Conceit (Se7en Deadly SEALs Book 1) (11 page)

I already knew Grant would never forgive me for deserting him when he was injured. But once he found out I’d completely deceived him, I would be dead to him forever. There would be no coming back from this betrayal—ever.

As a SEAL, he had to trust his partner implicitly, know she would be faithful during his never-ending deployments, confident she would be by his side and support him when he was silently suffering from witnessing the horrors of war. We could never be together again. If anything, being with him tonight confirmed that belief.

It’s okay, Mia. This is about Joaquín. Freeing Joaquín. Your sacrifice for him.

I’d made my choice. I chose exonerating Joaquín over getting Grant to trust me. And as long as I could free Joaquín, I vowed never to regret my path.

***

LAST NIGHT COMPLETELY SUCKED. I couldn’t even score with a stripper. But I wasn’t about to blame myself. Call me a conceited prick, but I didn’t usually have a problem with the ladies. Ever. Maybe I should’ve told her what I did for a living. Like the magical phrase “open sesame” opened the cave’s mouth for Ali Baba, the words “I’m a motherfucking Navy SEAL” usually opened a women’s mouth to my cock.

But who knew? This chick wasn’t American—the SEAL line probably wouldn’t work with her anyway. Her ignorance about SEALs suited me fine. I didn’t want to deal with another Frog Hog, begging to start a relationship or bragging to her girlfriends she fucked a SEAL, only to cheat on me once she got what she wanted. I wanted one woman I could fuck whenever I desired, no talk about our futures or our pasts. Ksenya was perfect.

I’d sacrificed so much for Mia, hadn’t tried out for any East Coast Teams so I could stay close to her, spent weekends with her instead of bonding with my guys. What she didn’t know was that I’d planned on proposing to her, had even asked Joaquín for his blessing. Then she’d left me while I was clinging to life in a hospital bed, her engagement ring tucked in the bottom of my sea bag.

But being injured was the best thing that ever happened to me. Otherwise, I’d have married that bitch, and she would’ve divorced me the second we had any problems, which was inevitable being married to a Team guy.

Last weekend, we had the big welcome home family day, though this homecoming had been bittersweet. No Joaquín, no Mia. For a while they had both been like family. All the Team guys loved Mia then. Despite my anger toward her, I wondered how she was doing without Joaquín. She was completely alone now—no parents, no brother. I was almost surprised she hadn’t tried to contact me again. I couldn’t blame her for giving up after the way I’d shut her down after Joaquín’s arrest.

Our last homecoming rager ended with a dead stripper and my best buddy getting accused of her murder. My Team needed this party for morale, since we were struggling to get back to normalcy. And rebuild our trust.

I believed Joaquín was innocent. I hoped that I would see something tonight, a trigger, and I could figure out what the fuck went wrong that night. Even on deployment, none of the guys remembered anything. Kyle, Vic, Joe, and Pat had left earlier that evening; the rest of us had all been in rooms with strippers. No one remembered anyone else being at the party, but I had to admit we were all pretty fucked up. I’d actually vowed to stop frequenting strip clubs after that girl’s death, but I went back to the club to see if I could find any clues. Ksenya hadn’t been at the party that night, but maybe she’d heard some girls talk.

My truck pulled up at the strip club. Ksenya stood out front, wearing a thigh-skimming black-and-pink skirt, with a tight black tank top. I could see her nipple buds begging me to suck on them. Tonight. I had to have her tonight.

She leaned into my window and kissed me on the cheek. “Hi, Grant. These are my friends Brenna, Eden, and Kristi.”

Another bottle-blonde, a redhead with tacky lipstick, and a brunette with sparkly nails. My friends would love these women. But unfortunately none of them had been at the party that night. “Nice to meet you, ladies.” I nodded, and they piled into my truck. The scent of cheap perfume and self-tanner filled the air.

I headed to Pacific Beach. The girls chatted in the back, but I could only focus on Ksenya’s hand rubbing up my thigh. The closeness of an exquisite woman who had not once peppered me with questions was comforting. She hadn’t interrogated me about my job, mentioned my family, or asked me what I wanted from her. It was probably the language barrier.

“You look beautiful tonight.”

“Thank you. You look to me very handsome.”

