Deadly Sins (Deadly SEALs Book 1) Page 3

  I shuddered, imagining all the times two years ago Grant might have sat in the seedy bar, getting hammered, trying to get over me.

  I needed strength before I saw Grant again. Time to meditate. I sat on a chair in Joaquín’s apartment and straightened my spine, my feet placed firmly on the ground. Resting my hands, I turned my palms upward and prayed. I alternated my breath, from tense inhales to relaxed exhales.

  Focusing my attention on my spiritual eye, I uttered a quick chant and closed my practice. I needed to remain calm and centered, today more than ever.

  I locked up Joaquín’s place, jumped in his truck, drove along the coast, eventually parking in an alley behind the bar. A deep sigh escaped my lips. I was sure I was the last person these men wanted to see.

  When I pushed back the front door, the acidic stench of whiskey and sweat overtook me. It was two in the afternoon on a random Saturday, and the place was mostly empty. Despite being in the heart of Ocean Beach, no college coeds or surfers hung out here. This was a SEAL bar; SEALs and frog hogs were its only customers, though the occasional SEAL wife or girlfriend would make an appearance.

  But on this day, even the frog hogs must’ve taken the day off from their groupie duties. I was the only woman in this dump.

  My feminine scent gave me away. No sooner had my heels touched the Technicolor, puke-stained, carpet than the heads of seven men turned toward me: Grant, Paul, Mitch, Joe, Vic, Pat, and Kyle. The seven other men on Joaquín’s eight-man SEAL squad. Had they all been at the party that night?

  I avoided Grant’s suspicious glance and stared at the walls, studying the pictures of fallen SEALs. So many gorgeous men. Bearded, tatted, ripped.

  Gone. Dead.

  Never to kiss their wives again, never to cradle their babies in their strong arms. I might as well put Joaquín’s picture on the wall.

  Man, this place was depressing, but it was a thousand times better than jail.

  Now I was the one who needed a drink.

  I sat on the barstool closest to the only friendly face, Kyle’s, who was tending bar. The gummy pleather seat clung to my thighs as he gave me a welcoming smile.

  Kyle Lawson was a SEAL and former NFL linebacker; he was also the new owner of The Pickled Frog. He was gorgeous—smooth mahogany-colored skin, trimmed dark beard, warm chocolate eyes. At six foot five, his body seemed sculpted by Michelangelo himself. Kyle was like a celebrity in the Teams. After he’d given up a multimillion-dollar football contract to become a SEAL, the media had hailed him a hero, even before the Team and he rescued the group of cheerleaders who were kidnapped on a USO tour. But he’d refused all interviews to the press and was as humble as any of the Team guys.

  “Hey, beautiful. Sorry to hear about your brother. What can I get you?”

  His buddies, Pat and Vic, both gave me forced nods. Their loyalty must’ve been torn between their hatred of the woman who broke Grant’s heart and their protectiveness of Joaquín’s sister.

  “Malibu and Coke.”

  “Coming right up.”

  I glanced down the bar at the other SEALs. It was like a buffet of rock-hard men. My eyes watered; I was high on the testosterone levels in this place.

  Kyle placed the drink in front of me. “How’s your brother?”

  “I saw him after he was arrested, and he looked horrible. Now he’s refusing my visits.” I took a sip, the spicy rum coating my throat. “Were you at that party?”

  “Look, honey, I wish I could help, but Joe, Pat, Vic, and I left before the strippers arrived. I’m sure you’re trying to help Joaquín, but no one is going to talk to you about that night.” He glanced at Pat and Vic. “We take each other’s secrets to our grave.”

  Kyle wasn’t kidding. Pat was married to Annie Hamilton, a famous missing American who had vanished on spring break in the Caribbean. Initially, the public was fed a story that she’d just run away, become a missionary, had a kid, then decided to return to the States. I never bought that tall tale for a second. I’d interrogated Joaquín about what he knew, but he just played dumb, until a recent news story broke. Apparently, Annie and another missing American girl, Nicole, had both been kidnapped and forced into sex slavery. A Marine who recognized Nicole recently discovered her in Venezuela. She had amnesia and didn’t know who she was or what had happened to her. And a former SEAL named Dave supposedly saved Annie, though I think Pat was involved in her rescue.

