And it couldn’t be for the tiny bit of exposure I could give him. I had fully expected him to say no, to maybe give me a quick quote before kicking me out. Instead, he was offering me some serious one-on-one face time.
It was the sort of access some journalists would dream about. Nash Bell was the hot thing, and if I got an exclusive interview with him, I could seriously get my name out there.
I made my way up to my tiny third-floor apartment, unlocking the door and pushing my way inside. Once there, I instantly started Googling him, searching for every little bit of dirt I possible could.
And as I did it, I found myself formulating a list of questions. I didn’t even realize I was doing it, but for some reason some part of my brain must have assumed I was going to go through with the meeting.
A few hours passed that way, and what I learned about Nash Bell didn’t really help.
Nash was known as one of the best successful SEAL commanders in Afghanistan history. What exactly that meant was in his book, and apparently a lot more had happened that was highly classified. He’d done three tours of the desert, spent countless hours out in the field, and had a huge number of confirmed kills.
And he was barely a few years older than me, which was surprising. The man had a grizzled, veteran look about him, but he was only twenty-eight.
After he got back from his last tour, he went on a leave of absence for an unspecified amount of time and for an unknown reason. Around that time, he came out with his book, and the rest was history.
People loved his story. It was full of action, violence, and excitement. He was a small-town boy from the Midwest that went on to do incredible things with the military, a true American hero. He had saved his company numerous times, put his own life in danger for his comrades, and more; he was everything we were told military men were supposed to be.
And yet he was a drunk and a womanizer. He liked expensive cars, expensive dinners, and expensive parties. The man was a living hurricane, blowing through town after town. There were rumors that his publisher wasn’t happy with his behavior, but there was no sign he was going to slow down.
By the time I came up to breathe, it was already ten o’clock and I had a decision to make.
I could take what seemed like an impossibly lucky opportunity, suck it up, and go meet the man, or I could chalk this one up to a strange celebrity’s practical joke and decide to ignore it.
But I had already made up my mind hours ago. Really, I had made up my mind the second he’d invited me. When he’d looked at me with that intense stare, I had known I was going to do what he said.
Stomach flipping from nerves, I stood up and began to root through my closet for something appropriate to wear.
Something dressy and classy, but not too inviting for him.
This was strictly business, after all.
I had to keep telling myself that. With Nash Bell, everything had to be strictly business.
He was just too dangerous to get involved with.
2
Nash
Two Weeks Earlier
I woke up, hangover pulsing through my skull.
Another fucking hangover. I could barely even remember the night before. I had a vague idea of some fucking club, loud music, plenty of sluts throwing themselves at me.
I looked across the sheets and, sure enough, some blond stranger was wrapped up in the comforter.
I groaned, rolling out of bed. What a fucking shit storm. I walked into the bathroom, rinsed my mouth out, and drank a cup of water.
“Baby?”
I looked back into the main room. The blond thing was sitting up, her thick hair spilling down around her shoulders, her bare tits standing firm and ripe.
“Not your baby,” I grunted at her.
“Whatever.” She smiled, crawling across the bed. “That was fun last night.”
“Sure,” I said. “I bet it was.”
“Are you going somewhere?”
“Eventually.” I looked at the time. “Got a fucking flight in a few hours.”
She stopped at the edge of the bed and motioned for me. I sighed, walking over to her.
She reached out and grabbed my cock through my thin boxers. “You have a few extra minutes, right?”
Another pussy, another city, another night. I stared at the girl and tried to remember her name, but I was drawing up a blank. Frankly, I couldn’t even remember what city I was in, let alone what club slut I had brought home the night before.
What the fuck was happening to my life? One day I was at the top of my game, killing fucking scumbag terrorists in one of the most dangerous places in the world, and the next I was rolling around the country getting my cock sucked by horny fans.
“Maybe another time,” I grunted to her, turning away.
“What?” she pouted. “Come on.”
I looked back at her. “Get your shit and get out.”
