Page 28 of The Playboy SEAL
“Hey, I gotta get back at it. I want to get on the nextlift,” I say, hiking my thumb at the door. I palm my phone when Teala texts back and slide it into my pocket. My dirty little secret isn’t so dirty.
He’s looking at his own phone, searching the app store for the ones I just mentioned. Mason is a good guy. I wonder if I can turn him into a baby me. The thought makes me smile and cringe. Giddy with power, but sorry for the corruption.
Mason mumbles his goodbye, and I amble out the door into the cool breeze. I take the phone out of my pocket to find a photo of her bare foot against a solid, dark, wooden floor. Just one foot, and I wonder where the other foot is. Is it in some yoga pose pulled over her head? What position is that? Could I fuck her in that pose? My mind wanders away from me for a second, and I tamp down on my testosterone coursing straight to my dick.
Her toenails are light blue, like an Easter egg. I think it’s an unusual color choice for nails. Red and pink are what I’m used to. One of my favorite sights is of pretty pink nails on fingers wrapped around my cock. Yes, that’s a sight I like, one I’m accustomed to. I resist the urge to ask if her fingernails are blue and send a photo of Tahoe floating to the ground in the distance, his large, lumbering legs dangling like useless strings. She won’t be able to recognize him, nor has she even met Tahoe before. That’s a meeting I’ll avoid at all costs.
That is amazing! You must love that. What do you love? Give me a list,is the text message Teala sends back.
Ah, something worthy of her words. A few momentslater, Tahoe lands safely. Landings are always sketchy depending on the winds. Knees get blown pretty easily. We’re big men, and unless conditions are for us, landings are against us. I watch as he unhooks his chute and bends down to start retrieving the nylon fabric that spreads across the ground around him.
Your foot was so beautiful. I wasn’t sure what could compete with it,I reply back to her quickly.
The gray bubble pops up instantly. She’s into our conversation, or she’s bored, perhaps in between classes or already off for the day. She told me her schedule, but I’ve already forgotten it.
I wouldn’t be disappointed if you wanted to send me photos of other body parts.I send it before I think twice.
My heart hammers, but I try to distract myself by watching landings as I type out a list of the things in life worthy of my love. There are a lot. It’s not as if boobs and pussies aren’t something I typically get in messages, but they aren’t from people I’ve met before. They’re strangers I’ll meet up with later. This is somehow different. Everything about Teala and me is different. The gray bubble disappears, and her message comes through. A photo of her hand. Red nails. I laugh, and then another message.
Your list is longer thanWar and Peace.I just rattled off the first things I could think of. I pocket my phone.
Making my way to the plane, I pick up my chutes—the main and the backup. With a stomach bordering on too full, I get on the small aircraft and ready myself to deal with nerves. Believe it or not, the worst part of skydiving is the ride in the plane. They pack us in tootightly. What if someone bumps my gear in a way that makes it defective? The smell of fucking farts is also foul and nerve-racking. Ascension causes gases in the body to exit. I still curse out Moose and scowl at the shit-eating, or better yet, shit-stinking grin on his face. There are two benches lining each side of this metal tube of death. Lights that the pilot turns on let us know when it’s time to start falling out into the sky. I stare at the red light above the hatch with disdain and will it to turn green.
My heart thumps a little jaggedly, and I have more adrenaline in this moment than I will when they finally let me out into the vacant atmosphere, plummeting toward the ground. Because I control that. It’s all on me. I’m not relying on pilots or worried about the dickhole sitting behind me accidentally screwing with something. I play well with others when it’s in my best interest.
I stare at the red light while I let my mind fill with everything that needs to happen next. Plan A and then plan B and everything after that and in between. It’s mostly autopilot at this point in my career. I’ve skydived hundreds upon hundreds of times. I’ve jumped out of an airplane at night when it’s pitch-dark, when it’s raining, when we’re so high we have to wear oxygen, and it almost feels like we’re in outer space. Someone lets a fart rip, and it’s so loud I hear it over the goddamn roar of the engine.
The light turns green. Just in time. I was about to add another name to my hit list. The hatch is opened, and the sound of the wind overtakes the small space. I stand immediately, holding on to the bars overhead. Sweat beads on my forehead as I watch a few of my teammatesexit the plane. They drop like rocks the second they leave the hatch. We only have a certain amount of time, and it’s with precise accuracy that everything is measured. A few moments later I’m freefalling, finally able to take a deep breath. I have my altimeter on my right wrist, and I glance at it every few seconds so the ground doesn’t creep up too quickly.
The world looks round up here. If Christopher Columbus had this view, there would be no doubt the earth is just one spinning dome. The sky is the place where I feel smallest. There’s no way I can change anything significant in something so large. I’m a fleck. A minuscule thread woven into a tapestry so vast you can’t even tell what the pattern is. My altimeter says I’m at three thousand feet, so I pull the ball on the right side of my parachute strapped to my back. I look up and over my shoulder to make sure it’s deploying properly and grab onto the handles as they rise over my head.
I see my friends who jumped out before and after, everyone a perfect distance away, forming an octagon of sorts. I steer, pulling one handle and then the other to close a gap. Under parachute is the longest part of a jump. After falling at what feels like warp speed, cruising to my landing seems to be at a snail’s pace. Studying my surroundings and the tiny buildings on the ground, I find my way to the landing zone. Minutes pass, as does the agonizing thump as I hit the rough grassy patch of field.
I look at my left wrist and calculate the time.I did it.
I went a whole thirty-six minutes without thinking about Teala. I snap a photo of my parachute behind me and send it off without another word.
I did it. Why does this make me so happy? I start cutting away so I can drag my rig over to begin the packing once again. She doesn’t respond right away, but when she does, it simply says,Take me next time.
I raise my brows. That definitely has potential for a date. “Why do I care about a date?” I chastise myself under my breath.
Tahoe grunts from behind me. A place I didn’t realize he was. “You’re acting like a straight fool today, man. What’s going on?” His voice is cavalier. He doesn’t really care, he’s just asking because he’s my friend. That’s the way it is with dudes.
“I hate this shit,” I mutter. I turn to glance his way, and he nods, his piercing blue eyes assessing. He’ll think I mean packing my chute.
He grunts again. “Leave your phone in the car. You’re a little bitch with it today. Checking it constantly. What’s the problem? Is the pussy well dry here?”
I could lie. He wouldn’t have a clue if I was being truthful. I think back to the voicemail. “Nah. Family issues,” I reply, doing my best to avoid his acid gaze.
“What’s wrong with Shirley and Robert?” he asks. “They doing okay?”
I should have known better. I’m digging a deeper hole. SEALs pride themselves on honor, and I adhere to that ethos. I’m shit at deceit.
I nod. “They’re fine. Ma wants me to go for a visit. I’m trying to hash out the details. We’ve got a lot going on the next few weeks.” All truths.
He spits, a huge, brown, hued pile behind him. “You’re a cagey motherfucker. It has to do with a chick. Checkthat shit, bro. Check it,” Tahoe says.
I could argue, but I want his help this weekend. And his tools.
