Seal of Honor(4)

“But it’s so much fun to see that vein throb next to Dad’s eye.”

“Raf, c’mon, man. Drop the act. I know exactly how much his prejudice hurts you, and beating him over the head with a rainbow stick every time you see him won’t make it any easier for him to accept you.”

“I don’t want that man’s acceptance.” His tone said he’d rather lick a platoon of combat boots clean than admit he needed anything from the Admiral. He pointed an accusing finger. “And neither should you.”

“Stubborn,” Gabe muttered.

“Hard ass.” Raffi plopped down on the edge of the bed with a long-suffering sigh. “Dad raised his little sailor so well. It’s sad.”

“Hey, I like—” No. Past tense. He had to use past tense now. Gabe paused, drew a breath, and corrected himself, “Liked being on the teams.”

“Okay, you liked it. Though God knows why anyone would like being a SEAL.” Raffi propped his chin in his hand and lifted his brows in question. “So…you’re going into private soldiering, then?”

“Soldiering? Are you trying to insult me?”

“Soldiering, or sailor…ing?” He waved a hand. “You know what I mean. Are you going into the private sector?”

Gabe stifled a groan. This again. He’d already told his best friend and former SEAL teammate, Travis Quinn, that he was not going merc. Several times. In fact, just about every day since the car accident that ended both of their careers last year. “Lemme guess. Quinn talked to you.”

“Mm-hmm. A minute ago, downstairs. And let me just say, it’s a damn shame that guy’s straight.”

This time Gabe did groan. “Raffi, man, I love you, but please don’t talk about my friends like that. It puts pictures in my head and weirds me out.”

“That’s why I do it.” He grinned. “Anyway, for some reason, Quinn thought I’d be able to talk some sense into you. As if anyone can talk ol’ Stonewall Bristow into doing something he doesn’t want to do.”

If anyone could, it would be Raffi. Gabe respected his youngest brother more than any other man on the planet, and Quinn knew it. That sly bastard.

“For the record,” Raffi added and rested his chin on his laced fingers, “I think it’s a great idea. Way better than Dad’s plans for you.”

True. The job the Admiral had lined up for him at the Pentagon was—God, he didn’t even know what to call it. “Boring” came to mind. So did “mindless.”

“Gabe, can I ask you something?” Raffi said after a moment of silence.

“No, but that’s never stopped you before.” Resigned to the lecture he knew he was about to get, Gabe limped over to where his jacket lay on the bed, light glinting off his rows of medals. It always surprised him how many he had. He just did his job and never much cared about the number before—but, man, now he’d never get another one. And how fucking depressing was that?

“Well, I’m curious,” Raffi said. “Did you turn Quinn down because you really don’t want to go private, or because it would put you on level with Darth Vader in Dad’s eyes?”

Inwardly, Gabe faltered, his heart doing a little two-step even though his hands stayed calm, his face schooled into an expressionless mask. “I don’t see why it matters. I’m not going into the private sector. End of story.”

“It does matter. Big time.” Raffi watched him with a rare serious look in his eyes. “That’s it, isn’t it? Look, Gabe, if you’re holding yourself back because of the Admiral’s narrow-minded views—well, we both know how I feel about that. Tell him to go fuck himself sideways with a spoon, then do what makes you happy. And you, brother dear, are only happy if you’re out in some godforsaken wasteland of a country, risking life and limb, saving the world. Go work with Quinn.”

“No.”

“At least think about it? For me?”

“Fine.” He was so going to find Quinn and throttle him for dragging Raffi into this. “I’ll think about it, okay?”

…

It took several hours of elbow rubbing with political so-and-sos before Gabe finally tracked Quinn down in the crowd. He stood in the most shadowed corner of the room, naturally, stiff in his dress whites, eyeing the horde of D.C.’s most powerful as if he expected an attack at any moment.

Not a surprise.

Quinn had earned the nickname “Achilles” during BUD/S training. A warrior to his marrow, all but indestructible since nobody had found his heel yet. His only concession that this was a party and not an op was the slender flute of champagne he held.