I laughed. Her accent was cute. I’d never understood the obsession some men had with foreign women. I was a diehard patriot—I bled red, white, and blue. It had never crossed my mind to date someone who hadn’t been born in the United States. But maybe I had been too close-minded. I allowed myself to entertain the thought of dating a woman who would be there for me even if I lost a leg, who would nurse me back to health. Someone who would never betray me. Like Mia had.

Fuck. It had been so long since I’d given so much thought to Mia. Yes, I had missed her dreadfully, but that pain had soon turned into anger. Why was I thinking so much about her now? I had been with dozens of women since we split, and none had ever caused me to scrutinize our relationship so much. Was it Ksenya? Was it because I felt connected to her? Her mannerisms?
Why now?

Stop. Don’t even think about it.

I’d enjoy the attention she was giving me while I was in town. Then I’d deploy again and I was sure she’d move on to her next client.

But this woman’s voice, the sound of her laughter, the way she looked at me, there was comfort in her presence. I couldn’t explain this unshakeable feeling that no matter how hard I tried, she was more than a one-night stand.

***

GRANT BARELY SAID A WORD on the car ride. I couldn’t tell if he was beginning to figure me out, if he had something on his mind, or if he was losing interest in me after only one date. Despite my protests, I didn’t know how long I could play the full virginal stripper act. If Grant grew sick of my games, he could toss me aside, and I’d lose my only shot at exonerating Joaquín. I really needed to pull myself together and solidify my plan.

Grant parked his truck a few blocks from the beach. A crush of tourists swarmed the streets. A young couple headed toward the water, basking in the glow of the sunset. I paused and watched them, a stolen glimpse into what had to be first love. The man gazed at the woman, their movements in sync, walking quickly, as if to erase the distance between them.

Grant had looked at me like that once—as if he thought I could do no wrong, that we would be together forever. Now he looked at Ksenya with a combination of hunger and suspicion. His skin was flushed, yet his eyes were narrowed. Was he suspicious of me? I was pretty confident that I had him fooled. Even so, I knew Grant would never look at me with such tenderness again.

Focus, woman.

I was so pathetic, thinking about my relationship with my ex-boyfriend instead of clearing my brother’s name. No more. From here on out, Grant was nothing more than a job to me.

He draped his strong around my waist. I pursed my lips.

We approached the door of the townhouse, and my fists tightened. I had to be on my game tonight. This was my big chance to find a clue. The last time Joaquín had been free was at a party like this. I said a silent prayer, closed my eyes, and hoped our parents were watching over me, guiding me toward the right path.

The door opened. Damn, guess I wasn’t the only one who’d brought friends. It was like bring-your-own-stripper night, with a proper threesome ratio of two women for every SEAL. At least twenty women in various stages of undress were cuddling the men, limbs draped over each other, bodies entwined. I counted thirteen men besides Grant, but I only cared about Mitch and Paul for now—SEALs on Joaquín’s Squad. I needed to either eliminate them as suspects or focus my investigation on their actions the night of the murder.

My friends from Panthers dispersed and were quickly introducing themselves to the other guys. I’d chosen the girls at random, the ones who had been nicest to me, but these ladies clearly knew how to work the room. And as any girl in her twenties who partied hard in San Diego knew, these men—no matter what they claimed they did for a living—were clearly Navy SEALs.

Once you’d been to Coronado a few times, SEALs were easy to identify. Longer hair, fuller beards, massive muscles sculpted from carrying Zodiac boats, tan skin, weathered hands, cocky attitudes that oozed through the air. Basically a gang of hard bodies who could easily star in the latest summer blockbuster.

Grant seemed distracted, his gaze focused on something or someone. “Ksenya, can I get you a drink?”

I glanced in the direction of his gaze and saw a young woman with short blond hair standing near the refrigerator. “Yes, please. I want vodka and the cranberry juice.”

Grant headed to the kitchen. My eyes followed his movements.

Mitch eyed me from across the room. He could be the one who killed Tiffany. I recalled his vile comments to me at the Pickled Frog. April, his long-suffering wife was probably sitting at home, doing his laundry, putting their kids to bed, while he was out getting lap dances from strippers.

Mitch walked over and sat down next to me. “So you’re Grant’s latest piece of ass? Nice to meet you. I’m Mitch.”

I studied his face—something was off about him. His massive dilated pupils crowded out the pigment of his brown eyes, and his nose was shaded red. “Nice to meet with you also. You sell the drugs, too?” I contained a laugh, delighted at my pharmaceutical pun.