Touched By Midas (SEALs Going Hot Book 4) (2 page)

Ox tapped his helmeted head with the tip of one beefy finger. “I just thought of something. I have an idea.”

“You? An idea?” Amberjack leaned back in his seat and crossed his long arms. “This ought to be rich. Your last
idea
included three gallons of neon orange paint, a beaver pelt, and a grappling hook. I still avoid the military police whenever we’re in Sigonella, Italy.”

“One of the best nights I ever had,” Bear said, mirroring Midas’ thoughts exactly. “Still finding bits of oregano and fur in my duffle bag. I wonder if they ever found that parachute.”

Ox waved an impatient hand toward the shaggy SEAL. “Never mind Sigonella. I’ve got something completely different on my mind. That old rock band doing the USO tour is going to be in Rota while some of us are training there, right?”

“Stereo Arsenal?” Midas turned his head to examine the stout member of the team, not trusting where the big guy planned on taking this conversation. Mayhem trailed Ox like wake behind a battleship.

“Roger that,” he said. “They’re playing the European bases and then heading to the Middle East for a few shows. Why do you ask?”

“Just thought we could settle something once and for all.” Something wicked flickered over Ox’s wide face. The yellow and green glow from the cockpit only added to his devilish look.

“Oh, no, brotha.” Midas shook his head. “I’m a country boy with a nose that’s better than most coon hounds. I can sniff out trouble from a long way out. It usually smells like that crap you call cologne.”

“Wait. Wait. Let’s hear the man out.” Amberjack waved off Midas’ comment. “Tell us what’s cooking in that brilliant mind of yours, Ox.”

“A deal. One I don’t think Midas can refuse.”

Bear raised his chin. “Go on. I like this already.”

“You know how Midas is always trying to get us to eat eggs and bacon before our missions? You know? His lucky routine.” Ox curled his thick fingers, gesturing quote symbols.

“Like patting his helmet before we jump?” Bear asked.

“Yep. All that crazy shit he does. Well, what if we agreed to follow along with his mission rituals if and only if he gets that teacher in Rota to agree to go to see Stereo Arsenal with him. If he can’t bag the date,” Ox loudly cleared his throat in the microphone, “then he stops bugging us about doing his superstitious mumbo jumbo.”

Bear nodded. “I’m down with that.”

“Me too,” Amberjack grinned and fixed his gaze on Midas. “You in, brotha? Or is little miss teacher lady too far out of your league?”

There was no mistaking the dare his friend cast out. The immature deal Ox started with could have been dealt with easy enough, but Midas’ legacy as a lady’s man, not to mention his pride, had been tossed in.

The muscles in his neck stiffened.
Fucking assholes.

Ox tilted closer. “What do you say, Midas?”

“I’ll even wear the Saint Christopher medal my nana gave me when I joined the Navy,” Bear added.

“Hold on,” Amberjack frowned. “I thought y’all are Baptist.”

“We are. We’re about as Baptist as they come. But Nana said she’d try anything, including tapping into the Catholic stuff, if it might help keep me alive. She called it her inter-faith pass. Still not quite sure what that means.”

“I’m waiting for an answer,” Ox pressed. “Tick, tock.”

Agreeing to anything Ox suggested, without argument, was about as far from smart as the North Pole was from the South Pole. But he had already made up his mind he would work on Angie when they trained in Rota. If he finally got the guys to start taking their luck more seriously, that could only be a good thing. Why not take on Ox’s bet and get something else for his efforts?

A vision of the little pixie, naked and seductively patting the empty spot in his bed, filled his mind’s eye. Just thinking about her sprouted a chubby in his camos.

He would have her. He simply needed to try harder. Try some new techniques. Drill deeper into his inner sex god. Pull out all the stops.

“Prepare to start chowing on greasy bacon and runny eggs, gentlemen,” Midas announced. “I’m in.”

“Excellent.” Amberjack pounded a fist on Ox’s kneepad. “I can’t wait to see the great and powerful Midas go down in flames. You just made my day, buddy.”

“This will be better than the bet we had with Mustang,” Bear added.

“Nothing was better than the bet we had with Mustang,” Ox corrected. “That bet will go down in SEAL history.”

