Hot SEAL, Dirty Martini Page 2

  What the hell had Jerry been thinking springing this on her when she was about to walk on air live?

  She added something new to the top of her To Do list—get a freaking drink. She certainly needed one. But unless they happened to be mixing cocktails on the show today, that too would have to wait.

  “Five minutes!”

  For the first time since getting her dream job, Tasha wasn’t happy to hear those words shouted backstage.

  But it didn’t matter. A studio packed full with a live audience for today’s show waited for her. In five minutes she’d have to go out there and smile and pretend nothing was wrong.

  Pretend that she wasn’t pissed and upset and jobless and possibly soon to be homeless.

  Pretend things were fine. As good as they were before she stepped foot into that office and got the news.

  No. Forget all that! She wasn’t going to pretend.

  The fans loved her. They were and always would be on her side and they deserved the truth. They deserved to know. To find out from her, not from some gossip rag or entertainment show reporter.

  That was too impersonal. She had to address this personally. Directly. Now. On air. Straight to the studio audience and the viewers at home.

  Nothing much. Just a simple statement that there wouldn’t be a season six. That today’s would be the last live show. Ever.

  At that thought her throat tightened and she felt the prick of tears behind her eyes. She ignored the feeling and stalked toward the set.

  Jane ran after her. “Are you going to be all right?” she asked.

  “Fine.” The single strangled word didn’t come out sounding as if she were fine. Tasha dared to glance at Jane and saw the concern etched on her features.

  Feeling sentimental, Tasha pulled Jane against her in a hug. When she leaned back she saw Jane looked as surprised by the uncharacteristic move as she was herself.

  “You’re good people, Jane. You’ll get another job soon. Probably right away. Someone will scoop you right up.” Tasha forced a smile. She’d better get good at doing that—faking smiles.

  “You will too. I’m certain.” Jane nodded hard, sending her ponytail bobbing.

  Tasha let out a snort, wishing she were as sure.

  “One minute!” The call brought her back to the obstacle ahead. The show. The last one. Ever.

  She drew in a shaky breath and smiled again, ignoring how her eyes had gone blurry. Ignoring too how closely Jane, clearly worried, was watching her, probably wondering if she could pull off this show today. That made two of them.

  “Show time,” she said as the theme music began to play. She left Jane behind her and strode out onto the set for the final time.

  “Good day, San Diego.” She delivered the show’s opening tag line but couldn’t bring herself to go on with business as usual and deliver the next line she was supposed to. The one she’d said every show for five years—It’s going to be a great day.

  “It’s not such a great day here today, I’m sad to say.” Tasha scanned the faces of the crowd as her words sunk in, as one by one they realized she hadn’t repeated the usual words.

  She continued, “I’m sorry to have to say these words, but today will be the last Good Day, San Diego live show. We haven’t been renewed for next season.”

  There were gasps from the audience. A couple of people said aloud, “No.”

  She dared to glance to the side and saw the looks on the faces of the crew. They were all in this boat together. More like a sinking ship.

  Her emotions began to take hold of her.

  “The network, in its infinite wisdom, has decided to change focus.” Sadness turned to anger and spilled out in her tone as she actually used air quotes to reinforce the words that she still found baffling and ridiculous. “They want serious news and politics. Because there’s not already enough network and cable news channels running news and politics twenty-four/seven, right?”

  Heart pounding, she scanned the audience and saw nods of agreement from those in the crowd.

  Encouraged and discouraged all at the same time, Tasha continued, “And you know what? I have to think it’s because men are running the network. Men who don’t understand or maybe just don’t care what a predominantly female audience wants. They’re making the decision to change based on what? I certainly don’t know. Our ratings are great. We have incredible sponsors. Our viewers are some of the best damn fans in daytime TV.”

  A cheer and applause rose up making the tears she’d been barely holding back threaten to spill over the rim of her flooded eyes.

