Charlotte Chronicles – Chapter Twenty-seven

October 17, 2014  | Charlotte Chronicles  | (0)

If you are new to the Charlotte Chronicles, catch up here.

Charlotte

My clothing choices don’t give me many options for a night with a bunch of rowdy sailors. I have suits, dressy tops and slacks along with a pair of very worn denim shorts and a tank top. I opt for the denim shorts and a silk sleeveless blouse.
Nate frowns. “If you bend over I can see your ass cheeks.”
“Then I won’t bend over but I’m not wearing a suit to a bar where all your friends are hanging out.”
“I’m okay with the suit,” he offers. “Besides, if you wear those shorts, I’m going to be walking around with a semi the entire time which is okay in the apartment but frowned upon by the general public.”
I hook gold hoop earrings through my earlobes. “Bla bla bla, I can’t hear you over the blanket of paternalism that is suffocating me.”
He spins me away from the mirror and wraps his arms around me. They are tight bands, but not suffocating in spite of what I said. His eyes are glittery, a mix of need, banked jealousy, and a helluva lot of love. When his lips crash down on mine, it’s hard to stay upright. His mouth is doing things to me that spin my head and make me question every decision but ones that keep me between his legs and in the circle of his arms.
In the long years of our absence, my memories of him had become faint. I tried to hold on to them for as long as I could but things such as the motion of his hard body moving over mine and the rough but soft way he handled me were hard to conjure from the images and emotions I’d stored up in my head.
I’m still struggling with the reality of being able to touch him whenever I want. To know that the embrace is really happening. It’s his mouth trekking it’s way around my jaw, down my neck. It’s his fingers deftly undoing my blouse and dipping inside my bra to rub his rough, calloused fingers over my tender and sensitive breast. It’s his thick erection rubbing between my legs until I’m reduced to a mindless puddle of squirming want.
The shrill sound of his phone going off breaks our trance.
“Shit,” he breathes harshly.
“We’d better go.” With some reluctance I push him away and go about repairing the damage he inflicted to my makeup and clothes in about five minutes flat.
“I don’t want to go,” he whines, flicking his phone to silent. As he sits on the stool next to me, I bite my lip to keep from laughing. With his head hanging down, he looks like a sad little boy.
“If we don’t, they’re going to call all night and pretty soon they’ll show up at your door, pounding on the wood and disturbing everyone.”
“You’re right.” He stands up and runs a hand through his hair. His mussed hair and heavy lidded eyes are criminally hot. I’m not leaving the apartment until I’ve got a little armor I slick on a new coat of lipgloss and run a mascara wand through my pale eyelashes so I don’t look totally hairless around my eyes.
“If anyone should be upset, it should be me,” I say watching him through the mirror.
He screws up his face in confusion. “Upset about what?”
Still holding my mascara brush I point to his reflection. “Look at your tight t-shirt, how it shows off your big chest muscles and you aren’t even covering the bulges in your biceps. It’s like you want some girl to come over and run her hands all over your body.”
He comes up behind me and crowds me with his big body. “Is that right? Well, I’d have to tell her that if she touches me, my woman will go apeshit on her.”
“Then if anyone touches me inappropriately, I’ll knee him in the balls and then tell him my boyfriend is going to hit him so hard, he’ll be traveling back in time.”
Nate can’t suppress a laugh. Lightly swatting me on the ass, he chuckles. “All right. No more smart remarks about your shorts. For the record, my t-shirt is an extra large. This is the way it fits.”
“Are you bragging about your size?” I tease.
“Who needs to brag about this?” he shoots back cupping himself. His thick penis looks so hot in his grasp that I have to bite my cheek from moaning out loud.
Instead, I shoo him out and tell him to get dressed. When he leaves, I let out a sigh of relief. Another minute with him standing with his dick in his hand and I would’ve jumped him.
We finally get out of the apartment without ripping each other’s clothes off again, although there was a tense moment at the door when he slammed it shut, pressed my back up against it and proceeded to kiss me until I was weak kneed and he was wearing all my gloss.
I’m going to have to buy two tubes of all my favorite colors at the rate I’m reapplying my lip coloring.
