Hemingway - Zoe Dawson Page 0,55

their performance for a final assessment.

“Daylight wasn’t bad, but night…that’s a bitch,” Max said.

Shea had no doubt they would pass.

“I thought Cheezer was going to drown me in lifesaving,” Professor said, rubbing at his neck. “That guy is a freaking bear.” Hemingway had noted the bruises on Professor’s throat, shoulders and collarbones. He had the same ones mottling his skin.

Lifesaving practical had been the previous evolution and everyone who wanted to be a SEAL had to pass. Basically, this class was a condensed Red Cross advanced course. A piece of cake for Hemingway, as he had worked as a lifeguard since his freshman year in high school.

At least that part of it had been simple, with the instructors pretending to be drowning victims and the trainees having to rescue them, while they basically resisted to the point of bloodshed. It had been a brutal contest where the instructors fought their rescuers like the enemy.

Hemingway nodded. Pairs of swimmers along the beach, clad in wetsuit tops and their UDT shorts, were all doing the same. This would be their last timed swim before Hell Week which had to be performed in under ninety-five minutes.

They’d lost two more guys to medical and another five candidates between rock portage and lifesaving, dropping them down to ninety-six remaining trainees.

“I thought I was going to gak,” Brown said. His black eye looked better today.

“My nose still hurts,” Hitchcock said, the bruising on his face matching his other bruises. Cheezer had caught him with an elbow, giving him a bloody nose. The sound of a diesel engine rattled in the distance. That was their cue to get prepared for the instructors, as moments later the truck with the loudspeaker roared onto the beach.

Wilson had been called in to talk with the instructors. Things with him only seemed to get tenser, and Hemingway had to wonder what they had planned. So far Shea had told him the request for Wilson’s DNA had been denied.

Shea was filming not far from the group of men with Wilson, but he knew she was keeping an eye on them. They had closed ranks since Hennessey’s death. Against his will, Hemingway’s gaze drifted to Shea, at her softly parted lips he’d kissed often and wanted to kiss again. He ached with it. The ocean breeze ruffled loose inky-black tendrils of her hair, which had blown free from the tight braid. Ignoring the heat settling in his groin, he focused on fastening and securing his life vest. He’d enjoyed every minute with this woman. She was definitely a woman who could hold her own with words and comebacks, and he found their relationship easy.

With his anger and resentment regarding her job gone, he’d found that a few of his guarded walls had crumbled. A smart move or a stupid one—he wasn’t sure which, yet—but he believed Shea when she said she respected him and his feelings when he’d discovered she was an undercover NCIS agent.

Professor leaned over and coughed, the sound rattling in his chest, breaking into Hemingway’s thoughts. Was he coming down with a cold or worse…pneumonia? Professor moved to his knees in the sand, holding his sharpened knife in his left hand, his CO2 cartridge in his right, his fins propped against his thigh. “How do I look?” he asked.

Hemingway checked him out thoroughly. All it took was one twisted strap to fail inspection, and that would mean grief for everyone. “You’re good to go. How do I look?”

“Squared away.” He pulled at one of Hemingway’s straps and lowered his voice. “Even though you were preoccupied,” Professor said, looking over at Shea and coughing again.

Brown glanced over at Professor, shooting Hemingway a concerned look.

“You doing okay?” Hemingway asked, feeling protective of his roommate and boat crew member.

“I’ve got this, worrywart. You can spoon feed me chicken soup in bed after we’re done.”

Hemingway flashed him a grin. “You asshole.”

“Will you kiss my boo boos, too?”

“Shut the fuck up,” Hemingway said and shoved his shoulder.

Professor braced himself against the sand, laughing.

“You guys are always having a good time. This isn’t summer camp. Maybe we’re not hammering you enough,” Cheezer said, materializing into a crouch beside Hemingway.

Farther up the beach, Instructor Walker yelled, “Corpsman! Water temp.” Two students ran to the surf and quickly returned with a metal thermometer and handed it to Walker. He consulted it and shouted, “Fifty-four degrees! Neoprene stays on, guys!”

“Let’s take a look, boys,” Cheezer said as he inspected life vests and dive knives. Taking Hemingway’s knife, he ran