  “Well, I value your opinion, even if they don’t.” She was shouting over the applause now and with every one of her words the cheers got louder.

  It only reinforced what she knew. She was right. They were wrong. This decision was wrong.

  “Bunch of fucking dickheads,” she mumbled, shaking her head at their stupidity.

  Uh, oh. She’d whispered it but, of course, she was wearing a microphone.

  Had the audience heard over the noise?

  Judging by the looks she was getting from both the audience and the crew, they’d heard.

  Oh, well. What were they going to do? Fire her?

  Still, she was a professional and the fans had come here today to be entertained. It was still her job to do that one more time.

  “Let’s get on with the show, shall we? And since it’s my last one, let’s make it a great one.” With another in what was to become a long hour’s worth of forced smiles, Tasha spun and stalked toward her on-stage desk, her legs shaking as she went.

  THREE

  “Another one, p—please.” The visibly intoxicated brunette next to Clay hiccupped as she leaned heavily against the bar rail.

  She plunked her empty glass on the bar setting it half on and half off the coaster.

  Behind the bar, Raymond paused while drying a glass with a towel and eyed the woman. “You driving?”

  “Nope. But thanks for asking. I’m ordering an Uber. Uber. That’s a funny word. It’s fun to say. Uuuuuber.”

  The bartender, an old retired sailor who’d seen and heard too much in his life, and behind this bar, cocked a brow high. “All right.”

  He turned to grab a glass to make the drink.

  Clay watched as the man mixed something pink and girly in the glass. It reminded him of the Sex on the Beach that one of his teammates always drank in spite of the razzing he took from the guys every time he ordered the damn thing. Though he had to respect his friend for sticking to his guns—or rather his cocktail—no matter what.

  The woman tilted her head to look at Clay, frowning as if she’d just noticed him standing there. “Did I cut in front of you?”

  Yes, she had, but he was willing to wait. He was a gentleman. Besides, he was in no rush to order his next round since he’d be drinking it solo. Asher had had to head back to base after his one drink.

  “It’s fine.” He waved away her question.

  Her blue-eyed gaze dropped down to his flip-flops, then back up, taking in his cargo shorts, his T-shirt and finally, his unshaven face.

  Clay hadn’t been looked up and down that thoroughly in a long time. Maybe today was going to turn out to be his lucky day all around. He’d found a house. He’d found a woman who was obviously out on the prowl for a man.

  “Half day today at work?” she asked.

  He frowned and then realized that she was asking why he was dressed like a beach bum at a bar on a Thursday in the middle of the day.

  It was still early. Just about fourteen-hundred—make that two p.m. for the civilians of the world, of which Clay had to keep reminding himself he was now one of.

  “Better than that.” He grinned, answering her question about working a half a day. “No work at all. I got out a couple of months ago.”

  “Jail.” She nodded, her lips pressed tight. “That figures.”

  “What?” He almost choked on the word.

  “I sure can pick ’em,” she m
umbled, ignoring his shocked question as she shoved a twenty toward the bartender and reached for her drink.

  “No. Jesus. Not out of jail. Out of the Navy.”

  What in the ever-loving hell? Why would she assume when he’d said out that he meant he’d just gotten out of jail?

  Besides his clearly visible U.S. Navy tattoo on his forearm, in this town you couldn’t throw a rock without hitting a sailor. Particularly at this bar. It was owned by a retired SEAL, for fuck’s sake. Every second guy in here was probably Navy.

  Feeling more insulted the more he thought about her judgmental comment—and that visual once over she’d subjected him to—he couldn’t let it go. “What made you think I’d meant jail?”

  “No offense.” She lifted one shoulder. “I’m a lil’ drunk. I had a bad day.”

  Now it was his turn to nod, accepting her answer without question or comment since it was more than obvious it was the truth. She certainly was drunk. The other part—her supposed bad day—he couldn’t know or care less about.