  As much as I had a window into these SEALs’ worlds, as both a girlfriend and a sister, I knew that I wasn’t privy to their world of secrets.

  I adored Pat, though; he was such an amazing guy. He adopted Annie’s son, and Annie was now expecting his child. My own womb ached—had I stayed with Grant, I was sure we’d be married, and we’d probably have started a family by now. But instead of celebrating a new life with my soul mate, I was trying to salvage my brother’s future.

  I bit my lower lip and threw back my drink. I didn’t have a plan. I didn’t have a strategy. I didn’t have a clue what I was doing.

  Here goes nothing. I pushed myself off the seat and sat at an empty seat between Paul and Mitch, to at least try to see if I could get them to admit some details about the night of the party.

  Paul resembled a young Tom Cruise—brown hair, blue eyes, dimples. He had even more arrogance than the rest of the men. As one of only a handful of second-generation SEALs, he’d been bred for this life. “Mia, I’m sorry about Joaquín, but the brass has forbidden us to talk about that night.”

  “I know. Grant told me.”

  Grant, who was sitting on the other side of Mitch, didn’t even look at me. “Why are you here exactly?” he demanded, his voice cold. “You should leave. You’re not welcome.”

  “Yeah, well, you don’t own the bar now, do you? Kyle doesn’t seem to have a problem with me being here. It’s a free country.” Grant’s short-sleeved blue T-shirt teased me with glimpses of his tattoos. I gulped when I noticed he’d covered up my name with some sort of vine. At least I hadn’t tattooed his name on my ass, though I’d strongly considered it. My lack of ink didn’t matter; Grant’s name was permanently embedded in my heart.

  He turned toward me, his green eyes digging deep into my soul. “What do you want from us? We aren’t going to talk about that night, none of us are. We’ve all given statements to the police and to our commands. When this goes to trial, we’ll be forced to testify, and it will ruin our careers.”

  He stood up and came over to me, placing his hand on my thigh. An electric shock pulsed up my leg. I was addicted to his touch, longed for him, dreamt of him at night.

  “Why don’t you just go back to your ‘I hate the United States military’ city and leave us the fuck alone?”

  How could he be such an asshole to me? He knew how much I loved Joaquín—our love for my brother was probably one of the only things we still shared. I turned to Mitch, my eyes pleading for some mercy.

  Mitch’s long dark hair skimmed his shoulders; his full sleeves of tattoos decorated huge arms. He put his strong hand on my back and gave me an icy stare. “Sorry, Mia. I was passed out and woke up with some bitch sitting on my face. I don’t remember anything.”

  “Dammit, Mitch. Why do you have to be so disgusting?” I hopped up from my chair. Grant was right; this was pointless.

  But the stakes were too high to just give up. I couldn’t imagine my brother spending the rest of his life caged like an animal.

  As I turned back toward Paul, the doors flew open. Paul’s wife, Dara, and Mitch’s wife, April, came bouncing in, laughing as if they were about to meet their hubbies for date night at a five-star restaurant instead of a drink in this hellhole.

  Dara gave me an insincere hug. “Oh, Mia, honey. So sorry to hear about Joaquín. But who knew he was into fucking strippers?”

  “Fuck you, Dara. Where were you that night? The party was at his parents’ house, right? Maybe it was your husband fucking strippers.”

  I hated her and her perfectly blow-dried hair, her des
igner purse, her lime skinny jeans, probably size twenty-four. Typical SEAL officer’s wife; thought she was better than anyone else. She was a few years older than me, and never forgot to mention her Ivy League education and her vacation home in Lake Tahoe. I didn’t need her pity.

  Dara shoved the hair out of her eyes and shot a bitter glare toward Paul. Without a word, he clutched her wrist and led her away from me. Paul went to great lengths to hide his other women from her. Dara loved him unconditionally, and I knew no matter what bullshit he pulled, she would never be able to leave him.

  April put her arm around me. “I am sorry, Mia. Joaquín is a good guy. I hope he’s exonerated. Call me if you ever need to talk.”

  I thanked her. April and I had been good friends—once. A long-suffering SEAL wife, she was painfully aware of Mitch’s philandering. I never understood their relationship. Grant’s theory had always been that they got off on making each other jealous, but to me, it just seemed deeply dysfunctional.

