Page 6 of The Playboy SEAL
“I asked multiple times, actually. It was hard to believe,” Moose says, eyebrows raised.
“Jesus, Mother of Mary. She really is me in woman form. I appreciate you thinking of me, buddy. I’ll call her tonight. What about you, though? Going to swipe right and keep up your awesome streak?”
Moose doesn’t have the app on his phone. He would never. I wonder why he even agreed to the date with another woman when it’s so obvious he’s hung up on someone else.
He laughs. “Not for me. You hold the lion’s share in that market anyway. I wouldn’t want to steal your panty-dropping thunder.”
He closes down—the wall he builds around his personal life slams into place. I accept the closure and prattle on about an upcoming trip and how I’m working on built-in shelves in my living room. He gives me a few tips and tells me about how his cousin’s television slopes to the right because he fucked up his own shelves so thoroughly.
“You’re so supportive of my DIY obsession. Please,only tell me stories if they end with perfection,” I bark, smiling at my friend.
“Just fucking with ya. His shelves came out perfect,” he counters.
Moose and I make plans to meet at the gym tomorrow morning before work, and we go our separate ways.
The sun sets in the distance on my drive home. I pull up to my house and admire everything I’ve accomplished on the outside. The stucco is fresh, and the shutters are newly painted. I had to replace every single window in this fucking beast. The bay window in front is in the shape of a half moon. My kitchen is on the other side of it. Every single tiled shingle was installed with my own two hands. I’m in the mindset of if you want something done right, you do it yourself. Even if you have no fucking clue what you’re doing. I learned as I went. Friends taught me. YouTube was there for me, and that’s the end of the story.
There would be no way I could afford this house if it wasn’t a fixer-upper. Southern California real estate is something of a unicorn. Everything is overpriced. Even the shanty shack bungalows down by the Mexican border. I got this for a steal. It’s in a great neighborhood, and I even have a little bit of land. My neighbors are far enough away that I can’t smell their morning dragon breath. It’s a luxury.
I unlock the door and disarm the security system. It smells like paint, wood, and sawdust. I’m pretty sure I’ll be cleaning up sawdust for the better part of a decade after I’m finished with the renovations.
Tossing my keys on the farmhouse table I built lastweek, I head for the fridge. It’s not a kitchen. Not yet, at least. No cabinets or drawers exist, but I do have beer and eggs. I pop the top off a Sam Adams and head for the sliding glass door in the rear of the house. My view overlooks a canyon, and the sun is setting over the ocean in the distance. If I had unlimited funds, I would have bought a small condo right on the water so I could surf every morning and all weekend, but something inside me urged me to buy the bigger house and tackle all the projects that came along with it.
Once the burnt orange sun disappears completely, I take the last swig of beer and head inside to the sofa in my living room. Using the remote, I click on the oversized TV sitting on the floor. I can’t help but hear the way the news anchor’s voice echoes through my empty house. I need more furniture. Or another beer.
Beer is probably the answer.
Sometimes the silence I’ve created is too fucking loud.
CHAPTER THREE
Teala
“All right,Mom. I’ll come see you this weekend, okay? I’m about to head into the grocery store,” I say into my cell as I make my way through the parking lot. She asks me if I’m baking for my weekly friend get-together. I may talk to my mom more than most people. I blame it on my singleness. “Yes. Jasmine wants me to bake something with chocolate. I told Carina I wanted to do this Paleo recipe I found online, but she just about beheaded me over the phone.” I’ll end up trying to say goodbye at least three more times before this conversation ends. It takes about twenty minutes to get off the phone with Mom.
“Are you making Grandma’s fudge brownies?” she asks.
I smile. “How did you know?”
She’s my best friend. Of course she knows. Some people argue that mothers and daughters shouldn’t be friends. We are living proof that not only does it work, but it’s possible for daughters to grow up and be productive citizens of society. Her parenting never interfered withour friendship. Especially after my father took off.
“Because you wouldn’t be my Teala if someone said chocolate and you didn’t make the brownies. Will you be bringing home the guy you had a date with last weekend?”
Oh, god. The one subject we don’t fully talk about. I tell her about a date here and there, but she has no clue how many sexual partners I’ve had and how few real relationships I’ve been a part of. Sometimes I tell her I’m dating someone just to throw her off my trail. I’m sure she reads through the lines but doesn’t want to talk about my sex life without my prompting it.
Currently, she’s talking about Moose. I thought about him for days after, and I almost called him. He gave me his number and took mine. “Oh, that didn’t work out, Mom. We had fun, though. I might see him again,” I tack on in hopes of not crushing her spirits completely.
“Oh, I was looking forward to meeting one of your men, honey.” She sighs.
My heart clenches. I swallow down my pride. “I’m sorry. You don’t want to meet one of my men, though. I won’t bring just anyone home. I want you to meet the one. When I’m sure I’ve met the right guy, then you’ll meet him.”
“That makes sense.”
It shouldn’t. I made the whole thing up. If I told her that I feel attachments are only a hindrance and love is too messy and painful to even attempt, she would think less of me. Or worse, that it was her fault somehow.
“How about you? Any dates lately?”
She laughs, and the gleeful noise makes me grin.It’s like I’m ten and it’s still a forbidden question. “Oh, Teala. You know I don’t have any luck with men.” She’s beautiful. Stunning. She passed enough of her beautiful qualities to make me okay-looking, but Viola Sebrof is anything but ordinary. She has flawless skin, a head full of beautiful dark raven hair, and blue eyes. “You show me yours, and I’ll show you mine?” she asks.