  “But you really can’t blame me for making assumptions with all that ink on you,” she continued, indicating his tattoos with the swirl of one condescending finger.

  Things probably would have been fine—he could have walked away without further issue—if she’d just kept her pretty little mouth closed and hadn’t started in on his tattoos. But instead she’d gone and started talking shit.

  Now her gaze swept from the bone frog on his calf, past the U.S. Navy anchor on his forearm and up to the cross tattoo barely visible on his bicep beneath his short sleeves.

  That particular one she’d better keep quiet about or he might just lose his shit. She’d managed to insult him, the SEAL brother he’d lost and memorialized in ink, and his tattoo artist, all in one judgmental glance and a single sentence. A man couldn’t let an offense like that stand unaddressed.

  He turned to face her head on. “Are you saying my tattoos look like prison ink?”

  She lifted a shoulder, grabbing her drink off the bar and sucking hard on the straw.

  Her ignorance told him one thing—she wasn’t one of those women who hung around bars frequented by SEALs to try to land one for the night. A frog hog would have recognized what he was, just from the bone frog on his leg.

  Prison ink. He muttered an obscenity beneath his breath, torn between being angry with her over the insult and angry with himself for watching her lips wrap around the straw.

  He shouldn’t be attracted to a woman this ignorant and bitchy. There must be something wrong with him. Or maybe he just needed to get laid.

  Yanking his attention off her mouth, he got back to the subject at hand—her insulting his ink. “I’ll have you know these were all done by an award-winning local tattoo artist.”

  “Really? Hmm. I wouldn’t know. I don’t have any tattoos.” She lifted her shoulder again.

  No tattoos, but definitely a stick firmly planted up her ass. Clay let out a snort. “No surprise there.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” She swiveled her head to stare at him.

  Done with this conversation, Clay didn’t pull any punches as he said, “That I can see you’re not the type to mar your perfect little body with a lowly tattoo.”

  “You think I have a perfect body?” Her eyes brightened.

  Crap. “No. That’s not what I meant.”

  Even if he had been shamelessly taking advantage of the fact that at six-foot-two he could easily see right down her top. She was on the petite side but it sure didn’t affect her big mouth.

  He refused to give her the satisfaction of a compliment. “I meant your skin. Not your body.” He let out a humph and added, “Vain much?”

  There. That should take her down a notch.

  What the hell had gotten into him? He was acting like a child, bickering with her instead of keeping his mouth shut.

  Another day, he’d be all over this hot chick instead of picking fights with her. But damn, she’d insulted him and his tattoos. Even so, there’d been a time he wouldn’t have cared what she said if it meant getting laid.

  Damn, he’d gotten old. When had that happened?

  Clay knew the answer. Sometime during the twenty years he’d spent serving Uncle Sam.

  He drew in a breath and glanced at her—only to find she was checking him out. Not his tattoos. Not his clothes. Him.

  As she sucked on her straw, her gaze swept him from head to toe and her expression told him she’d changed her mind and actually liked what she saw.

  Apparently she’d gotten over his offensive ink and overly casual attire.

  He didn’t know her. He didn’t like her. But in the grand scheme of things, that didn’t matter all that much.

  If she were interested, he certainly could be too. He only had to put up with her and her smart mouth for an hour or two. He could definitely come up with a couple of ways to occupy that mouth so she’d shut up.

  It was a good plan and good timing. She’d already drained the drink the bartender had made for her at the start of this surreal conversation and Clay hadn’t gotten around to ordering his yet.

  Time to go.

  “Hey, so, um . . .” He realized he didn’t even know her name, yet he was already planning all the things he wanted to do to her.

  Hmm. He might possibly be thinking with the little head rather than the big one. Oh, well.

  “I’m Clay,” he said to remedy the situation. “What’s your name?”

  “Tasha Jones.” She’d supplied more than he needed to know. First names only were just fine with him in situations such as this. She said, “Nice to meet you . . . even though you are a rude smart ass.”

