The stranger’s eyes went wide, obviously surprised that I'd recognize the bottom half of his tat. He looked over at his own arm and then back to me. "Yeah, you a soldier?"
I shrugged. "Nope. Pilot. Aaron Rosen. Navy airman. Six years in, two years out."
The man tipped his head to me. "Name’s Bennett Marshon, Navy SEAL inactive reserves."
Our introduction was interrupted by the grunted sarcastic remark from the pavement below, "And what a fine example you two are."
“Dude, shut up. I just fuckin’ saved your ass from gettin’ beat,” Bennett snarled. He reached down and helped Mr. Douche from the Second Row, up from the pavement, and gave him a once over as soon as he was back on his feet. “Although to be straight with ya, you kinda look like the type who deserved it.”
I grinned but stifled the chuckle that had bubbled up from my gut.
“Fuck you.” He shifted his glare to me. “As for you, you’ll be hearing from my attorney.”
“For what?” I fired back, not the least bit concerned.
“Assault and battery!”
Bennett whistled low under his breath. “Man, you really are a pussy. Get out of here,” he said, jerking his strong jaw over his shoulder.
Mr. Douche from the Second Row glared for another moment before making a break for it and stalking away. Bennett and I both followed after him and I groaned as he got behind the wheel of a tricked out sports car. “Of course.”
“Who was that guy?” Bennett asked, shifting his attention back to me, once the asshat had pulled out of his spot and squealed out of the lot, practically laying down rubber in his hurry.
“Hell if I know. O’Keefe?” Was that what he’d said? “He’s pissed cause I outbid him.”
Bennett nodded. “What’d ya win?”
I unfolded the paper in my hands and extended out a glossy photo of my new F-4.
“Damn. That’s pretty sweet. I can see why he was pissed he lost that one.”
I grinned. “I’ve had my eye on her for a while.”
“Well, congrats. Sorry I pulled you off like that. I’m sure you were just handling business, but…”
“No worries. You probably saved my ass from actually getting tangled up in a lawsuit. As is, he doesn’t have so much as a scratch on him. Although, he might get a nasty bruise on his face,” I said, my knuckles still stinging from where they’d connected with his cheek.
Bennett waved it off. “Well, man, it was nice to meet you.”
“Yeah, you too man.” I started toward my truck again but turned back to Bennett. “Hey, man, you know any good spots to party around here?”
Bennett grinned at me, and the gleam in his eyes told me that he was just the man to ask.
3
Bennett and I decided to team up on our evening out. We found ourselves holding down the corner booth at a downtown hot spot, watching every girl who walked in, both of us waiting to make a move. As it turned out, Bennett and I had more in common than being ex-Navy men. Bennett’s proclivity for hot women was right on par with my own and led to some pretty bawdy conversation as we assessed the scene and threw back a couple beers together.
“What about that little number?” Bennett said, drawing my attention to a blonde across the room. She was at the bar, obviously waiting for someone to step in and buy her second drink. She was spilling out of the top—and bottom—of a very short dress.
She turned to look over her shoulder and I shook my head at Bennett, answering his question. “Not my type.” She was pretty, but in an overly made-up way that usually spelled trouble. Girls like her were the type that never wanted to leave after you’d got off and would hunt you down to key your fuckin’ car when you didn’t call them back the next day.
“Crazy eyes?” Bennett asked, laughing.
“Exactly.”
We toasted and laughed at ourselves. It had been a chance meeting, but we apparently had quite a bit in common. The important things in life—good beer, women in short skirts, and an aversion to psycho, stalker chicks.
He leaned back against the booth and drank deeply. When he finished, he narrowed his gaze at me. “So, what’s your story man? Why’d you get out of the Navy?”
“My old man died.” I had no reason to lie but didn’t elaborate for fear of bringing the mood down. If I talked about—or thought about—my old man too much, one drink would turn into ten, and someone would have to call my assistant to come haul my ass outta the bar.
“Sorry to hear that.” Bennett looked down at the table.
I waved off his apology. “It was getting close to the end of my active duty, so I decided against re-upping so I could take over the family business.”