Alpha Fighter Page 3

  I was out in an armed vehicle with my best bud, John, on a reconnaissance mission. It wasn't anything exciting, but I was happy to be there. John was like a brother to me. We were smiling, talking about John's new baby girl waiting for him at home with his wife, but still focused on keeping an eye out. We knew what we were doing.

  I was the one driving. The roadside bomb took out the whole left half of the vehicle. When I woke up in the base hospital days later, they told me that John had died immediately in the explosion. When I became a SEAL, I swore an oath to protect my men. I was driving the vehicle when John died, and I felt like I single-handedly killed my brother. I felt like the scum of the earth that I survived and John died. I didn't know what I would say to his wife. To his daughter, when she was old enough to understand. I didn't deserve to live on.

  I developed mild PTSD, but I had always been a fighter and I would bounce back. The psychologist on base said the prognosis was much better than expected and physically, I'd heal, too. It would just take some time.

  Then another guy in my team brought me my computer. I checked my email, knowing Sarah must be worried sick about me. I wanted to write her a reassuring email. But then I saw an email already in my inbox from her. Just a single email, even though I hadn't checked it for days and I knew she must have gotten some sort of notification from the Navy when I was brought back to the hospital in critical condition.

  But she was my Sarah. Maybe they had told her not to send any more emails, since I wouldn't be able to communicate, and maybe they thought a flood of emails would stress me out further. I opened the email.

  She was leaving me.

  In the email, she sent me her 'condolences for my loss,' wished me a 'speedy and full recovery,' and explained that she was not 'up to the task' of dealing with someone with PTSD. She 'hoped there would be no hard feelings,' but she didn't want to see me, ever again.

  Just like that. In a fucking email.

  I was in physical rehabilitation programs for a while, then I applied to go on tour again. My application was rejected. I had to choose a new career path in the military. Something with a desk job, not in the field. Since I'd had PTSD, even though it was just a mild form, I was too much of a liability for them to send me out on a mission as a SEAL again. They explained that this could actually mean a payday step-up. With my experience, any branch would be happy to have me and there were many lucrative positions available for someone like me. Hearing that made me feel like a complete dirt-bag. I’d taken an oath to protect my comrades and I couldn't do it. Now they wanted me to sit in an office and make a lot of money while other people risked their lives and I just sat there typing away on a keyboard in my A/C with my swivel chair.

  I couldn't do it.

  Vlad, a former mentor when I’d first joined the SEALs, kept me from letting my failure to save John lead to my own self-destruction. He kept me out of the bars, off of the streets, and in the gym for those first dark months and I've been grateful to him ever since. He took a broken soldier and helped me recover myself and create the Cooper “Veni Vidi Vici” Quin that I am proud to be today. He's also the most solid friend a man could ask for.

  What was I thinking, that I could play it off cool in front of Vlad?

  "There's this chick," I say.

  "A girl?" Vlad raises an eyebrow as I stop jabbing at the air and turn back to face him. "Since when do you get bothered by a girl?"

  "I'm not bothered by her," I say maybe a little too hasty to fight off the accusation. "She's my new roommate."

  This makes Vlad's usually expressionless face take on almost a look of mild surprise. "You're roommates with a girl you're sleeping with?"

  "I'm not sleeping with her." Vlad stares me down for a minute, but I don't budge. I'm telling the truth.

  "You're this wound up about a girl you're not even sleeping with?" Vlad asks.

  "I don't know, man." I run a hand through my hair in frustration. "I don't know what it is about this girl. She's an eleven out of ten, no question, but there's something else about her that just makes it hard to look away."

  Vlad laughs and claps me on the shoulder. "Bad move, Cooper. She's your roommate. She's off limits now. "

  "I just said she's nice to look at. I'm not interested." I shrug him off and stomp off to the locker rooms. I'm not feeling much interest when I think about picking up Wednesday at the bar for our usual fuck, though she's wild in bed and always bare like a porn star, but I'm going to. I need to get this out somehow.

