The Elite: The Complete Series of Boomer and Player (With Bonus) (36 page)

I was ninety percent sure she was the one I wanted to take back to my hotel room, when her friend joined her, and my jaw damn near hit the floor. She was almost a carbon copy of the brunette, same curved body, perky tits, and long hair, but had blonde hair that was shorter, and curlier. The two women appeared to know each other and began chatting as they scoped out the room together. My entire body pulsed in time with my heartbeat as I conjured up images of taking them both back to my hotel room.

The images that danced in my head were enough to make me lose all track of time.

The words “McDonnell Douglas F-4 Phantom II” snapped me back like an overstretched rubber band. The announcer was back on stage, and a giant, nearly true size, version of the plane was projected onto the wall behind him. My heart rate jacked up at the sight of it, even though I had just seen it less than an hour before. All thoughts, plans, and distractions involving the leggy pair of women at the bar, were immediately pushed from my mind and I locked in on my prey.

The announcer stepped aside so the auctioneer could take his place to begin the bidding. He opened with a starting bid of $100,000 and I smiled, the taste of victory already on my lips.

I waited, in an attempt to get a feel for the other buyers in the room. Four paddles immediately shot into the air, and my smile deepened. I knew it was going to be a tense battle.

And it was.

Chapter Two

Within minutes, the paddles and big numbers were flying faster than most people could keep up with. The auctioneer was spitting out numbers and bidders, the price skyrocketing higher and higher. I raised my own paddle over and over, not backing down, even as the number climbed well into six figures. A dozen bids in and the field had cleared, leaving the battle down to me and one other buyer.

From my seat, I had an easy vantage point of my competition. He was a well-dressed, arrogant looking son of a bitch in the second row. I didn’t recognize him from any of the other auctions I’d attended, which surprised me. I didn’t know—or care—why he wanted the F-4. As far as I knew, the seats in the first few rows had been reserved for only the most elite of the upper crust gathering. So, whoever he was, he obviously had the funds to keep the game going.

I was glaring in his direction after my last bid, and watched as he raised his paddle, half a heartbeat later. When the auctioneer acknowledged his bid, the man turned in his seat and flashed a daring smile in my direction.

His message clear—don't fuck with me.

His expression only added more kindling to my fire. With an equally nasty smile, I held his gaze for one full beat before waving my paddle high and proud. A murmur of surprise rippled through the crowd, like it was some big drama, and I grinned all the more.

The hunt was on, and I was closing in on the kill.

The auctioneer spat out the next absurd number and only then did I see a hints of a falter before Mr. Douche in the Second Row raised his paddle. All eyes shifted to me, everyone in the crowd eagerly awaiting my response. In a move that was half frustration and half-cocked asshole, I stood from my seat, planted my legs wide, and shouted above the roar of whispers, "Nine seventy-five."

My bid registered and I sat back down. With a smug sense of self-satisfaction, I crossed my arms and relaxed back in my chair, shooting one final dagger into my opponent from across the room.

On stage, the auctioneer hesitated, stumbling for a moment before offering an opportunity to Mr. Douche in the Second Row to counter.

After a lengthy stare down, he shrugged, as if to say "no sweat off my back" and lay his paddle down in his lap.

The auctioneer called my number as the winner, and after a generous smattering of applause, I got out of my seat and took my leave. I wasn't interested in any of the other items in the auction and was eager to sign the paperwork and arrange transportation for the F-4 back to the museum.

My plane.

* * * *

Nearly an hour later, with the deal wrapped up, I headed out of the event, back to my truck in the parking lot. The sun was sinking, and I was eager to get out on the town and celebrate my victory. After the paperwork had been finished, I’d looked around for the blonde and brunette but they were nowhere to be seen. It was a disappointment, but I knew downtown L.A. had more hotties per block than any other city in the world. It wouldn’t take me long to find entertainment.

As I walked across the lot, I was searching on my phone, debating which bar I wanted to hit up first. It had been awhile since I’d been in L.A., and I wasn’t sure which were the current hot spots. I glanced up from the screen to make sure I was headed in the right direction, and I heard my name called out from across the parking lot. I turned in the direction of the voice and saw Mr. Douche from the Second Row stalking towards me.

