Page 5 of Hero Hair

Chapter Two

Macs

“You owe me fifty bucks, dude. That chick swiped right!” These guys should know better by now. I’m an expert in a lot of things. Hot chick retrieval and capture is one of those things. Pursing my lips to the side, I flip my iPhone to show them. They always demand proof. “That’s as good as mine.” I shake the phone back and forth in their faces. I’m getting a mental stiffy thinking about it. If I swipe right on a woman’s picture and she swipes right on mine, we make a match—a sex date is as good as promised.

I’ve never, not even once, had a relationship. I don’t spend the night with women. They don’t spend the night with me. It’s almost as if this swiping app was developed for my personal enjoyment. It works for me. It works for them. It’s a symbiotic relationship. The give and take is equal and no one ever ends up hurt. Unless my cock gets a mind of its own and does a little punishing, but we can’t get upset with him, now, can we?

Tahoe scoffs, and Moose rolls his eyes. “How the fuck do you do that? You don’t even look that good in your photos. You look like a tool. I commend your hobby, but I still don’t understand.”

A swipe right match is the equivalent to Pavlov’s Dogs for someone like me. It’s sex. Fucking. Plain and simple. This app isn’t for people seeking forevers or potential spouses. It’s brilliant.

“Chicks like tools,” I say. Well, the chicks I want like tools. For a moment I’m scared I am actually a tool. No, no. I can’t be a tool. I’m a motherfucking Navy SEAL. I play a part to get laid because playing a part is easier than being myself in a relationship. Truths. Questions. Honesty. Sharing a bathroom. No. Not when a swipe right gives me everything I desire.

“You know, Macs, I know someone you should probably meet. When we get back from Colorado. Let me be your swipe right,” Moose says. He won’t meet my eyes, but he’s smiling like he’s lost in a memory.

“What the hell does that mean? I’m not swinging that way this week, bro. Maybe when we’re deployed.” I clap him on the back.

Tahoe laughs.

“Fuck off. I know a woman you need to meet. Our date didn’t…ahhh…go as planned. I think you’re more her speed.” He looks at the gym exit.

We’re sitting on a bench bullshitting. Moose watches Smith run on a treadmill full speed. That man works harder than all of us in this gym. He’s a fucking beast. With his awesome scars, he’s basically the Godfather of the SEAL Teams.

“What does she look like?” I ask, breaking my gaze from Smith’s feet pounding rubber. “If you’re passing her off, I bet she’s not my style.”

Tahoe wanders off, mumbling under his breath, a towel slung over his shoulder.

“She’s your style. Trust me,” Moose says, finally meeting my eyes.

“Ah shit, buddy. You fucked her, didn’t you?” I’m not opposed to having sloppy seconds if she’s as hot as he’s insinuating. “A good fuck, or just hot as shit? Either one is fine by me. Sometimes hot as shit is better than a good fuck because I get more ammo for the spank bank.”

“You’re twisted as fuck. You know that, right?” Moose groans.

I stand, turn, and glance at the floor-to-ceiling mirror.

I run my hands through my long, sweaty hair. “Someone has to do the job. Answer my question.” This already seems like too much work. I’m a busy man. The effort must be at the most minimal level if it’s going to work out. I bought a house recently and fixing it up takes more time than I ever thought I could devote to something that wasn’t my career.

My number one priority will always be my job. Sex is just a necessary evil to keep my head straight. I need it as much as I need water—oxygen. I’m not even embarrassed to admit it anymore. The first step is recognizing you have a problem. The second step is telling yourself it’s not a fucking problem.

Standing, he shakes his head. “She’s both. A solid both.” Moose groans. “I’m already regretting opening my mouth. You make us look bad.”

I could resent that statement, but he’s right. SEALs are known for our philandering ways. We take too many trips. We are away from home too frequently. Cheating on a girlfriend or spouse is too easy. It falls into the excitement category. Some have described it as a thrill—a rush. I think deep down they feel guilty afterward, but they would never let that show. Others call it sex addiction, plain and simple. They love their wives and children, but they require the thrill of the chase as much as I require sex to thrive.

When you understand those facts, I’m one of the good guys. I don’t have anyone at home to hurt. I’m alone. There’s no woman to call or text a million times a day. I don’t check in with anyone. I open an app instead.

“Is that code for she sucks awesome dick?” I flex my bicep. The lighting does awesome things for my muscles. They’re tan and rigid, angles and valleys glistening with perspiration and rippling muscles.

He pushes me and it breaks my gaze from the mirror.

“Fine. Fine. I promise to be a gentleman. For the first half of the date anyways. She’s DTF for sure?” I’m surprised Moose has been with a woman like this. Typically he’s known as the good guy. The one who would never slum with a one-night stand.

His eyes widen. “Oh, yeah. She’s DTF,” he replies.

Wow. That fucking good?

“You had a weak moment, bro?” I tease, making my way to the locker room attached to the gym.

I hit the urinal, relieving myself with a long groan. Moose does the same next to me.

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