Flannery’s is a self proclaimed Irish pub, not too far from the Del on the island of Coronado, a small postage stamp piece of land across the bay from San Diego. A green sign with white lettering over the entrance says “Kiss him, he’s Irish.” Nate tells me that the front of the bar is deceiving because it looks no more than about ten feet long.
The real action is in the rear, no pun intended. Nate maneuvers me through a throng of people, half of whom look like tourists and the other half military boys. You can generally tell which tribe each belongs to simply by their haircut.
Over the bar hangs what appears to be at least a couple hundred glass mugs, each with a name etched on them. “How do you get a mug?” I ask.
“You buy it.” He grins at my disappointed face. “Wanted a more romantic story? Like I had to wrestle a bear or something?”
“Close or maybe shoot an apple off the top of the head of the bartender.”
“I’m not sure Flannery’s worker’s compensation policy covers that,” he says wryly. His hand pushes me forward until we reach the patio which is twice as large as the interior of the bar.
Toward the rear of the patio and next to a small stone barricade separating Flannery’s from the street and parking lot of nearby businesses were three small square tables put together. Surrounding them are a group of men and women. As we approach nearly all the males stand. One of them looks like a young Ron Howard barely out of his Mayberry days with a smattering of freckles and wild reddish blonde hair. Next to him is a weathered face sporting the biggest grin I’ve seen on a person.
SEALs come in all sizes and shapes—tall, short, stout. Their one commonality is their superb physical state. Muscles…muscles everywhere.
I have no doubt that each one of them could break me in half without breaking a sweat. Nate and the male next to the redhead are about the tallest at a few inches over six feet. It’s easy to see why there are so many gorgeous women around including the ladies sitting at the table.
It’s not easy to walk toward such avid interest, not knowing what’s coming next.
“Why are they all standing up?” I whisper out of the side of my mouth, dragging my feet a little.
“The guys are interested in you.”
“Why?”
“My nickname is Monk. That I’ve run off on shore leave with a woman is making them crazy.” He plants a quick kiss on my forehead and pulls me forward.
By the back slapping and fist jabbing, it’s easy to see Nate is well liked. I hang back slightly to observe him. It’s no different than it was in high school. Men look up to him and want to be with him.
Actually, there is a difference. The way that they greet him is like how Nick greets him. This is his family.
He laces his fingers through mine and says, “This is Charlotte and Charlotte, these fools are my teammates.”
He introduces each one individually and I try to memorize their names. It reminds me of the times I had to meet Nick’s teammates both in college and then when he went pro.
There’s something strikingly similar between these men and the ones that Nick plays with on the weekends. Only when these men go out to do their jobs, someone’s life is on the line. The work isn’t done for entertainment but for the protection of our country.
Still, I reminded myself that these men have hopes and dreams and heartaches like anybody else. It helps me to relax but only for a moment because the interrogation begins before I even sit down.
“Tell us everything about yourself and don’t leave anything out,” orders the man named Cab.
There are a few ways to handle being the new girl in an already established crowd dominated by certain male personalities but my go to one is that I’m confident, can take a ribbing, and spew my own flavor of bullshit.
“Well, my name is Helga, err Helga Charlotte, and I am an Alpine skier. I met Nathan when he was vacationing with his family in Lake Tahoe. I was babysitting for pro golfers family while they were on holiday. I didn’t speak any English and Nate didn’t speak any German. Ultimately we were left to draw pictures for each other. We would exchange our stick figure messages for days until he left. This continued until one day I broke my hand and could no longer draw stick figures. At that point I realized I could not continue in a relationship where stick figures were our only form of communication so we drifted apart and then we discovered each other on the beach where the three of you were running. He convinced me that our stick figure romance could be revived and so here I am.”
I lift my unoccupied hand palm up as if to say that is the end of the story. Nate coughs into his free hand and then pulled out a chair for me. Across the table, there are varying expressions of confusion and disbelief.
“Helga Charlotte?” Cab’s one eyebrow is raised.
“I know, it’s a mouthful, right?”
“Your English has come a long way,” he replies.
“Thank you. I’ve worked hard on it.”