  Chapter Seven

  Savannah

  As a Santos, I've never worked a day in my life. It wasn't expected of me and it would never have been if I didn't run away. Other teenagers had part-time jobs after school in high school, but I didn't. Anything I wanted, I could ask Daddy for. I'm not suggesting that my life wasn't blessed and that I wasn’t incredibly fortunate to come from so much money and power, but the real value in money is freedom. It's the freedom to do what you want when you want to, the freedom to have what you want when you want it.

  I didn't have that freedom, even with all the money in the world. Money meant little to me. I like pretty dresses and nice shoes as much as the next girl, but none of that could buy me happiness. And all the money in the world couldn't buy me what I really want. There was no amount of dollars, pesos, Euros, pounds, or yen that could buy back my mother and sister.

  The idea of getting a job, with pay that's all mine to do with what I please, is thrilling to me. I have to admit that imagining having anything left after rent, food, and bills was perhaps romanticizing my situation, but still—I am finally responsible for myself.

  I already unpacked my few belongings into the worn drawers of my dresser, so now I just double check that the folder with my freshly printed resumes is in my backpack, along with a yellow notepad and several blue, ballpoint pens that I picked up at the printer's yesterday.

  The folder is there, so I head out on my job hunt. I have a pretty basic plan of attack. I'll start with the highest end tattoo parlors, which are most likely to be able to afford to hire a new artist and most likely to have the highest pay. I do need money and I need it now.

  The first place I walk into is in what's clearly “the right” part of town, in the proverbial right-wrong dichotomy of luxury versus poverty. There are floor-to-ceiling mirrors making up two whole walls, with various orthopedic-style tables and armchairs for clients to sit in while they get their tattoos. The waiting area could double as an upscale lounge, with luxurious carpeting, glass end tables with artfully arranged stacks of alternating light reading material and intellectual journals like Science and Psychology Today. There is a hostess gliding quietly between the waiting area and tattoo area to refill drinks and offer hors d'oeuvres and small, rolled towels on a heated tray. The doors to the back rooms for bodywork are a rich, red mahogany with ornately carved crystal doorknobs.

  The receptionist politely takes my resume, scans it over, hands it back, and without blinking or changing her expression, bids me on my way and suggests that I consider reapplying in a few years, after developing a strong portfolio. I ask to show her my portfolio, but she declines, already looking over my shoulder to wave the next person in line to the front.

  I've never been so summarily rejected before. No one would dare to, with my dad's rep known far and wide. But I remind myself that I'm not gliding by on the Santos golden carriage of life anymore and that it's all up to personal merit now.

  With that steeling thought, I head into the next parlor. It's a scaled-down version of the first, but the response my application elicits is much the same.

  The same is true of the third parlor, the fourth parlor, and the fifth parlor, though the sixth parlor says that they might give me a call to reapply if they have the need for another artist. The fact that the woman telling me this barely looks up from her cell phone the whole time, however, is unpromising.

  By the time I make it to the last parlor on my list, my shirt is sticking to my back and I'm pretty co
nfident that I could fry an egg on my forehead. Not that I'd want to.

  I don't let the boarded-up window on the storefront next to the parlor get to me, nor do I let the faded lettering on the sign steer me away. I need a job.

  "Hi, I'm Savannah." I introduce myself to the single occupant of the shop, a woman dressed in head-to-toe faded black denim. She sizes me up, takes in my folder and hopeful expression and summarily dismisses me.

  "We're not hiring."

  "I'm a great worker," I argue. I'm getting desperate. "I'll work for little and am always punctual, polite, and thorough. I brought my portfolio with me."

  "We're not hiring," she says again, but she's a little slower with her rejection this time. I jump on that hesitation as my opening.

  "Here, just take a look." I hand her my portfolio. She shakes her head, but takes it.

  First, she's just flipping through it dismissively, clearly trying to get me back out of the door, but then she slows down. Her eyebrows inch up her forehead in intervals as she takes in the photographs and sketches.

  "Where did you work?" she asks, when she finally hands my portfolio back to me. "You're way too good for a place like this."

