Chapter One
Being a Navy SEAL meant being part of a team and not having to go it alone. You always had guys guarding your back, keeping you safe while you did the same for them. Your teammates were there for you whenever you needed them. They would catch you if you fell and shove you back up again. They’d push you to move forward when you thought you’d reached your limit. You could count on them, always.
The teams had been there for him for the last several years, but Aidan Jones wasn’t a SEAL anymore, not in the way that counted for him. He was washed up and anchored stateside. And although his former teammates would be there for him if he asked, he had cut them loose for this mission. He had to do this last one all on his own.
The bar was just like any other in Key West on a Saturday night. He hadn’t picked it for any reason other than it was the first one in his path after the guys had dropped him off. They all had different plans for the evening anyway. He knew they were waiting for a call to go wheels up. Soon they’d be in the thick of things while he went back to base and picked up the remains of his career. He tried not to be jealous, an almost impossible feat, so he didn’t beat himself up too much when he failed. He knew, too, that the guys would have changed their plans to back him up in his efforts this evening if he had asked them. He hadn’t. God, how pathetic would that have been, asking them to hold his hand as he tried to pick up a woman?
They had already done more than he could have asked by including him in their R&R for the weekend and helping him practice water skiing. It had been a rush to be out on the water this afternoon, staying up, most of the time, as the boat pulled him around the coast. It was the one non-essential task he had relearned since his last mission. He still wasn’t as good as he had once been. Ice’s woman, Syn, had beat his ass a few weeks ago in their recurring competition. Still, getting back on the water had been just the boost his ego needed after weeks of painful rehab filled with failure and baby steps toward getting used to the new him. With his ex-teammates around him, he hadn’t felt as self-conscious as he had expected displaying his body for the world to see. Sure, there had been some stares, there would always be stares, but it hadn’t diminished his joy over his achievement.
Tonight would be different, though. It was already different. A few people glanced at him and then away in discomfort and embarrassment. He had expected it given that he had worn shorts instead of jeans. It was important to him not to hide his body, not tonight. If he was going to find a willing woman, he for damn sure was going to advertise what she was getting. The last thing he needed was to send some woman screaming from the bedroom when he took his pants off. Worse, infinitely worse, was to get a pity fuck. It had been many months of deployment, one misplaced step, and weeks in the hospital and rehab, since he last got laid. Learning how to walk and water ski again had been important milestones. Taking a woman to bed was the Holy Grail of his recovery.
Ignoring the furtive glances from strangers, he walked over to the bar and eased himself onto a stool. He’d done some scoping out already and knew there were a few prospects in the place. His prosthetic leg might be on display, but so was the rest of his body, and he had what women wanted.
Along with the shorts, he had worn a T-shirt that fit his upper body tight enough to show off his pecs and biceps. His hair was cropped short, and his face clean-shaven now that he wasn’t going into the hills of Afghanistan. His friends had ragged him about being a pretty boy. That hadn’t changed, and women had always flocked to him. The question for the night was whether women would still be attracted to his good looks and physique enough to get over the revulsion of fucking a guy with one leg. Okay, one and a half legs. They had
Being a Navy SEAL meant being part of a team and not having to go it alone. You always had guys guarding your back, keeping you safe while you did the same for them. Your teammates were there for you whenever you needed them. They would catch you if you fell and shove you back up again. They’d push you to move forward when you thought you’d reached your limit. You could count on them, always.
The teams had been there for him for the last several years, but Aidan Jones wasn’t a SEAL anymore, not in the way that counted for him. He was washed up and anchored stateside. And although his former teammates would be there for him if he asked, he had cut them loose for this mission. He had to do this last one all on his own.
The bar was just like any other in Key West on a Saturday night. He hadn’t picked it for any reason other than it was the first one in his path after the guys had dropped him off. They all had different plans for the evening anyway. He knew they were waiting for a call to go wheels up. Soon they’d be in the thick of things while he went back to base and picked up the remains of his career. He tried not to be jealous, an almost impossible feat, so he didn’t beat himself up too much when he failed. He knew, too, that the guys would have changed their plans to back him up in his efforts this evening if he had asked them. He hadn’t. God, how pathetic would that have been, asking them to hold his hand as he tried to pick up a woman?
They had already done more than he could have asked by including him in their R&R for the weekend and helping him practice water skiing. It had been a rush to be out on the water this afternoon, staying up, most of the time, as the boat pulled him around the coast. It was the one non-essential task he had relearned since his last mission. He still wasn’t as good as he had once been. Ice’s woman, Syn, had beat his ass a few weeks ago in their recurring competition. Still, getting back on the water had been just the boost his ego needed after weeks of painful rehab filled with failure and baby steps toward getting used to the new him. With his ex-teammates around him, he hadn’t felt as self-conscious as he had expected displaying his body for the world to see. Sure, there had been some stares, there would always be stares, but it hadn’t diminished his joy over his achievement.
Tonight would be different, though. It was already different. A few people glanced at him and then away in discomfort and embarrassment. He had expected it given that he had worn shorts instead of jeans. It was important to him not to hide his body, not tonight. If he was going to find a willing woman, he for damn sure was going to advertise what she was getting. The last thing he needed was to send some woman screaming from the bedroom when he took his pants off. Worse, infinitely worse, was to get a pity fuck. It had been many months of deployment, one misplaced step, and weeks in the hospital and rehab, since he last got laid. Learning how to walk and water ski again had been important milestones. Taking a woman to bed was the Holy Grail of his recovery.
Ignoring the furtive glances from strangers, he walked over to the bar and eased himself onto a stool. He’d done some scoping out already and knew there were a few prospects in the place. His prosthetic leg might be on display, but so was the rest of his body, and he had what women wanted.
Along with the shorts, he had worn a T-shirt that fit his upper body tight enough to show off his pecs and biceps. His hair was cropped short, and his face clean-shaven now that he wasn’t going into the hills of Afghanistan. His friends had ragged him about being a pretty boy. That hadn’t changed, and women had always flocked to him. The question for the night was whether women would still be attracted to his good looks and physique enough to get over the revulsion of fucking a guy with one leg. Okay, one and a half legs. They had
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