  “I’m rude?” His eyes popped wide.

  Clay would accept her calling him a smart ass. He’d been told that before, but he was not rude. If anyone had been rude during this strange conversation, it had been her.

  He opened his mouth to argue, when she continued, “But you’re hot. In a rugged, low-class kind of way.”

  Direct hit, right to the bow. He bit back an obscenity as she lobbed that doozy of an insult at him. She thought he was hot. She was definitely interested. He could get what he wanted if he could just keep his mouth shut.

  He pressed his lips together and physically held in the words he wanted to say.

  Christ. Did he really want to get laid that badly? He was in the process of changing his mind when her heated gaze dropped down his body again, spending quite a bit of time on his chest before moving down to the bulge beneath his shorts.

  His decision was made.

  “You, uh, wanna get out of here?” He tipped his head toward the door leading to the street.

  “And go where?” She frowned, bringing her gaze up from his crotch to land on his face.

  “Your place. Or mine if you want.” He shrugged, hoping she’d choose hers. It’d be easier to make a clean getaway when they were done.

  He wasn’t a sleepover and cuddle kind of guy. He couldn’t think of anything worse than the awkward morning after a one-night stand.

  “I’ll even drive, so you don’t have to order a car,” he added as extra incentive, remembering her Uber comment.

  She looked him up and down again like he was a juicy steak and she was a starving man.

  Finally, she reached for the big purse she’d plunked on the bar when she’d paid for her drink. “Okay.”

  Her answer was a shock. He hadn’t actually expected her to say yes.

  “Okay?” he repeated, just to make sure.

  “Yeah. Come on. Let’s go.” She turned and took one step toward the door and treated him to the rear view. And what a view it was.

  Shit. He was an ass man and she had an amazing one.

  He might regret it later but, for better or worse, he was going to do this. He pushed off the bar to catch up with her before she got too far ahead.

  The woman stumbled to a stop and glanced back at him with a frown. “Wait. You’re not too drunk to drive, are you?�
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  She wasn’t all that drunk herself if she’d thought to ask. That was good. He didn’t need to get accused of taking advantage of an intoxicated female.

  Besides, that wasn’t really his style. He could get plenty of sober women. He didn’t need to prey on the drunk ones.

  “I’m fine to drive.”

  With only one martini, ordered over an hour ago, plus the plate of nachos he’d shared with Asher in his belly, he wasn’t worried.

  When she still eyed him suspiciously, he held up his right hand and said, “I swear. Not drunk.”

  “Okay. I believe you.” She delivered that pronouncement with an exaggerated nod and a burp.

  Lovely. With his luck, she’d puke in his truck.

  “You feeling okay?” he asked as a preemptive strike against the possible impending vomit he didn’t want to clean.

  “Yup. I’m fine. As sober as a newly unemployed talk show host should be, I am.” She nodded again and swung her arm in an exaggerated sweeping motion toward the door. “Come on.”

  Clay had no idea what she was talking about and he didn’t ask, mainly because he got another good look at the rear view as she wobbled through the exit.

  He had to admit, that tight little skirt showed off her lower assets nicely.

  Curvy heart-shaped butt. Toned thighs. Wide hips flaring from a nipped-in waist, which would be the perfect place to anchor his hands while he plunged into her from behind.

  Liking that image, he decided on that position for their encounter as he followed her out. Definitely taking this one from behind. Not that she didn’t have a face made for staring at—she definitely did in a china doll kind of way—but with it came her mouth, which he’d already seen she liked to run off way too much.

  Face down on the pillow should take care of that. Best to keep the discussion to a minimum to avoid any further disagreements.

  He decided that was a good game plan as he jumped to catch up with her. He grabbed her arm when she reached the sidewalk and turned right.

  “Whoa there. Where you going?” he asked.

  She stared at him for a second. “Your car. You’re driving. Remember?”

  Yes, he remembered. It was a good sign that she did too.