  I glanced at Grant, but when he turned his back on me, I decided I couldn’t take any more. My heels touched the gravel outside, and the bar door slammed behind me. I felt the clang inside my heart, as well. He was done with me. I was alone. Again. No Grant. No Joaquín. No parents. Alone.

  That was not the Grant I knew. He was cold, aloof, distant. I understood that he hated me, but he should at least be trying to help Joaquín. Wasn’t he outraged about Joaquín’s false imprisonment? Could he be hiding something? Grant said he didn’t think Joaquín killed Tiffany. Had he witnessed the murder? What in the hell was going on?

  Stop, Mia. Just stop. I was clearly stressed out and not thinking rationally. I’d dated Grant for two years; he was a good guy, a hero. He wouldn’t hesitate to give his own life to protect the ones he loved. Like he’d said, he was under strict orders not to talk about the case.

  I didn’t want him to sacrifice his career. His Team needed him, especially without Joaquín. Hell, our country needed him. Grant was the best of the best.

  Unfortunately, I needed him, too.

  But that ship had sailed.

  He’ll never be mine again.

  I wasn’t going to give up on Joaquín that easily. With or without Grant’s help, I would clear Joaquín’s name. My brother was innocent. He’d sacrificed everything for me since our parents had died, and it was time for me to repay his loyalty.

  There had to be a way to free my brother. And nothing would stop me until I found it.

  Grant had been right. SEALs wouldn’t talk.

  I had only one clue left.

  Time to make strippers sing.

  4

  MIA

  PANTHERS, SAN DIEGO’S PREMIER STRIP joint, was located in an industrial area, tucked between used-car dealerships and noodle shops. I never understood the allure of strippers; paying women to pretend that they were interested in you seemed pathetic, not flattering.

  I sat in the parking lot, staring at the entrance. I didn’t want to go into the building. What was my plan? Ask the women if they’d been at the party where Tiffany was murdered? These ladies were her friends. I’d get the door slammed in my face.

  I hugged my shoulders, tucking my chin into my chest. I didn’t have a clue what I was doing.

  My window rattled. I looked up and saw a busty redhead in a tight sweatsuit standing by the window of Joaquín’s truck.

  I opened the door.

  “Honey, you okay? Is your boyfriend inside?”

  I swallowed. Here I was, judging these women, yet this stripper was showing me compassion. “No. I don’t have a boyfriend. My brother used to come here.”

  Her eyes narrowed, her gaze intent. “Hey, wait. You’re Mia, aren’t you? Joaquín’s sister? I knew I recognized this truck. Oh, honey, I’m so sorry. Your brother is the nicest guy. Not like his friends, especially that jackass Mitch. None of us think Joaquín killed Tiffy.”

  I jumped down from the seat, my breath bottled in my chest. “You know my brother? Were you at the party? I know he didn’t do it. Can you help me exonerate him?”

  She gave me a warm smile. “I was at that party. But nothing was out of the ordinary. It was just some Team guys and some girls from here. The police interviewed us all. I’ve racked my brain trying to think of something, anything that stood out. Maybe it was an accident? I’m so sorry, honey. I wish I could help.”

  My mind raced. There had to be something she could tell me. Some clues to give me hope. “Which guy invited you?”

  “Grant. Tall, amazing body, tattoos, blond hair, green eyes.”

  I gasped and almost tripped on the cracked asphalt. “Grant Carrion? You must be mistaken. He hates strip clubs. I know—he’s my ex-boyfriend.”

  She let out a laugh. “So, you’re the girl who fucked him up? Sorry to be the one to tell you, honey, but Grant’s a regular. Comes in here every Tuesday night when he’s in town. He has a thing for bleached blondes with huge tits and fake lips. We call him Ken because he’s always scouting for his newest Barbie. Shows them a good time when he’s around, deploys, then moves on to the latest model when he returns.” She gave me a sad smile. “Look, I have to go to work. My name is Emma, but my stage name is Pepper. If you have any more questions, don’t hesitate to stop in and find me. I’d be happy to help any way I can. Best of luck with your brother.”