“Heads up.” The pilot’s gravelly voice sounded in Midas’ headset. “We are fifteen minutes from insertion point.”

“Roger that.” Amberjack glanced at the others, all traces of his earlier joviality now replaced with complete seriousness. “You ladies ready to rock-n-roll?”

Midas pulled on his parachute’s shoulder strap and nodded.

Ox examined the magazine for his sidearm then palmed it into place. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

Bear’s unruly mustache couldn’t hide his lopsided grin. “Let’s go save the damsel in distress.”

Chapter Two

Angie Summers tossed her red pen onto the stack of student essays, no longer willing to keep up the pretense of reading them, let alone grading them. After suffering through nine badly written reports on the impact of Reaganomics in the 1980s, the desire to stick a hot poker in her eye had grown too strong.

Why, oh why, had she assigned such a mind numbing subject to two classes of high school sophomores? They might be sons and daughters of military personnel stationed at Naval Station Rota Spain, but they couldn’t care less about Ronald Reagan, economics, or government regulation. Her students whined when she announced the assignment. Little did they know she would suffer far worse in grading their reports than they had writing them.

Pushing her glasses further up the bridge of her nose, she glanced around the institutional gray walls of her Department of Defense School classroom then focused her attention outside the large picture windows. A grove of tall palm trees swayed with the breeze against a landscape bathed in bright afternoon sunshine. Further in the distance, a sliver of blue-green water from the Bay of Cadiz peeked between the school’s administrative offices and one of the base’s many maintenance buildings. The ancient Phoenician city of Rota and its lovely beaches, the
Costa de la Luz
, beckoned like a shirtless male cover model on the jacket of a romance novel.

Why the hell did she still labor at work hours after the last kid exited the school and slammed the door shut?

Because that’s what you do now. You wanted this, remember? Said you wanted a quiet, normal life. Well, here you go. I hope you’re finally happy.

Ya know, it doesn’t have to be this way,
the tiny devil standing on her shoulder whispered.
Good ol’ Dad is coming to town next week with the band. You can leave with him and put these essays, the school, and your solitary existence behind you with one snap of your fingers. The rock and roll lifestyle can be yours again. It’s not like you’re working because you need the money. Come on. Let’s go back to seeing the world, partying every night, and having men throw themselves at your feet like the old days. Aren’t you tired of this dull existence yet?

God, yes!

But not nearly enough to do something as bonkers as tour with her dad. Being on the road with him, not to mention the band, the roadies, and the groupies would never,
ever
happen again. While Stereo Arsenal played on base next week as a part of their USO tour, she’d be lucky to maintain her secret identity, let alone survive a visit from its lead vocalist, the aging and slightly mad rock icon who happened to be her father.

With a resigned sigh, she slid another essay off the pile, picked up the red pen and proceeded to knock her head against the old wood desk that probably had been an antique back when Dwight Eisenhower was President. Was it too late to ask the school’s principal for a vacation? Could she slip away for a few days until her dad and the crazy train he traveled with moved on to their next show?

“What are you still doing here?”

Angie looked up to see Susan Fisher peering around the classroom doorway. At five-foot-ten with large brown eyes and long, fire engine red hair, she resembled a human version of Jessica Rabbit more than a high school science teacher. How her students concentrated on the reproductive systems of frogs and the anatomy of plants instead of her colorful locks and the multitude of chains around her neck and wrists seemed nothing less than miraculous.

“You do know it’s Friday and you can go home, right?” Susan sashayed into the room wearing one of her customary knit dresses, her bundle of bling chiming against each other with her every movement.

Even after being up since the butt crack of dawn, putting in a fifteen-mile jog, and then standing eight hours teaching the wonders of science, Susan still exuded the energy of a wind-up toy from a MacDonald’s Happy Meal.

Angie, on the other hand, felt as though every ounce of vigor had been sucked from her veins, leaving only a walking, talking shell of a human.

Where was the caffeinated heaven of a Starbucks when she needed one?

“I want to finish grading some of these papers before my sanity returns.” Raising her hands high over her head, Angie reached and stretched the taxed muscles in her arms and shoulders. How could teaching government and history be such a physically and mentally demanding job?