  "I haven't worked before," I admitted.

  "Friends?" she asked.

  I nodded.

  "You did all that without training, just fucking around with friends?" She shakes her head, this time in disbelief. "If I could do that, you bet I wouldn't be working in this dump. Hun, you have talent." She looks me sternly in the eyes. "I mean real talent."

  "But first I need experience," I said, "No one will hire me with a blank resume."

  "Eh." She acknowledges my point, scratching her chin in thought. "I really wish I could offer you something, hun, but we aren't making rent as it is on this place. We really can't afford to bring someone else on. I'm Anna-Lynne, by the way."

  "Thanks, and I understand," I sigh. "Honestly, I'd do it for free. But I have to pay my rent, too, you know?"

  Anna-Lynne nods in companionable silence for a moment. Then she says, "Sorry, hun. I don't know what to tell you. But whatever you do, don't give up."

  I nod. "Thanks." The encouragement feels good after being on my own for all these weeks.

  Unfortunately, encouraging words won't keep a roof over my head, nor will they get me any closer to my dream of being a tattoo artist.

  Chapter Eight

  Cooper

  Wednesday is at the bar, waiting for me like a good girl, when I get to The Tipsy Steer. Some loser is trying to buy her a drink, but she waves him off impatiently, leaning forward on her stool to watch me walk towards her. A slow, sultry smile spreads across her face. I know what that smile means.

  "Let's skip the drinks," I say, sliding a hand down her back. "I need something else now."

  She arches her back against my palm in response, bending her head to nuzzle my neck while simultaneously giving me an A-grade view straight down her shirt to her impressive breasts. I cup one as she kisses down my neck from my ear, then pull her down off of the stool.

  "We're going," I declare, my voice already a little gruffer as I start to feel the excitement building in my pants. We're barely halfway across the parking lot when I undo the clasp on her bra, pulling it free from under her tight tube top. Her erect nipples strain against the shirt and she moans, reaching a hand the back of my neck and pulling me in for a kiss. I pull her into me deep, my frustration building.

  "In," I say, yanking the passenger side door of my truck open.

  She steps in, already flushed, hair mussed, and lips plump and just a little open. I change my mind.

  "Backseat," I command. She climbs over the divider and I yank open the back door, getting in. I pull her tube top over her head, freeing her breasts. She moans, arching her back to bring her chest closer to me as she pulls my shirt over my head. I'm lying down on the seat and she's on top me, kissing down my chest. She undoes my belt, giving me a coy smile before she unzips the fly and takes my hard member in her mouth. Her tongue swirls over the tip as she strokes the base and I close my eyes.

  Finally.

  She's eager to please and takes my throbbing member deep in her throat. I reach down to take a breast in my hand, squeezing the firm flesh. I twist her nipple and she hums with pleasure. I put my other hand in her underwear. She's wet for me, and moans with pleasure, her eyelids fluttering shut, as I slide one, then two fingers into her ready pussy.

  "I need your cock," she breathes.

  I put a rubber on. I always do it myself and with my own rubbers because it’s no secret that the MMA pays well and I would not be surprised if some of these women wouldn’t mind an ‘accidental’ condom fail to end in a shotgun wedding and a life as a trophy wife. No, thank you. Even when my little head is in control, my big head isn’t totally out of commission. I wouldn’t have gotten to where I am today if I was stupid.

  Then I flip her over, so she's under me on the seat, and thrust my hard cock into her welcoming pussy. The warm pressure against my throbbing member feels great. It turns off my brain, so I thrust harder and harder as Wednesday writhes under me, moaning and gasping. She digs her fingers into my back as I bring her to the edge. Her eyes are fluttering and she's twisting, her back curving impossibly as I pound into her. I suck on her breast, swirling my tongue around her nipple, and she screams in ecstasy as her body convulses with pleasure. Her hot sex clenches my cock in gratifying spasms as she climaxes.

  Having attended to her needs, I'm a good guy. After all, I take care of my own. I thrust faster and harder bring myself to the edge of abandon.

  I needed this.

