Holding Out For A Hero: SEALs, Soldiers, Spies, Cops, FBI Agents and Rangers by Tawny Weber, Opal Carew, Sharon Hamilton, Lisa Hughey, Denise A. Agnew, Caridad Pineiro, Gennita Low, Karen Fenech Page A
Authors: Tawny Weber, Opal Carew, Sharon Hamilton, Lisa Hughey, Denise A. Agnew, Caridad Pineiro, Gennita Low, Karen Fenech
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Reed give me. I don’t go begging for work. I find it. Sometimes I find work that actually pays enough to make my rent. I don’t complain. You ever hear me complain?”
“No. I don’t. But—”
“Just shut your pie hole.” The fork was in the air again. “I’ve never given up any more than you have. But you know as well as I do, your chances in this town are just not very good. We work our butt off. We show up and try not to get too drunk or booed off the stage and try not to go home with someone else’s wife—” The fork went down, but Thomas leaned into the table and whispered, “Which is more than I can say for another someone in this establishment.”
“Didn’t know she was married until after.”
“Listen to you justify yourself.”
“How do you know Tawanda Amazon with the Harley out there isn’t married?”
“Because I fuckin’ asked her.”
“Oh, and you believe her?”
“Did you even ask the lady?”
Jameson said nothing, staring down at his coffee cup.
“No. The answer’s no. You just let her into your room when she dropped by; am I right or am I right?”
“Thomas, where is this going? You did the same fuckin’ thing fifteen years ago when you first started out. You told me yourself.”
Thomas threw his fork down on his now-empty plate, sat back, and showed Jameson both of his palms. “I rest my case.”
Jameson was so pissed off he was about to leave and let the old singer walk or take a taxi, except he figured Thomas didn’t have money for the taxi and he might get arrested for being drunk in public if the right kind of asshole cop were to find him.
Thomas was really his only friend, or at least the only person in Nashville he could trust with anything other than a bottle, he saw perhaps his own future. Was this where he was headed?
No. I’m special. I have what it takes. I’m not giving up on this dream of becoming a big star. Not everyone makes it. Most don’t. But I can do it. Maybe Thomas didn’t want it bad enough.
He scanned the lines on his friend’s once-handsome face, the well-worn shirt collar he couldn’t afford to replace, and the white tee shirt underneath that was starting to turn yellow. He noticed the calluses on the man’s fingertips from years of playing, the knuckles that were starting to swell from early arthritis that shouldn’t happen to a man in his forties. If Thomas took better care of himself, would these things show up? If he didn’t drink so much? If he rested more, took care of himself? If he was happier?
No, Thomas wasn’t going to give up, but it might kill him.
Nashville Seal: Chapter Six
Assad sat across the table from the new recruits the prophet in Chicago had sent him. These were children. One of them had lost a brother in the little Nashville raid when the SEALs took over their compound. Several others knew brothers-in-arms who had been arrested, which was a blessing. The work would continue from the prison, if it was God’s will they should spend time there. A congregation of the believers was growing every day inside prison. They had everything they wanted, including conjugal visits with their ‘wives’ since most of the guards couldn’t keep them straight.
The only thing Assad had missed out on was the sex with the Nashville girls. He would have wanted to do that. Smoke some pot, have sex with an infidel, make her think she should be the vessel for his seed, try to impregnante her, and then sell her to the sheikh’s supporters in Oregon or better yet, in Iraq or Syria. She’d be bearing what they called an “anchor baby”, an automatic ticket to obtaining a U.S. Passport.
The American girls were so gullible. When his friend had written him about the deflowered infidels, one he’d deflowered himself, his dick got hard. He wanted a young American virgin; a blonde, or, better yet, some fiery red-head, like the whores in Pakistan. Except these American women would be blonde or red all over. He wondered
“No. I don’t. But—”
“Just shut your pie hole.” The fork was in the air again. “I’ve never given up any more than you have. But you know as well as I do, your chances in this town are just not very good. We work our butt off. We show up and try not to get too drunk or booed off the stage and try not to go home with someone else’s wife—” The fork went down, but Thomas leaned into the table and whispered, “Which is more than I can say for another someone in this establishment.”
“Didn’t know she was married until after.”
“Listen to you justify yourself.”
“How do you know Tawanda Amazon with the Harley out there isn’t married?”
“Because I fuckin’ asked her.”
“Oh, and you believe her?”
“Did you even ask the lady?”
Jameson said nothing, staring down at his coffee cup.
“No. The answer’s no. You just let her into your room when she dropped by; am I right or am I right?”
“Thomas, where is this going? You did the same fuckin’ thing fifteen years ago when you first started out. You told me yourself.”
Thomas threw his fork down on his now-empty plate, sat back, and showed Jameson both of his palms. “I rest my case.”
Jameson was so pissed off he was about to leave and let the old singer walk or take a taxi, except he figured Thomas didn’t have money for the taxi and he might get arrested for being drunk in public if the right kind of asshole cop were to find him.
Thomas was really his only friend, or at least the only person in Nashville he could trust with anything other than a bottle, he saw perhaps his own future. Was this where he was headed?
No. I’m special. I have what it takes. I’m not giving up on this dream of becoming a big star. Not everyone makes it. Most don’t. But I can do it. Maybe Thomas didn’t want it bad enough.
He scanned the lines on his friend’s once-handsome face, the well-worn shirt collar he couldn’t afford to replace, and the white tee shirt underneath that was starting to turn yellow. He noticed the calluses on the man’s fingertips from years of playing, the knuckles that were starting to swell from early arthritis that shouldn’t happen to a man in his forties. If Thomas took better care of himself, would these things show up? If he didn’t drink so much? If he rested more, took care of himself? If he was happier?
No, Thomas wasn’t going to give up, but it might kill him.
Nashville Seal: Chapter Six
Assad sat across the table from the new recruits the prophet in Chicago had sent him. These were children. One of them had lost a brother in the little Nashville raid when the SEALs took over their compound. Several others knew brothers-in-arms who had been arrested, which was a blessing. The work would continue from the prison, if it was God’s will they should spend time there. A congregation of the believers was growing every day inside prison. They had everything they wanted, including conjugal visits with their ‘wives’ since most of the guards couldn’t keep them straight.
The only thing Assad had missed out on was the sex with the Nashville girls. He would have wanted to do that. Smoke some pot, have sex with an infidel, make her think she should be the vessel for his seed, try to impregnante her, and then sell her to the sheikh’s supporters in Oregon or better yet, in Iraq or Syria. She’d be bearing what they called an “anchor baby”, an automatic ticket to obtaining a U.S. Passport.
The American girls were so gullible. When his friend had written him about the deflowered infidels, one he’d deflowered himself, his dick got hard. He wanted a young American virgin; a blonde, or, better yet, some fiery red-head, like the whores in Pakistan. Except these American women would be blonde or red all over. He wondered
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