I grinned at his approach. "Come to congratulate me?"

"Not quite," he sneered.

I shrugged. "Well, then I gotta say, I'm not all that interested. I have some celebrating to get to."

"Listen, asshole, I don't know who you are, or who you think you are, and I don't care. But I'm Henry fucking O'Keefe and the plane is mine."

I wanted to laugh at his pompous, puffed up, look-at-me-I'm-a-pretty-rich-boy, routine. I didn't give two shits who he was or who he thought he was. The plane was mine and I had paperwork to show for it. Paperwork, which I held up in front of him. "I gotta say man, it looks like my name’s on here, not yours. Why don't you take it like a man and move on with your life?" I sidestepped him, and shoved into his shoulder for added emphasis as I made my way over to my truck. I was reaching into my pocket for my keys when a hand grabbed at the back of my collar and pulled me down.

Before I fully lost my balance, I swung around with a right hook, and connected with the side of Mr. Henry fuckin ’O’Keefe’s face. He grunted at the impact and as he snapped back, a string of expletives flowed from his mouth. He tried to grab at me, but I ducked easily just before he could get his hands on me.

"Man, I'm telling you, you don't wanna fuck with me."

Ignoring my warning, he struck out again, this time aiming for my gut. With razor-sharp reflexes, I grabbed his arm, twisted it around behind his back, and held it, with just enough pressure, that one little tweak would be all it would take to break his arm. I’d been trained well.

"Back off," I growled, releasing him, and giving him a hard shove in the back to put some distance between us. Rage was radiating from him and I knew the fight was likely far from over.

He might have cash in the bank, but his head was obviously empty.

As predicted, he took another wild swing at me. This time I knocked him to the ground. Clearly he needed a more forceful warning…

Before I could give him a kick to the ribs that would be hard enough to serve as a little reminder for the next two weeks not to fuck with me, I was grabbed and held back by a strong set of arms.

"Hey, get off me man," I yelled over my shoulder to the newcomer that had entered the fray.

The hands holding me relaxed and I spun around to find myself face to face with a stranger. “Who the hell are you? His bodyguard?"

The strangers gaze drifted down to Mr. Douche from the Second Row, his eyes fierce and dark, and then he shook his head. "Nah, man. Not a bodyguard. Just a citizen looking to keep everybody safe."

"Some kind of fuckin’ Superman then, huh?" I threw back at him.

He crossed his arms and I couldn't help but notice the tail end of a tattoo on his upper arm, right where his bicep bulged out from underneath his tight T-shirt. "Is that a trident? You a SEAL?"

The stranger’s eyes went wide, obviously surprised that I'd recognize the bottom half of his tat. He looked over at his own arm and then back to me. "Yeah, you a soldier?"

I shrugged. "Nope. Pilot. Aaron Rosen. Navy air man. Six years in, two years out."

The man tipped his head to me. "Name’s Bennett Marshon, ex-Navy SEAL."

Our introduction was interrupted by the grunted sarcastic remark from the pavement below, "And what a fine example you two are."

“Dude, shut up. I just fuckin’ saved your ass from gettin’ beat,” Bennett snarled. He reached down and helped Mr. Douche from the Second Row, up from the pavement, and gave him a once over as soon as he was back on his feet. “Although, to be straight with ya, you kinda look like the type who deserved it.”

I grinned, but stifled the chuckle that had bubbled up from my gut.

“Fuck you.” He shifted his glare to me. “As for you, you’ll be hearing from my attorney.”

“For what?” I fired back, not the least bit concerned.

“Assault and battery!”

Bennett whistled low under his breath. “Man, you really are a pussy. Get out of here,” he said, jerking his strong jaw over his shoulder.

Mr. Douche from the Second Row glared for another moment, before making a break for it, and stalking away. Bennett and I both followed after him and I groaned as he got behind the wheel of a tricked out sports car. “Of course.”

“Who was that guy?” Bennett asked, shifting his attention back to me, once the asshat had pulled out of his spot and squealed out of the lot, practically laying down rubber in his hurry.

“Hell if I know. O’Keefe?”
Was that what he’d said
? “He’s pissed cause I outbid him.”

Bennett nodded. “What’d ya win?”

