Page 9 of The Playboy SEAL
Tahoe is a bigger player than I am, but his game is a little sketchier than mine.
“I don’t know. I don’t have this number programmed into my phone.” He smiles widely.
I shake my head. “I don’t know how you keep them all straight. You need to tighten your game.”
Licking his lips, he sets off to text back. “Nope. Mygame is airtight, bro. Watch this. ‘Those are the most beautiful tits I’ve ever seen. I want to test their density. Meet me tonight? Where?’” Tahoe reads the text aloud, then makes a show of hitting send.
“What if her face doesn’t match her rack? What then?” I ask.
He cracks his neck, tilting it from one side to the other. “Then I fuck her doggy style while holding on to the prettiest part of her body.”
I grimace. “Fucking dog.”
“Dog. Yes. Doggy style. You’re finally getting it. You swiping any pussy tonight?” His question reminds me about my unanswered text.
I glance down at my own phone.
“You’re such a modern playboy. I’m too old-school for that shit,” he drawls. A man like Tahoe can procure women however he sees fit. He’s just leaving my avenue alone. Brotherhood runs deep. Sort of.
Teala is texting back, the gray bubble forcing excitement down to my cock. “Looks like I might be doing it the old-school way tonight, bro. A chick Moose set me up with.”
Tahoe raises one bushy brow. “Moose? As inI don’t like women, Ryan Perry?”
“One and the same,” I reply. I don’t want to give away any of Moose’s secrets, so I don’t say anything more. “Friend of a friend or something,” I explain when he flicks a confused look my way, then focuses his attention back on his own cell when another text message pings.
Teala finally responds.What did you have in mind?She’s a grammatically correct texter. That’s a good thing.I have a few pet peeves outside of the typical ones, and grammar is one of them. Women who can’t be bothered to spell out the word “you” annoy me.
What do I have in mind? Well, thanks to Tahoe, doggy style is edging to the top of my list. I pick up the pile of molding and bring it over to the bench in my living room and spread it out—no need to return the text right away when she took her time. Tahoe comes over, a shit-eating grin still on his face, and starts painting the long pieces of wood a bright white. He’s humming some melody as he works, only he manages to make it sound creepy.
I run my hands through my hair and take a sip of beer. The room swims a little. I’m not sure how best to convey exactly what I want the outcome of our date to be. I pick up my phone and see she’s writing again. I text before hers comes through.Whatever you want. Free tonight?That’s vague enough. It’s also pretty clear.
Dinner?Her reply is swift.
Ah, dinner. That’s more than I usually do. I’m buzzed, and this isn’t my usual circumstance. I can be a good guy like Moose. At least for an hour or two.Sure. La Samba at eight,I reply, glancing at the clock. It’s four.
“I’m off alcohol for the rest of the afternoon,” I proclaim, draining my beer, one finger in the air to drive my point home. “I’ll head outside to sand,” I reply amid Tahoe’s sudden outburst of booing and cackling. I have to be somewhat sober if I’m going to fuck her properly. You see, there must be rules if my game is to stay in tip-top shape. Inebriation in any form past buzzed isn’t allowed from either party.
Despite what it may seem, I do care if women aresatisfied. It’s not just about me. Well, it sort of is, but my perfectionist ways swing into my sex life as well. I spend hours upon hours training to be the best at my job. It’s cutthroat—the balance of life or death perched between my forefinger and the cold metal trigger. Some of the drive to be successful is bound to drip into my sexual escapades. The need to be the best isn’t something that can be dulled. In truth, it would make my life a little easier if I could subdue that instinct.
The pile of wood that needs to be sanded is large and looming. I set to work with the bright sun beaming down on my neck and bare back. Tahoe has given up humming his death tune in favor of singing Elton John. I shake my head. Crazy motherfucker.
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 to people are forced to part with.
My father always said that attachments hold peopleback 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 of 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 bedsheets 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 towardme happens to be exactly where I’m standing.
