Page 42 of The Playboy SEAL
She always seems confident, so much so it never occurred to me to reassure her of anything. She’s beautiful. I’ve never wanted a relationship with anyone but her, or even that her business’s success is extremely impressive for someone her age. Surely she knows these things.
I kiss her instead. Her arms twine around my neck the way they always do when I kiss her. She presses against my body so our every curve and muscle are pressed together. Her tongue slides inside my mouth as the kiss deepens into something a little more—something that shouldn’t be happening in this bathroom. I pick her up and set her on the edge of the counter and reach behind her to turn the water on.
Handwashing seems a suitable activity in here if my mother has any questions. I realize how ludicrous it seems moments later when Teala lets out a moan against my lips. She pulls my lip with her teeth and lets it slap back into place.
“We should go,” she whispers.
“Conversations in bathrooms always mean more than any place else. No rules?” I remind her.
Sliding her hands under my shirt, she lets her fingertips glaze over my abs, one by one. “Agreed.” A shiver runs up my spine from the coolness of her fingers. Slowly, she scoots off the counter and picks up her cell phone. She snaps a photo of the framed beach on the wall. “This is proof,” she explains.
And I sort of get it. Why she thinks photos meanmore than words can. She summed up our relationship discussion with one low-quality image stored in her phone that will reside there for God knows how long. We enter the living room looking guilty, but it doesn’t matter. Neither of my parents even knows we exist. They’re transfixed with the news and the horror scrolling across their screens quicker than the news anchor can speak. Another terror attack happened overseas.
“It’s so awful. You won’t be dealing with those people on your next deployment, will you?” my mother asks, turning to face me with wide, terrified eyes. Is that a joke question?
I speak so little of my actual job that I force her to hang on to every word I do give her. “Mom. You know I’m always safe. You don’t have anything to worry about.”
Distractedly, I brush a piece of lint off my jeans. Teala watches me and not the television when my gaze finally wanders back to find hers. The questions in her eyes mirror my mother’s sentiment, but she’s not taking the Kool-Aid I’m offering.
I shrug. My mother has already turned back to the TV, my statement all but forgotten or written off as a harmless lie told to placate a scared parent.
“I’m being terribly rude. I’m so sorry, dear,” Mom says.
Teala turns her focus away. “Don’t be silly. You’re not being rude at all.” The questions in her eyes don’t go away. If anything, the can of worms is open and airing to be ready for later. I swallow down the unease I feel with that realization. I don’t owe anyone anything. I don’twant to explain myself or have someone worry over me unnecessarily.
My mother explains that my aunt called and that’s why she turned on the television. They aren’t usually in the habit of watching the dumb box. It’s the truth. When I was growing up, they didn’t let me watch anything fun. MTV was banned, and anything not considered educational was blacklisted. When I got old enough, sports were allowed. Mostly because my dad watched them and she couldn’t say anything about that.
“It’s so rare, or rather, never have we met any of Macallister’s friends. I’m sorry to be so caught up in this.” She motions to the TV but turns around to face us, several throw pillows toppling onto the floor.
“Macallister?” Teala says, voice loud and incredulous.
I grin. “Guess you didn’t get all the details when you had a little chat outside?”
She shakes her head. Mom tells her it’s a fine, Scottish name, and Teala agrees even though her face is still contorted in confusion.
Taking my pointer finger, I tap the bottom of her chin. “Close your mouth. It’s not the time nor place for that.” Lies. There’s always a loophole for her blow jobs.
Her expression morphs into mortification, but she ends with a chuckle. My sick humor is appreciated in this instance. I’ve also successfully turned her attention away from the television. Eventually they turn off the news, because even if it bothers them, no one wants to listen to it all day long. People want to mask atrocities, push them to the corner where they won’t ruin their lives. It’s true. Most people dislike change and will do everythingin their power to avoid it. Move their sofa around the living room, sure. Think about a world changing by the hands of terror? Nope. Blinders in place. It’s just as well. The average human can do nothing to stop it.
Teala sends glares my way in between banter and baked goods, and I have no fucking clue what they mean. She seems to be having an okay time with my parents, even if it’s making me fucking sweat. If I wasn’t confused about our situation, I am most certainly now. Our conversation in the bathroom did nothing to quell my own insecurities about letting another person into my life. A compassionate bone doesn’t reside in my body. Taking on another’s worries is tantamount to compassion.
What do I know about her? Truly? That doesn’t have to do with her tight body or sex appeal? She loves her mother, and Viola is the most important person in her world. She scowled when her mother mentioned her father at lunch. She’s unlike her friends when it comes to most things, but that seems to work to her benefit. She likes vodka and laughing more than she likes dessert and serious conversations. A large bookshelf lined a wall of her apartment and contained various authors and genres, so she must enjoy reading. Sloths. That’s a given. She’s enamored by my looks, but not my career, which is always a plus. Men gravitate toward her like she’s the fucking sun and they’ve been trapped in a nuclear winter. Are those facts enough to establish any sense of a person? Who. The. Fuck. Knows.
“She’s rickrolling me in sugar, Macallister. You have to get me out of here,” Teala says, breaking me from my trance.
She has this tiny little beauty mark on her face. It rises when she smiles. I don’t object to my full name, but I can tell she says it with ill intent—meant as a jab.
She licks her lips because she thinks that’s where I’m looking.
“You can tell her no,” I reply.
“I did. Several times. She doesn’t care if I’m full.” Her eyes widen, and she presses her palm against her tight stomach. “We should get going anyway.” Teala looks at her wrist and taps her watch a few times. “I have a million messages to reply to. My studio is hosting a yoga retreat. People are having problems signing up.” Her face contorts as she excuses herself to grab her cell phone to make a few calls.
She told me about the retreat, but it was before I cared what she had planned in the future. Now, these are things I’ll be expected to remember.
My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I pull it out. It’s the team’s group text. It usually isn’t active in the middle of the day. At night, in the middle of the night to be exact, is when the porn memes and inappropriate photos start flooding the feed. If the average human glimpsed our texts, we’d be judged harshly.
I laugh at the image Tahoe texted and click out of my messages lest anyone see the travesty of our collective, sadistic humor. Teala is pacing back and forth in the back room, her phone pressed to her ear and her free arm swinging wildly.