  In and out, faster and harder, I can feel myself approaching the edge. I grab her breasts in both hands and give over to the waves of pleasure. But when I close my eyes and come, it's not Wednesday I see. Instead, I see Savannah's pretty face, her big, caramel eyes and shiny, black hair, her perfect ass in her cutoffs, and that sassy look she gave me earlier.

  Fuck. I come hard, squirting my hot cum in the wrong body.

  Chapter Nine

  Savannah

  It's been a long day, but I still need to do something when I get home. I'm frustrated with how unsuccessful my day was and how hopeless things look. Tomorrow, I'm probably going to have to go around to the diners and fast food joints and see if any of them is hiring. Not at all what I was hoping to do, but I'll do what I need to do to pay my rent.

  Still, I've dreamt of being a tattoo artist since I was a little girl admiring my mom's magical tattoo and I'm not giving up that easily. Maybe I can't do what I want now, but eventually. Or maybe I can find a solid job waitressing and ask Anna-Lynne if I can apprentice with her when I'm not working, just to get something on my resume and maybe a small client base.

  I'll figure it out.

  In the interim, I just need to busy myself with something productive and rewarding. I'm already filthy from walking around in the heat all day, so I may as well add to that dirt and get this place into a little better shape before I go take a shower.

  A short investigation proves fruitful and I tinker with the small radio in the living room for a few minutes until I find a good station. Then I crank it up, already feeling some of my worries slip away as I roll my shoulders and wiggle my hips to the familiar track. I grab a broom from the pantry and twirl with it, indulging myself in a brief daydream of dancing with Cooper, before getting to work.

  I sweep through the entire apartment, staying out of Cooper's room, then find some rags, cleaning detergent and brillo pads under the sink. I'm not entirely certain that they didn't come with the apartment when he got it, but I'm pleased to find them. Already feeling better, I set to work on the kitchen. As I scrub and spray and polish, zoning out to the music, I let my mind wander.

  I think briefly about home and the chaos that I must have caused, but that's too heavy and not making me feel better. Instead, I turn my thoughts to my mysterious new roommate.

  Has he always lived around here? Did he move here re
cently? While he seems like a down-to-earth enough guy to have been born and raised in the same town where he is now, something tells me otherwise. At the very least, I'm guessing that he lived or worked elsewhere at some point. Maybe even abroad? He has an intelligent way about him...

  I chide myself for the assumption. I've had very minimal interaction with the man and here I am, imagining him as some well-traveled, driven hunk. The only part of it that I know to be true is that he is, undeniably, a hunk. That chiseled jaw, that sculpted chest, those perfect abs, those strong arms with those perfect sleeves of ink—and that's without even considering that he has a perfect face to match that perfect body. His black hair is just the right amount of shaggy, His steely blue eyes are piercing. They're the kind of eyes you have to be careful to not look into too long, or you'll fall right into their pools of blue.

  His voice is deep and secure, his handshake grip strong, and his movements masculine, but graceful. Like an athlete. He's certainly good on his feet; he moves his body with the security of someone who knows the ins and outs of controlling its movements. And the effects they have.

  That last thought sends a shiver up my spine.

  No. I refuse to think of Cooper like that. They're just thoughts and they're harmless, but there's no way any of that can happen. I'm a tactile bomb—touch me and I'll detonate, destroying everyone and everything around me with the impact of the explosion.

  Suddenly, the music is more grating than relaxing. I toss the rag, totally covered in black, take a quick second to admire my work, and then turn off the music and head to the shower.

  I have no idea what Cooper's story is, but I know one thing. I'm far too interested in finding out for my own good.

  Chapter Ten

  Cooper

  I drop Wednesday off at her place, ignoring her pouting and whining about round two in the morning. Honestly, now that I've blown off some steam, I just want her out of my hair.

  On the drive home, I think about Savannah again. She's a bold one. Doesn't look like the kind of girl who would whine. She also doesn't seem like the kind of girl who would put up with any bullshit, given her no-nonsense attitude and that surprisingly firm handshake.