Badass: A Stepbrother SEAL Romance
BADASS
A Stepbrother SEAL Romance
Linda Barlow and Alana Albertson
Bolero Books, LLC
Poway, California
Copyright © 2015 by Linda Barlow
Copyright © 2015 by Alana Albertson.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the address below.
Bolero Books, LLC
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San Diego, CA 92128
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Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names may be used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.
Cover design by Regina Wamba—Mae I Design
Badass: A Stepbrother SEAL Romance/ Linda Barlow & Alana Albertson. -- 1st ed.
ISBN: 978-1-941665-80-0
Blurb:
I f**ked a SEAL—the human kind, the kind who shoots terrorists, sports rock hard abs and tattooed biceps, and scores an easy lay with every girl he ever wants.
I should’ve known better. I should be studying harbor seals’ habits, not conducting my own research into mating rituals of the Navy variety.
He’s a jackass. A bad boy. An arrogant, womanizing, patronizing, Harley-riding jerk.
A one-night stand. One night of the most incredible sex I’ve ever had. Shane is trained to kill with his bare hands in 300 different ways—and he knows 300 ways to f**k me, too.
Now my father is engaged to his mother. And we’re heading to Mexico for the wedding. He’s threatening to ruin their big day if I don’t surrender to his demands.
Quit is not in his vocabulary. I hate him, but I know he’ll never give up until he gets everything he wants.
Screw that! I won’t give up—I’ll never submit to America’s cockiest badass.
Part 1
Chapter 1—Cassie
The first time I saw him, I knew he was one arrogant badass.
He had a way of standing, with his hips cocked as if he was about to drive his dick right into you. Purely for his own pleasure, with no care for yours.
I knew the type. Tall, square-jawed, body fit and honed and sculpted. He was handsome and he knew it. He
used
it. His cool, assessing blue eyes lit on me briefly as he hauled his gear off his Harley—of course he rode a Harley. He didn’t look at me for long. This was a dude with a purpose, and at the moment, his purpose was diving out at the reef in La Jolla near the Children’s Pool.
It was nearing sunset, but people did dive at night. Was he going in without a partner? That would be reckless, but it didn't surprise me. Mr. Bad Boy Harley-driving Asshole didn’t mind taking risks. Probably an adrenaline junkie.
I couldn't seem to stop watching as he pulled off his clothes down to his swim trunks and squeezed his muscled physique into a black, shiny wetsuit. At one point, as if he sensed me, his head swiveled around and he shot me a long, silent glance. I tried to tell myself that he was looking at someone else, but I felt as if my shorts and top had been stripped away under his gaze. As if he could see me naked.
Even worse, heat shot through my belly at the thought. I
wanted
to be naked with him.
I should have known right then that he was trouble.
He donned his tank and mask and headed into the surf, holding his flippers. Just before he was swallowed up by the sea, he raised a hand, as if in salute. I looked around self-consciously. I was the only person nearby. Yup. The arrogant jerk was waving to me.
I reminded myself that I wasn't here to ogle hot divers. I often walked down to the seashore at sunset. It was a great way to relax during a stressful time. It was my first year at a new school—University of California, San Diego. Even though it was grad school, I felt like a freshman in college again. Could I do the work? Make the grade? Was I good enough, or had my admission to the program been a crazy mistake?
I’d done well in the fall quarter, but I didn’t feel settled in. I’d grown up on the east coast, and I was still adjusting to the California lifestyle. Like going to the beach in February.
I’d come to watch the La Jolla sea lions and harbor seals that hung out here in large numbers, particularly during the summer breeding season. At this time of year, the animals would mostly be foraging in the water. The females would be raising their growing pups—nursing them and teaching them to hunt.
I wasn’t going to get too close, because I didn’t want to startle any sea lions who might be on the beach. I sat under the awning listening for their distinctive calls. I wasn’t just idly curious. I was planning to do some research on the vocalizations of sea mammals. I wanted to come to a better understanding of the communication systems the animals used with each other, and I also hoped to study their cognitive abilities.
The barks and growls of the sea lions combining with the lapping of the waves soothed me, and I settled into a relaxed, almost meditative state. I’m not sure how much time went by before I was jolted into sharper awareness by what I recognized as a pup’s distress call.