Nate’s humor is morphing into irritation. He doesn’t like to see me under attack and there’s something about Cab’s questioning or perhaps the way that he’s looking at me that is raising Nate’s hackles. He shifts and then leans forward, arms on the table. “You got a problem, buddy?”
Under the wooden table, I rub Nate’s knee to reassure him I’m okay but he’s focused on his friend and teammate across the table. They stare at each other for what seems like a long time but is likely no more than a few seconds.
The freckled boy interrupts. “So does everyone call you Helga but only Nate calls you Charlotte?”
The innocent question breaks the tension and everyone starts laughing. One of the guys cuffs the boy affectionately on the back of the head.
“What?” he asks looking around. “I was curious.” But as the others start making fun of him, calling him Howdy Doody, he gives me a wink. By playing dumb, he’s drawn their attention away. Sneaky. I am super impressed and  mouth a thank you to him.
None of this escapes Nate’s eyes. He flags down a waitress and whispers to her, “The redheaded guy in the corner? Everything’s on my tab tonight.”
With the ice broken, the conversation became easy. I admit that Nate and I were long time friends and grew up together. His arm never leaves the back of my chair and my hand never stops rubbing his knee.
“How was the golf game today?” Nate asks Cab.
Cab glares, first at Nate and then at the imposing figure at the end of the table who Nate had introduced as his commanding officer. “I hate that fucking game and you all know it. But instead of reminding me I hate it, you lure me onto the course with offers of free beer.”
“We got thrown out after fourteen holes because Cab threw the club at the clown face,” Lieutenant Sykes explains.
“I fucking hate clowns, assholes,” Cab shudders.
At my confused expression, Nate clarifies. “Mini golf.”
“It’s the devil’s game, Charlotte,” Cab says. “Never play it.”
“I swear I won’t.”
He leans across and offers his pinkie. “Pinkie promise?”
I hook my little finger with his, amazed at how it’s dwarfed as if his hands have muscles mine don’t. “Pinkie promise.”
We shake and Cab’s eyes glitter mischievously as he lets me go. “Now that we’ve bonded do we show each other our tits now or after we break out the glitter bombs?”
Nate settles his own heavy hand on the back of my neck. “The near daily sight of your breasts is why I was celibate for nine years. Don’t punish Charlotte by killing my libido once again.”
Hoots fill the air at Nate’s easy admission of his nine year drought. There’s something awesome and incredibly sexy in his openness about how he’d stayed faithful to me even though we weren’t together, even though he had thought we would never be a couple again. His confidence doesn’t flow from his crotch like so many others. There are few men who would be as unconcerned as he about not having any action for months let alone years. I’m used to men measuring their self worth by the number of hookups they have in each city.
Cab grins broadly. “How was it? As good as pissing after a long walk outside the wire?”
“If you think pissing is comparable to having sex, I’m concerned,” Nate replies. They clearly enjoy ribbing each other.
“At least I did piss on a regular basis unlike some people I know.”
I decide to break up their love fest before it turns south. “It was spectacular, Cab, if you need to know but don’t worry. He still loves you.”
“Good. Good.” He nods and winks. “He loves you too. Just remember that when he calls out my name the next time you’re getting it on.”
Nate’s hand drops from my neck to my shoulder and pulls me against him. “Cab’s sad because I was his best wingman. He no has to hang with the rest of these fools and try to prove he’s the better choice when last call is made.”
“True story,” Cab says mournfully.
After we establish that Cab is capable of closing deals without Nate helping, the conversation turns the latest crop of potential SEALs. Cab and Bride think they’re worthless but Lieutenant Sykes argues that the fail rate is no different. The argument becomes heated as Bride says that his BUD/s class was the best. Everyone jumps in, even Nate, who says that Cab and his class had the best pass rate, best water rescue performance, best rifle marks, and so on.
They keep arguing until another round is delivered and a new group of young ladies waltz in wearing barely there dresses and high heels.
“Cab, if you keep eye fucking that brunette across the room, I’m going to get pregnant,” jokes the one called Bride.
“There’s a threat to our National Security,” says a short, rough looking male whose nickname is Gonzo.