She stared at me, not sure if I was joking. “Come back here,” she said. “I’ll suck your cock, make you feel better.”
“Guess I wasn’t clear,” I said. “I’m taking a shower. Get the fuck out.”
I turned and walked into the bathroom, shutting the door and locking it.
I heard something thump against it. “Asshole!” she yelled.
Just another normal morning in my fucked up whirlwind of a life.
“You’re late.”
I frowned at my watch. “Two minutes.”
“Still late.”
“What’d you sleep on, a fucking rock?”
“You know I like to be punctual, Nash.”
I grinned at her. “Yeah, I know that, Livy.”
She sighed and looked down at her phone’s calendar. Livy Green was my publicist and handler, and basically the bane of my fucking existence. If something was fun and felt good, Livy wanted to destroy it with fucking fire. The woman was a professional at keeping me on schedule and keeping me bored out of my fucking mind.
“Look,” she said, “we need to talk.”
“Can we talk on the way?”
She nodded and stalked off. I followed her, my skull pounding. I wasn’t looking forward to another lecture about my “conduct” and my “professionalism,” but it would be over soon enough.
Thing was, I didn’t exactly disagree with her. Yeah, I was partying too much, drinking too much, fucking too much. Yeah, I was enjoying the fucking fruits of my labor. Could anyone blame me? I had a thousand female fans that all wanted a piece of my cock and a thousand dollars in the bank begging to get blown on the next bullshit attraction.
I had just spent the better part of my life in the fucking desert, my balls owned by Uncle Sam. Didn’t the world owe me a tiny bit of fun?
This damn book. Truth was, I didn’t even write the thing. The stories were all more or less accurate, though some of them were fucked up a bit because of security reasons. I’d had a ghostwriter who actually did all the hard work, though. I told him what happened to me, the shit I did out there, and he made me look like some kind of fucking hero.
Which I wasn’t. I was just some asshole with a lot of particular skills that did his job. I wasn’t a hero, never asked to be one.
Didn’t matter anymore, though. Wasn’t like I could somehow go back in time and change things. The book was out, the world was fucking crazy for me, and I was stuck dealing with all the shit. Orders were fucking orders, even if they were some weird fucking orders.
I followed Livy outside. The guy working for the hotel out front wanted to take my bags, but I shrugged him off. I hated being treated like a celebrity. I could carry my own fucking luggage.
Soon we were in the back of a private car and speeding out toward Midway, one of Chicago’s airports.
“I spoke with Chuck this morning,” Livy said.
“Who?” I grunted.
“Chuck Davis. Your publisher.”
“Oh. Okay.” I stared out the window, barely listening.
“He’s the man that owns you now, Nash.”
That got my attention. I looked back at her. “What did you say?”
“Nash, I’ve been warning you for weeks now. I’ve been warning you that your behavior has been deplorable, that you couldn’t keep acting like a drunken idiot all the time.”
I narrowed my eyes at her. “What are you getting at?”
“You’re supposed to be the face of this war, Nash. You’re an all-American boy.”
“I never asked for any of that.”
“Too bad,” she said, sighing. “You’re supposed to be a moral, upstanding person.”
“And yet I’m the depraved asshole we both know and love.”
She smiled slightly. Livy wasn’t so bad looking. She was in her mid-thirties, incredibly tightly wound, with dark hair always kept in a bun, thin red lips, and a thin, tall body.
“Yes, exactly,” she said. She paused and sighed again, her smile disappearing. “You’re not going to like this.”
“Just say it, damn it,” I said. “Quit playing around.”
“Do you know what a morality clause is?”
“Not really.”
“It’s a clause in your contract. It basically means you have to be a moral, good person, the kind of hero the American people want and need. Otherwise, you’re in breach.”
“How the fuck can a contract control my actions?” I said, annoyed.
“It can’t. But if Chuck and the board decide that you’re antics are getting out of hand, they can invoke the morality clause and take everything away from you.”