  “Thanks, Emma.” I hugged her, and she waved goodbye to me.

  I got back into the truck and drove out of the parking lot.

  Heat rose in my body. Could she be right? Had Grant become addicted to the strip club since I’d left him? Spending his free time here, drinking himself into oblivion, finding comfort with women who had no expectations, women who could never disappoint him the way I had?

  I winced, pushing away the image of Grant getting a lap dance from some troubled woman with ragged extensions and fake tits.

  But Emma had given me what I needed, what I craved.

  Hope.

  I now had a clue. Grant had invited the stripper. That man, who I thought I’d known everything about, was now a stranger to me. Maybe he was hiding something.

  Seven Deadly SEALs—seven Achilles’ heels. I would smoke out their secrets and figure out what happened that night.

  5

  MIA

  I’D BEEN BACK IN SAN Francisco for two weeks. I attempted to honor Joaquín’s wish and stay in school, but I couldn’t focus. Even attending guided meditations and kirtan chanting hadn’t helped. My mind raced in class. I hadn’t slept well since I’d returned.

  I glanced around my room in the tiny North Beach apartment I shared with two other San Francisco State students. Scripts lay across my desk, with stacks of books huddled against the wall. Just a little over a month ago, my life had been so simple, so easy. One focus, one goal. To be the best actress possible. How stupid and trivial my dreams seemed now.

  I swiped through my iPhone to the San Diego News app, scanning for headlines about Joaquín. I didn’t even have to scroll down the page. There it was at the top. Bail denied for U.S. Navy SEAL accused of murdering a stripper.

  Fuck.

  My ears pounded, and my vision blurred. I couldn’t even read the article. No hope. This was it—the realization finally sank in that he might get convicted of this crime.

  I called Joaquín’s lawyer, but the secretary told me that my brother had given instructions not to talk to me anymore. The secretary had only one thing to say: Joaquín had transferred the title of his truck to me.

  I knew Joaquín too well—this was his way of ensuring I went on with my life. But what he didn’t realize was that I would never be able to enjoy my life unless I fought for his.

  I needed to clear my head, meditate, try to find some peace. Find a way to connect to Joaquín.

  Despite being desperate for sleep, I climbed into his truck—my truck now—and headed over the Golden Gate Bridge toward Mt. Tamalpais. It was a clear day; San Francisco’s famous fog seemed to have cleared the way for this mission. The winding hills
through Mill Valley reminded me of the weekend adventures Joaquín and I had gone on with our parents.

  Mt. Tam was more than a mountain to me—it was a sacred place, a vortex of energy. Grant and Joaquín never missed an opportunity to tease me about my spiritual beliefs. I was raised Catholic, but after my parents died, I’d become deeply spiritual. I practiced yoga, became a vegan, attended kirtan chants, and meditated. My dedication only grew stronger after I’d left Grant. For me, my spirituality was a way to center myself, develop a personal relationship with God, and feel closer to my parents.

  As the Raptor approached our favorite trailhead, my breathing slowed, and a memory took hold of me.

  “Let’s do a time capsule!”

  Joaquín, a skinny boy around age twelve with a devilish grin, led me down the trail. Our parents slowly lagged in the distance. Always the Boy Scout, Joaquín took a Swiss Army Knife from his pocket and notched a hole at the base of a tree.

  “Give me your bracelets.”

  I shoved the candy-colored beaded bracelets off my wrist and handed them to him without a second thought. A big deal, considering at age eleven, those tacky things were my prized possessions.

  Joaquín’s eyes twinkled. He loved going on adventures, and I was always his right-hand girl. Most brothers and sisters fight, but we were truly best friends.

  He took a small leather pouch out of his back pocket. “This was made by the Miwok Indians.” He slipped his Swiss Army Knife inside, wrapped in my bracelets, reached deep between the roots of the tree, and dropped the pouch inside.

  “One day, when we’re older, we’ll come back here and find our treasures.”

  I thought it was stupid, but I would never tell him that. I just hugged him, and we ran off toward the voices of our parents.

  Centering myself back in the present day, I parked the truck. I walked over to the earth and touched the damp soil. I closed my eyes, and I could hear my parents’ voices calling us. “Mia, Joaquín. Where are you two?”