yes. Hell fucking yes.
I smile wide. “That’s the best idea you’ve ever had,” I tell him. It probably is. He usually comes up with stupid fucking schemes. Like the time he wanted to hold donkey races at our camp in Afghanistan. Or when he thought bringing a filthy puppy from a surrounding village back to our base would be a good idea. We had fleas in our tent for weeks. Fucking asshole dropped the dog off at least eight miles away after everyone got pissed at him. Do you know that damn dog came back? It was in Stone’s bed one morning weeks after he’d dumped it. He said it was because it was a female puppy—woman can’t resist him, even dogs. Idiot. Tattoos are always a better idea than anything he comes up with.
We hit up our favorite tat shop in San Diego. We both left with white bandages and huge smiles. I paid for both of the tats because I lost credit card roulette. We threw our cards in a hat and the artist drew one out. Of course it was mine. I don’t mind. I owe Stone more than I could pay him in a damn lifetime.
“She’s going to drop her panties the second she sees it,” Stone drawls. I clap him on this shoulder, still smiling.
“Panty dropping isn’t the problem, man. It’s keeping them on her that’s the issue,” I tease. Windsor dancing naked pops into my head. I yank out my phone to check for messages. I glance at Stone’s bandaged forearm and shake my head. Morg is going to shit when she sees his new art. “Morganna is going to sue your ass when she gets one look at that.” I point to his arm.
The artist did a good job. The best he could have done. It still doesn’t negate the lobster wearing a bikini with his wife’s face and hair. He pulled a photo off her attorney website to show the artist. So Morganna looks like a fucking shark, no smile, all serious bitch face. Both are underwater animals at least.
My tat is understated and small. It means something. It’s on my body, but it’s not for me, nope. It belongs to someone else.
_______________
The bar the guys chose is so fucking loud. It’s a good blend of people. The girls in San Diego are always a mixed variety. There are the surfer girls with the jean cut-off shorts so short you see ass cheeks. Then there are the ones who wear mini dresses and fifty-inch heels to a bar.
I’m not checking them out. Steve and a few of the other guys are pointing them out, telling me I should go fishing for them. When I told them they could get their own bags for the night, they got pissy. We’re in a corner of the bar, all fifteen of us, surrounding the largest table. Security looks at us every other second. We look like a bunch of drunk swinging dicks with more muscle than they can deal with. They’re praying we don’t fight each other. Or anyone else for that matter. They won’t fuck with us. We’re loud. We’re obnoxious and we can be. That’s end of fucking story. A few mini dresses approach the table. They’re decent looking. I would have bagged them. Maybe even at the same time. Before. Way before. Steve swoops in and makes some loud joke, and offers a compliment to each one of them. They blush and giggle. Putty. It makes my stomach hurt at the haunting reminder.
I got you a present. I text Windsor, my heart racing—half from thinking of her reaction and the other half is adrenaline, coursing through me like my favorite drug.
You are my present. (But I’m excited for a gift too!) I’m in a late meeting right now. Ugh.
I’ll let you unwrap it. Is my friend Garrett Garth there? It’s like 11 p.m. on the east coast. I’m immediately suspicious. I glance up. I feel eyes on me. One of the mini dresses is smiling that smile. Directly at me. The one that says she wants my attention, now and later. I’m not a dickhead, so I smile back. I wish I were smiling at someone else. Old habits die hard. The blonde woman walks toward me; her heels and obvious drunkenness cause her to saunter more than walk. Steve gleams at me over his shoulder and I know he sent her over here as a fucking test. Still no return text