Page 9 of The Destined SEAL
I squeal so loudly, I have to cover my own ears.
“You better wear something illegal,” he replies, wincing at my excitement.
CHAPTER FOUR
Ben
I triedto take the third glass of whiskey from her hand at my place, but she insisted on swallowing it down. Her cheeks were already red, so I should have known to force the issue. She promised to tell me if she got the spins. That was my last concession before we dumped ourselves into the back seat of an Uber and made our way to the concert venue. We’re right next to the stage. My buddy Tahoe has Harper on his shoulders so she doesn’t get squashed, and because I didn’t trust her on the floor by herself while I went to the restroom.
Seeing her after all this time does weird things to me. It’s a nostalgic feeling of being home, just by being in her proximity, but there’s also more—a longing so violent, I’m unsure how long I can stave off the desire. The band starts playing the song “First,” and I can hear Harper scream from my place several feet to her right. Her lithe arms are in the air and her cropped shirt rides up, showing off even more of her tight stomach. I glare at Tahoe when he catches my eye. He shrugs and makes a crude tongue gesture. I roll my eyes and shake my head. He’d never touch her. He knows Harper is everything to me.
I want her on my shoulders and I’m about to tell Tahoe to hand her over, when Harper’s voice cuts through the air, “Ben!”
I smile and tilt up my chin to let her know I heard.
“Take a photo! It’s my favorite song. Take a photo!” she yells, making a goofy hand motion like she’s snapping a photo.
Nodding, I slide my phone out of my pocket, hold it up, and snap several photos. Swallowing hard, I scroll through them and give her a thumbs-up. She’s already staring at the band, the excited light in her eyes, her lips mouthing the words to the song. Harper is beautiful—a step beyond stunning and bordering on scary attractive. I post one of the photos on my Instagram account with a simple caption: #twenty #plusone. She’s smiling wide, her arms lifted high above her head, and half of her face is masked by a cascade of wild hair.
Harper doesn’t do Instagram, her social media prowess is limited to Facebook. She logs in there just because her college groups are active participants and it’s mandatory to keep up. She’s had the same profile photo for over a year. It’s a black-and-white candid photo taken of her profile. I never asked who took that photo, but I love it. I’d probably be a little sad if she does change it just because it’s something I associate with her. I, on the other hand, love social media of all sorts. As long as I keep my filters and privacy settings strong, I can post what I want, where I want.
I return to studying Harper in person. Her long chestnut hair hangs halfway down her back in waves, and every curve on her goddamn body was sculpted to my exact preference. Tahoe sees me staring and motions for me to grab her. He lifts her tiny frame off his body and places her in front of me. I can’t take my eyes off her moving lips as the words from the song feel like they were meant just for us—right now. Harper moves toward me, her hands falling on the front of my sweaty shirt. Tahoe rejoins our group of brothers and the women they came with to leave us alone.
I grab her hands and lock them with mine. We stare at each other and don’t say anything at all. The music says everything we can’t…or won’t. The buzz of life and energy around us is electric, and the second she leans up toward me, I think it’s finally going to be it. This will be the moment we’ll call ours. Then the song ends, and hesitation lights her eyes as she pulls away from me. Harper swipes a hand across her forehead.
“Feeling okay?” I ask, leaning into her ear so she can hear over the roar of applause. “We can get some air.”
“I need another drink,” she replies, trying to distance herself from my body.
I catch her hand in mine. “Hey,” I say, pulling her back. “It’s me.”
“I know,” Harper says, her eyes brimming with tears. A far-off look washes her features, and it’s not the blatant drunk eyes. She licks her lips and says, “It’s you.” She nearly chokes on those final words, and I’m left wondering what she means.
She swallows hard and turns to flee. I follow her out into the lobby, where they’re selling T-shirts and stickers and beer. “I need a shirt,” she says, unfolding a wad of cash she pulls out of her tight jeans.
“Okay,” I reply, my ears fuzzy now that we’re away from the amps. My hearing won’t ever be the same after the blasts and explosions I’ve been around. She buys an oversized black shirt with a simple logo and pulls it over her head, effectively cutting off my view of her tight stomach and the outline of her tits. “Everything okay?”
“I will be. Let’s get another drink?” she asks, flitting over to the alcohol line before I can respond. This is Harper trying to do avoidance. “This is so great. Thank you, Ben. For tonight. It’s really…awesome.”
I’ll let her get away with it for now, so she feels like she has some control of her emotions, but when we’re alone tonight, inmy bed, I’m going to call her the fuck out. “Happy Birthday, Harper. It needed to be something to remember. It is your twenty-first. Memorable?”
“Did you hear them? They’re so amazing in person. This is more than memorable. Maybe even the best birthday ever.” I can think of several awesome birthdays and there’s only one way this one will take the proverbial cake, and I need to make it happen. Fate is in my hands.
Harper orders a couple drinks, throws too much cash on the bar, and then pushes a drink into my hands.
“I’m not sure more alcohol is the answer,” I tell her, sipping the top so it doesn’t spill any more than she already has. I grab the bill the bartender is trying to hand back to Harper and slide it into my pocket, shaking my head.
She takes a few long swallows. “The answer to what?” she asks, quirking a brow. A slight sheen of sweat glistens on her face, and it reminds me of when she’s working out. That thought moves to other more inappropriate thoughts, and by the time she asks me her question again, I’ve already mentally undressed her.
“Uh, do you want to get out of here now? I think they’re finished after this song.” I check my watch and glance up to meet her eyes. A little line appears between her eyes as she thinks, and she stumbles back. I grab the solo cup from her hands and dump the remnants into my cup. She’s done.
“Yeah, if I’m going to get sick, I’d rather be at home.” My chest puffs out. She called my place home. Then I realize she mentioned getting sick. Her cell phone chimes, and she fumbles to get it out of the top of her shirt. The iPhone falls to the cement floor. Face down. We all know how that ends.
I stoop down and pick it up. “Shit, it’s cracked,” I say, a second before I see the dozens of texts from some dude named Marcus. The stream of texts goes a little like this:
Where are you?
Text me back.
