Typically someone tries to be funny and it ends in a two-day punishment ban for bruising our eyes. I’m chuckling under my breath as I enter the restaurant. It’s busy. The drone of noise and chaos sets my teeth on edge for a moment or two until I gain my bearings. I love the food here, but hate everything else about the location. Everything is too close together.

The bar is crawling with people, and I curse Moose for his brief description of Teala. “She’s hot. Small. Darkish hair. Big lips and a big smile.” At the time it was all I needed to know. As I survey the gaggle of women in front of me, it’s not enough. I’m in Gaslamp. It’s a section of San Diego where the young and beautiful roam in full force: they own every street and trashcan here. I make my way closer when a quick survey doesn’t produce any results. No one looks like they’re waiting for anyone. There are eight brunettes, all caught up in conversation with other men.

With my hands in my pockets, I debate sending her a text message. This feels like the worst idea I’ve ever had. Meeting her here without having any idea what she looks like puts me at a disadvantage. My only hope is that she hasn’t arrived yet. The last thing I want is for her to see me looking desperate. Snaking up to the bar, I order an import beer. With a wink to the cute bartender, I let my gaze wander.

A stunning woman with dirty-blond hair catches my eye. She’s talking to a man, but she’s eyeing me over his right shoulder. A smile creeps across her full glossed lips. Teala.

“Darkish hair, my ass,” I whisper under my breath. I tilt my chin up in a greeting, and I’m rewarded with her full smile. Her eyes crinkle in the corner as she tamps down her glee by biting the corner of her mouth. I watch her intently, taking a sip of my beer as she excuses herself from her company. I stay right where I am. The perfect view of her body as she makes her way toward me happens to be exactly where I’m standing.

She sees another guy she knows and leans over to kiss the dude’s cheek. Her gaze meets mine once again as she approaches me, winding her tight body through the packed crowd, a lowball of clear liquid in one hand. It’s almost full. Even in heels she’s about five foot five…maybe six. Moose didn’t lie. She’s a stunner. Not unlike my usual woman, though. You can tell she works out a lot. Her skin is pale—flawless. She heeds the doctor’s warnings to stay covered in the sun. She cares about aging well, which means she cares about the rest of the superficial things. Like waxing every important part of her body. I’m keyed into everything at once, dissecting every nuance of her body and the way she moves. Reading people is a skilled talent of mine. I use it in my job, but mostly it’s put to use in situations such as these.

Teala extends her hand. “Macs,” she says, pushing her lips to one side. She has blue gray eyes. It’s a color that’s hard to describe. Like a stainless steel appliance wrestled with the ocean and the outcome was a stalemate. I stare a second longer than I should. Maybe she is a touch more beautiful than my normal woman.

“That obvious, huh?” I reply, taking her hand in mine to place a cool kiss on the back. She smells like a vanilla creamsicle—a dessert I want on my cheat day.

She shakes her head, tossing her hair, already on to my overt game. “Ryan told me enough,” she replies, using Moose’s real name. “Plus, I could tell you were looking for someone.” The problem with that statement is she wasn’t looking for anyone. “I’m Teala,” she finishes, letting her eyes wander from my face down my body. Hot chick retrieval officially in progress.

“Sorry to interrupt.” I lift my chin in her companion’s direction. I raise my beer as an excuse. “I’m good if you want to continue your conversation.” I clear my throat and take a quick swig.

She watches my lips intently.

“I’m hungry. Let’s have dinner,” she says. “That was the plan, right?”

“Well, Teala,” I say, tasting her name on the tip of my tongue. “Usually plans are made with the probability of destruction. That’s life.” I catch sight of my reflection in the shiny material of the glass behind the bar and smile. “For the sake of your stomach, let’s stick to the plan and see how it ends.” And then the plan I have for after dinner.

“Oh, man. He didn’t tell you, did he?” Teala says, blinding me with white teeth.

She sips her drink and my gaze dips to her exposed cleavage. It appears silky soft. I want to put my face in between her tits and rub myself against them like a cat.

I sigh. “Didn’t tell me what?”

“Your game won’t work with me. I’m better at it than you are,” she replies, her voice decisive.

Raising my eyebrows, I nod at Teala and signal for the attention of a waitress. I let her know we’re ready to be seated. I called ahead for reservations, and now I’m glad I did. I’m intrigued. As we make our way to a booth in the corner of the room, I glimpse Teala as she nods and waves to several people. My heart rate speeds up. The upper hand. She has it. And I can’t fix it. Not tonight, at least.

After we’re seated and I’ve examined her ass from every angle as she slides into the booth, she sets her glass down in front of her and pins her lips together with her teeth.

“You’re really hot, Macs,” she says. “I assumed you would be, but I have to say you’ve surpassed my expectations and that’s an awful thing.”

I raise one brow. “Awful?”

She can’t possibly be one of those chicks who date down. Not with her looks. I slide closer to her until I’m sitting right next to her. My leg is mere inches from hers. I peer down at her.

“Anything but awful. I think you’re beautiful. Stunning even.” Superficial talk. This is comfortable territory. “Even if every other man in this restaurant shares the same sentiments with me.”

Without taking her eyes off mine, she says, “I own a yoga studio. Half of those people take classes there. I see them regularly. You’re in my neighborhood, remember?”

I zone in on what she didn’t say. “The other half?”

“Are men I have been with.” She lifts and lowers one shoulder. A gesture to signify this is already old news to me.

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