“Thank you, Mister Hoover,” Kristen replied and gave Terry a knowing smile. “I promised the boys I’d treat them to a steak and a beer. I hope you don’t mind?”
“I’m gonna get you back for this,” he warned her, slightly concerned by the growing affection he was gaining for her. Terry had been a skirt chaser for years, enjoying the pursuit of his chosen prey almost as much as the capture. But with Kristen, he was feeling things for her he’d never experienced. Unlike all the others he’d pursued in the past, Kristen had so far been immune to his charm, forcing him to work harder than usual. This had led to many sleepless nights thinking about her. She was unlike any other woman he’d ever known, and her self-disciplined nature, combined with a prim and proper appearance, intimidated and intrigued him at the same time.
They went to a dance club with a reputation for a mean Japanese steak. Terry, despite being a little uncomfortable around the SEALs, soon learned that once he got past the frosty persona they worked hard to maintain, they were pretty normal guys. Gibbs didn’t seem the least bit uncomfortable around the two trained killers and chatted nonstop with Hoover. The club was hopping by the time they arrived, and they had to wait a few minutes at the bar where Kristen bought her “friends” each a beer, reminding them that the limit for the evening was just “a few beers each.”
“You’re not drinking?” Terry asked, seeing she didn’t order anything for herself.
The music was loud and she had to almost shout to be heard as she shook her head. “I don’t do well on alcohol,” Kristen admitted.
But the SEALs, who’d been about to raise a toast, paused. Hoover noticed Kristen was empty handed. “Hey, Ell-Tee, what’s up with that?” he asked. “We’re good enough to fight with, but not drink with?”
Kristen shook her head defensively. “You know better than that,” she tried to explain. “I just don’t drink.”
But a few seconds later, Hamilton placed a tall red drink in her hand.
“No, guys. Please,” she pleaded, but they were already raising their glass.
Hoover offered the first toast, “To Chief Grogan, the best team leader anyone ever had.”
Hardly able to resist, Kristen raised her glass and took a sip. “What’s this?” she asked Hamilton.
“I don’t know what the Japs call ’em,” Hamilton told her as he handed her a second one before she’d even taken a second sip of the first, “but back home we call them hurricanes.”
“They aren’t ‘Japs’, Trip.” Kristen pointed out waving away the second drink, “They’re Japanese.” She took a second sip and asked, “Is it strong?”
“Nah!” Hamilton replied and motioned for her to drink up. “Come on, Ell-Tee. You gotta drink one for the Chief. It’s tradition.”
She did as instructed, draining the drink in a couple of minutes. “That’s really good,” she admitted. “It tastes like fruit punch.”
Hamilton directed her to drink the second one.
“No, no, no,” she shook her head. “I already have one tattoo too many.”
“Come on, Ell-Tee,” Hoover chimed in, already having finished his second beer and encouraging her to take another sip. The powerfully built sailor raised his third beer and Hamilton joined him as they faced Kristen. “To Alvarez,” Hoover said solemnly.
Again, unable to refuse, Kristen drank. She paused after a few seconds as Hamilton and Hoover slammed their empty beer mugs on the bar. “Drink up, Ell-Tee. We’ve gotta send our shipmates off properly.”
Terry was drinking with each toast as well, but like Gibbs, he was more of an observer. Neither of them were a part of the tiny clique Kristen was now a part of. As he watched, Terry noticed another patron move up to the bar alongside of Kristen. The man was clearly interested in her, but before he could introduce himself, Hoover interjected himself between Kristen and the interloper. The SEAL corpsman then explained, “Trip and I figured once we tie one on here, we’ll find an ink shop and get you branded.” Hoover flexed his right arm and showed off a SEAL tattoo, “You need a trident.”
“What is it with you guys and the tattoos?” she asked as she took another sip.
“Show her, Trip,” Hoover encouraged Hamilton, who promptly pulled his arm from the sling and stripped down to his bare chest right there in the bar.
Terry could see that the two SEALs, now off duty, were out of control. Or at least not under the control of Kristen. In fact, he was beginning to get quite the opposite feeling as Hoover surreptitiously removed her half empty glass and placed a fresh hurricane next to her. Kristen, who was focused on Hamilton’s antics as he — besides showing off the most impressive set of pecs and abs Terry had ever seen — pointed out his various tattoos.
The SEAL showed several tombstone tattoos which he explained represented friends he’d lost in Afghanistan and Iraq. He then pointed at a clear spot, “And here’s where the Chief and Al are gonna go.”
Joining in, Hoover raised his own shirt and pointed out a couple of other tattoos on his own torso that represented particular qualifications or training programs they’d gone through.
“So basically, you two are walking record books?” Gibbs asked as he studied several of Hoover’s tattoos more closely.
“Something like that,” Hoover admitted.
Terry stayed quiet, a bit amused by the way the SEALs were handling her. While on the Seawolf, Kristen was always so stiff, so proper. He’d never seen her relax, but Hoover and Hamilton seemed to be managing the feat, especially after they managed to slip yet another drink onto the bar without her notice.
After several more drinks, they were led to the table where they ordered and the good-natured camaraderie continued. Steaks were brought as well as another drink for Kristen who was clearly beginning to feel the alcohol. Her usual controlled demeanor was slipping away. Around her though, Terry noticed the two commandos had all but stopped drinking and were now nursing their beers. Gibbs had also cut back, and Terry realized he was overlooking something.
After her fourth hurricane, Hoover managed to get Kristen out on the dance floor, and Terry felt a little uncomfortable as he watched her dancing with her “friend.” Hamilton joined them a few minutes later, and between Hoover and the broad-shouldered Hamilton, they created a cordon of sorts around her. Occasionally, a man on the dance floor would move closer, wanting to join in, but the two commandos kept them back.
“You fellas planned this, didn’t you?” Terry asked Gibbs who was sipping a cosmopolitan.
Gibbs replied with a thin smile.
“Was it your idea, or did the XO put you up to it?” Terry asked the tightlipped petty officer.
“She needed a break,” Gibbs admitted, “and COB figured we could keep her out of trouble.”
It made perfect sense. It was no secret that Gibbs had adopted Kristen as one of his favorites, and there was no chance he would allow too much harm to come to her. The SEALs appeared to have the situation well in hand and would prevent any would be suitor interfering with her letting her hair down, and — Terry admitted — if anyone needed to relax, it was Kristen.
After about twenty minutes, Hoover returned to the table to finish his beer, but he kept his eyes on Hamilton and Kristen who remained on the dance floor.
Terry watched them dancing. Her normally perfect coiffure had come loose, and her hair now seemed alive as it flowed about her, creating an intoxicating image as she moved with the music. The alcohol, as the SEALs intended, had relaxed her. “Wow,” he murmured, “I wouldn’t have believed it.” Her normal stoic and cold façade had disintegrated as she let the music take her.
“What do you mean, Lieutenant?” Hoover asked. The pretty-boy SEAL was seated across the table next to Gibbs.