“Girlfriend, I think the sanity boat set sail a long time ago.” Heels of her black leather pumps clicking on the cement floor, Susan marched to Angie’s desk. “You and I. O’Malley’s Pub. Burgers and beer. Right now. Grab your purse.”

The slinky science teacher firmly planted her fists on her rounded hips and pulled her lips tightly to the left side of her face in a smirk that silently screamed she would not be budged.

Any attempt at arguing with Susan once her mind was made up would be an exercise in futility. Been there, done that, and sent the postcard. Yet Angie had to try.

She lowered her arms and rested her elbows on the marred wood of her ancient desk. “Is this really necessary?”

Susan’s eyes narrowed. “Do you really need to ask?”

At least O’Malley’s isn’t far from home
, Angie reminded herself a half hour later as she tugged on the bar’s Kelly green door. After a quick dinner and a drink or two, she could make the short walk to her house, throw on her pajamas, and crawl into bed with a good book. Not exactly the perfect way to spend a Friday night, but…

When did I become such a dull stick in the mud? Maybe I’ve taken the desire to protect my identity and live a quiet, normal life a little too far.

She peered beyond the door and blinked. Her eyes took a moment to adjust from the bright light of the afternoon sun to the pub’s dim interior. A few people, Americans and Spaniards from the look of them, chatted on stools near an L-shaped bar, drinks or cigarettes in hand. Even with the large window to the street open, the smell of stale beer and smoke permeated the bar’s thick air.

A sense of nostalgia pulled as she glanced around the small tavern. How could it not? The place was reminiscent of the public houses she frequented with her parents when they summered in her mother’s home country of England. Those were happy, rare times her world seemed somewhat normal. Back when her father could be just a regular dad, not
the
Bussey Stevens of mega band, Stereo Arsenal, and her mother only a pretty lady with a million-dollar smile instead of a supermodel.

She took in the row after row of dark wood beams that supported the pub’s low ceiling. On the walls, dollar bills, Euros, and paper currency from around the world plastered every inch of available space. Behind the bar, classic rock poured from small speakers that hid near shelves of bottled liquor. Everything about O’Malley’s registered a warm familiarity, lulling her to stay and test her ability to have a bit of fun while remaining anonymous and responsible.

“I love this place.” Susan brushed past and claimed a small, round table near the window. “Come on,” she beckoned while coaxing Angie inside with several waves of her hand. “We’ve got the best seats in the house. This is great. Let’s order some beers and ogle men.”

Angie hesitated. A part of her heart, the reckless and more than a little wicked side of her past, panged for the opportunity to cut loose and have a good time. After six years of practically living like a nun didn’t she deserve a few moments out to share a beer or two with a friend?

No one inside the bar had yet to glance at her or appeared to care she existed. Surely, she could hang out in this little hole in the wall and keep her identity hidden. As long as she didn’t do anything to draw attention to herself, she should be fine. Plus, who would suspect a woman with short black hair and glasses in the small town of Rota, Spain of being the daughter of Bussey Stevens? That girl didn’t wear specs. Plus she had long, blonde hair and partied hard in places like London and New York.

A giddy euphoria settled over her while she considered tossing caution to the wind and allowing herself to throw down for a few hours. Her body responded to the idea, suddenly growing light, her blood effervescent.

She nodded, then made her way across the marble tile floor and plunked her butt down on a stool. “The first pitcher of Cruzcampo is on me.”

Without missing a beat, Susan signaled to the bartender. “Sean, you heard the lady. Some beer and two glasses.”

The barkeeper, a tall and lanky thirty-something Irishman with hair the color of carrots, raised a glass pitcher filled with bubbling amber liquid topped by a layer of creamy foam. “Way ahead of you, Susan.”

Her friend leaned close as though preparing to dish out classified information. “He knows me too well.”

Angie widened her eyes in mock surprise. “You don’t say.”

Beer and two glasses held high, the bartender skirted the bar and the people sitting around it, then set everything on their table. “Enjoy, ladies.” He winked at Susan. “Hope I’ll be seeing more of you tonight, Ms. Fisher.”

Susan bit the bottom of her cherry red lip and raked over every inch of the Irishman’s body with a stare hot enough to melt plastic. “I hope to see a lot more of you, too, Mr. O’Malley.”