“I’m not eye fucking her,” Cab protests. He looks at me earnestly. “Ma’am we do not eye fuck. I promise you that we’re better than that.”
“Yeah?” I can tell he’s leading up to something rowdy and probably a little raunchy.
“That’s right. Because an eye fuck is an empty promise and a US Navy SEAL does not give empty promises. We deliver.”
Next to me Nate rolls his eyes but everyone else at the table laughs. “Then you best get over there and deliver your fucking or she’s going to go home and tell everyone how you were a man of looks but no action.”
Bride hoots at this and tips his beer toward me. “I like this girl.”
Nate presses a kiss to my temple and says warmly, “Not as much as me.”
We all settle in and watch as Cab sets off to reel in his fish. The camaraderie between the men is evident and it makes me happy to think of Nate surrounded by good friends these past years. As miserable as I was, I never once wished that he was unhappy.
Bride and Gonzo role play Cab’s seduction.
“Why, miss, you look parched and lonely over here. Mind if I buy you a drink?” Bride intones in a deep voice.
“My mother told me not to accept alcohol from strangers,” Gonzo adopts a high pitched falsetto.
“If you tell me your name, we won’t be strangers.”
Gonzo fake titters and we all laugh. “Ohh, it’s Tiffany.”
Across the room, Cab and the brown haired girl are talking. He points toward the parking lot.
“Tiffany, I’m thinking that they don’t serve good enough liquor here for a treasure like you. There’s another establishment not too far from here that has top shelf booze,” Bride says.
“Is that right? Hee hee,” Gonzo replies. In his normal voice, he says, “Watch as the female preens by brushing her hair from her shoulder. Watch as she draws a hand across her chest. This is the classic sign from homo sapien female in a small group setting that she is ready to be separated from the pack.”
Cab takes over. “Homo erectus is now engaged. The male stalks forward and lightly beats his chest to acknowledge being chosen. He deftly severs the connection with the other creatures and secures his prey.”
Gonzo glances at his watch. “Shit that took less than five minutes.”
Cab puts his hand palm up. “I’ll take cash. Small bills only. I’m going to the dollar store later.”
“Dollar store?” I whisper to Nate, still watching as Cab places an arm around the brown hair girl and lifts her over the cement fence running around the patio and then vaults over it with one hand.
“Strip club,” he murmurs under his breath.
The guys at the table hoot and raise their beer in salute to Cab’s success. He gives a lazy salute and then picks up the girl and jogs toward the parking lot, disappearing into the dimly lit night.
After draining his  beer, Nate rises and pulls me to my feet. “Let’s dance,” he says. Inside the bar there’s a tiny postage stamp of a dance floor made out of parquet tiles. The house band is rocking blues covers and the floor is nearly empty.
“Since when do you like dancing,” I tease because the Nate I knew never enjoyed being the center of attention. At parties, he sat down, away from the crowds but people gravitated toward him anyway.
“I don’t like dancing but I want to hold you.”
A hand on my low back presses me closer until there’s no room for even a wisp of air to pass between us. I curl my arms around his neck and bury my face in the soft cotton of his t-shirt. His one hand is splayed across my back and the other cups my head. We sway together, moving as one unit as the guitar twangs a rockabilly melody.
“Are you sure you want to leave all this?” I ask, wondering what exactly he’s giving up for me.
“Can’t stay in forever,” he answers. I’m not sure that’s a complete response but I push it aside because I don’t want to mar the night.
My heart’s so full of joy that I could stand here forever—which may be a possibility given that the floor is sticky from spilled alcohol. I release a nervous laugh which causes Nate’s arms to tighten and his low voice to rumble in my ear.
“What’s funny?”
“I was thinking how I want to dance with you forever and that we might have to because the floor’s stickier than a flytrap.”
He chuckles and the vibrations of his laughter climb into my body and swirl around filling me up. The vibrations turn to shivers and I stare at his eyes, wide eyed as my joy morphs into excitement and my happiness into desire. His grip on me is almost painful.
“You ready to go?” he asks hoarsely. His eyes are begging me to say yes. When have I ever turned him down?