I unfolded the paper in my hands and extended out a glossy photo of my new F-4.

“Damn. That’s pretty fuckin’ sweet. I can see why he was pissed he lost that one.”

I grinned. “I’ve had my eye on her for a while.”

“Well, congrats. Sorry I pulled you off like that. I’m sure you were just handling business, but…”

“No worries. You probably saved my ass from actually getting tangled up in a lawsuit. As is, he doesn’t have so much as a scratch on him. Although, he might get a nasty bruise on his face,” I said, my knuckles still stinging from where they’d connected with the side of his face.

Bennett waved it off. “Well, man, it was nice to meet you.”

“Yeah, you too man.” I started towards my truck again, but turned back to Bennett. “Hey, man, you know any good spots to party around here?”

Bennett grinned at me, and the gleam in his eyes told me that he was just the man to ask.

Chapter Three

Bennett and I decided to team up on our evening out, and found ourselves holding down the corner booth at a downtown hot spot, watching every girl who walked in, both of us waiting to make a move. As it turned out, Bennett and I had more in common than being ex-Navy boys. Bennett’s proclivity for hot women was right on par with my own, and led to some pretty bawdy conversation as we assessed the scene and threw back a couple beers together.

“What about that little number?” Bennett said, drawing my attention to a blonde across the room. She was at the bar, obviously waiting for someone to step in and buy her second drink. She was spilling out of the top—and bottom—of a very short dress.

She turned to look over her shoulder and I shook my head at Bennett, answering his question. “Not my type.” She was pretty, but in an overly made up way that usually spelled trouble. Girls like her were the type that never wanted to leave after you’d got off and would hunt you down to key your fuckin’ car when you didn’t call them back the next day.

“Crazy eyes?” Bennett asked, laughing.

“Exactly.”

We toasted and laughed at ourselves. It had been a chance meeting, but we apparently had quite a bit in common. The important things in life—good beer, women in short skirts, and an aversion to psycho, stalker chicks.

He leaned back against the booth and drank deeply. When he finished, he narrowed his gaze at me. “So, what’s your story man? Why’d you get out of the Navy?”

“My old man died.” I had no reason to lie, but didn’t elaborate for fear of bringing the mood down. If I talked about—or thought about—my old man too much, one drink would turn into ten, and someone would have to call my assistant to come haul my ass outta the bar.

“Sorry to hear that.” Bennett looked down at the table.

I waved off his apology. “It was getting close to the end of my active duty, so I decided against re-upping so I could take over the family business.”

“Gotcha. That’s cool man. He took another drink. “What’s the biz?”

“It’s the Rosen Air Museum, up the coast from here, in a little town called Holiday Cove.”

Bennett didn’t register any recognition. “I’m not from around here.”

“Ah. Well, it’s about a four-hour drive north, so I doubt you’ll get around to it anytime soon.”

He laughed. “Yeah, probably not. Sounds cool though. You still fly a lot?”

“I take up tourists. I also added a couple of flight simulation chambers that people fuckin’ flip for. They get to run missions and feel all badass.” I laughed and shook my head. The simulators were pretty bomb, that’s why I’d been willing to part with the chunk of change that it had taken to purchase them, but it was a far cry from the exhilaration of flying an actual mission.

Of course, it was a lot less risky too.

But for adrenaline junkies, like myself, that took out some of the fun.

“What about you?” I asked, tipping my beer in his direction. “Why’d you get out?”

He shrugged. “I needed a change. I’m still a reserve technically, but I’ve got some other stuff going on these days…”

I nodded, not sure why he felt the need to offer such a cryptic answer, but I let it go. It made no difference to me. He struck me as the kind of guy who could handle his own shit.

As Bennett polished off the last of his beer, I turned to scan the room. “Place is pretty crazy tonight, huh?”

“Yeah, I’ve been in L.A. a few weeks now and I think it’s always like this,” he answered with a laugh. “It’s fun though.”

“What’s your type?” I grinned over at him.

“I’m a sucker for the stacked and smart mouthed ones,” he replied, returning my dark grin.

“Trouble, in other words.”

He howled with laughter, but didn’t deny my assessment. “You a tits or ass kinda guy?”