Shit. There was still enough light in the sky for me to see the sea lion who was agitated. I thought I recognized him as one of the pups who had been born last summer when I’d moved to La Jolla. He was the right size—about six months old. He was in the water a few yards offshore, twisting and moving his neck in a manner that I knew was unusual. I didn’t see his mom around. She was probably out in deeper water, hunting.
There wasn’t anything I could do. I hoped his mother would be back soon to help him. He might be sick or injured. Not all pups survived. That was the way of nature, and even though it hurt my heart to hear his distress, humans weren’t supposed to intervene. There was a law against it, in fact.
Since there were no other sea lions on the beach, I crossed the rope barrier and went down to the surf. I moved slowly and quietly, not wanting to add to the animal’s troubles by frightening him. He saw me and went still. So did I.
Then, to my amazement, he came closer to me. A chill went over me as his soft eyes met mine. It was the strangest thing—like looking into the trusting eyes of a faithful dog. But this was a wild creature. I must have been imagining things.
I should have left the area. His mother might show up at any time, and she would not be happy about a human interacting with her pup. He lowered his head and made another soft sound of distress. He was looking right at me.
Was he asking me for help? Whoa. Some of the sea lions had gotten quite used to people. There were always tourists coming down to the cove, trying to swim with them or teach them tricks. Usually this caused them all to scatter, but a young pup who had seen humans hanging around for all of his short life might be less frightened of us than other wild creatures.
He moved his neck again, and I realized what was wrong with him. Somehow he had gotten a twist of bright red plastic wrapped around his throat. Oh no. A surge of anger stiffened my entire body.
I wasn’t sure what the plastic thing was. Probably some piece of human refuse that had been carelessly disposed of in the sea. But it looked strong and tight. If it stayed in place as he grew, it would slowly slice into his hide and cause horrific, painful wounds. He would either die of those wounds or strangle to death as his neck grew too thick for the tough plastic.
I cast a quick look around. I was alone on the beach. There was no one to see me or report me for breaking the law if I tried to help the poor creature. Normally I wouldn’t do it. I’d walk away. If the pup was sick or if he’d been the victim of a predator attack, I’d accept it. Baby sea lions died. Survival of the fittest and all that.
But this was going to lead to an agonizing death because of some careless or stupid humans. And that pissed me off.
I approached the pup slowly. When he still didn’t flee, I slid off my shoes and waded into the water. I was wearing shorts and a tank top. It didn’t matter if my clothes got wet.
The pup gave another soft sound of distress and arched his neck. The plastic was looped around his throat and the end of it was trailing along his side. All I had to do was grab the thing and lift it over his head. It looked tight, but it wasn’t cutting into his flesh. Yet. If I could get it off, he ought to be fine.
Such a little thing. I made up my mind. His eyes continued to gaze at me trustingly. I knew I couldn’t turn away. I took a couple more steps into the surf. He thrashed around, as if he wasn’t too sure this was a great idea.
“I know how you feel, boy,” I said softly. “You and I are not supposed to interact, but hey, if some human did this to you, some human can damn well try to fix it.”
I was up to my thighs in the water now, and a bit unsteady because of the incoming waves. The water wasn’t exactly balmy, either. I envied that diver for his wetsuit.
I cooed to the pup, moving with infinite slowness, getting nearer and nearer, reaching out for the plastic.
It was slimy and slipped out of my hand. The sea lion bucked and made a louder noise of distress, but he didn’t swim away. I got a firmer grip, steeling myself not to flinch as he thrashed. He was scared and I was breathing hard now, determined to do this before he fled in terror and was stuck with the damn thing until it killed him.
“It’s okay, one more try, boy. Hang on for just another minute, okay?”
I grabbed the plastic with both hands and lifted it as quickly and smoothly as I could. The pup cringed and tossed his head and pulled me off balance. I lost my footing, but I hung on. I felt the force as he lunged away in panic, but the plastic stayed caught between my fingers. One more shake of his head and he was free.
I practically wept with relief as I saw, before he dived back into the water, that I’d removed it all. There was a mark around his neck where the damn stuff had been, but I was pretty sure his injuries would heal.
In the distance, I heard an adult sea lion bark. It was probably the pup’s mother, and she sounded upset.
And then I heard a human voice, as a diver heaved up, his wetsuit gleaming, just a couple a yards away from me. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” asked the same hell-hot biker who had tossed me that mocking salute. “You fool around with the baby and now the mother is coming for you.”
And before I could say a word in my defense, the big oaf grabbed me up in his arms and carried me out of the water.
Chapter 2—Shane