THE CRAZY GOOD SERIES - Rachel Robinson Page 0,160

placed on the hard, slimy metal a few moments later, and we high tail it out of the area as quick as possible. When we surface thirty minutes later, our boat is waiting to whisk us away. We’re as close to invisible men as physically possible. Our specialized diving equipment doesn’t release air, so no bubbles ever reach the surface. This particular mission, which took a few hours to perform, probably took a week of meticulous planning and coordinating. There’s something to be said of prep-work, for being as prepared as possible for any given scenario. Even the ones that you can’t control. Be ready for anything. It’s my motto.

“I think you need to add a new verse to your song. It’s weak sauce,” Mav says as we walk toward our building to drop our gear off for the night. You can’t talk on the boats, unless it’s by radio, because of the high speeds and whipping wind. He’s just now commenting on my superb superman lyrics. “Maybe I can help you work on it.” He grins like a fucking panther—Maverick and his famous fucking dimples. They’ll go down in history, you know, after all of his naval accolades. Maverick Hart is a survivor—a warrior in every sense of the word. It wasn’t long ago that he almost lost his life during a mission that claimed his best friend, our teammate, Stone Sterns.

“Let’s do it. My rapping prowess knows no bounds, though. I don’t sing that boy band bullshit like you do. You can handle that, right?” I yawn for longer than I want. I also can’t really rap, but he knows that. Him on the other hand? He can sing his ass off. “I have to get home now, though. I’m fucking beat.” Maverick tosses my bag to me and slings his over his shoulder as we exit to the parking lot.

“Please, we both know that boy bands make the panties drop.” Maverick cackles as he opens the door to his jacked-up, gray Jeep.

I laugh. “You only drop one set of panties. Don’t be delusional, Mavvy.”

Proudly, he nods and hauls himself into the cab. “You’re right. I need to get home and make that happen right now, as a matter of fact.”

He’s relentless. I think his new favorite goal in life is impregnating his wife, Windsor. I can’t say I blame him. She’s hot on a good day and a M.I.L.F on any other day. Plus, she deals with our lifestyle, which makes her a precious commodity in our community.

Women don’t deal well with our schedule, nor our frequent training trips, and definitely not the deployments. Eighty percent of marriages fail in the SEAL community. Some of the guys who prefer the committed lifestyle keep trying to find a wife that can deal. It usually ends badly, with a wife of the week, or a cheating scandal that would make Bill Clinton look like a fucking saint.

Personally, I don’t do the wife thing. There’s no sense, really. I have a few girlfriends. Before you get all “cheating bastard,” you should know they all know about each other and it’s a mighty fine arrangement. No strings attached. I’m not lonely and the women are free to do as they please. I’m not a controlling misogynist who wants to have his cake and eat it, too. I get it. I understand why they don’t want to be committed, because I don’t either. It’s a stipulation of dating Steven Warner. Non-exclusivity.

I look at normal people and normal marriages like my parents, and it’s almost an oddity. Like their definition of marriage is different than what I’m accustomed to. My parents have been married for thirty-five years and still look at each other like they want to hump like rabbits on the breakfast table. Insert puking noises right fucking here. With such a mighty fine example, I’m unsure why I avoid true relationships. I figure I’ll just know, in that cliché sort of way that everyone drones on about. In the meantime, I’m as happy as can be. My life, time, and decisions belong to only me.

Maverick waves from his high perch before he starts his roaring engine. I jerk up my chin in acknowledgement and drive the dark, familiar roads all the way home. I walk into my dark house, flicking on all of the lights at once, illuminating my obvious type A bachelor pad. White walls, contemporary furnishings, everything clean and in order—nothing showy, or ostentatious. My career has allowed me