THE CRAZY GOOD SERIES - Rachel Robinson Page 0,89

I can convince myself, too. Stone told me leaving Morganna is a bitch, that he misses her like he’d miss a limb if it got blown off. I never understood what he meant. I will soon. I missed my parents after I left and didn’t look back. That’s a different kind of miss, though. I chose not to care, and they chose not to reach out.

Her phone beeps. She has another call. “You’re everything,” she whispers before clicking off the line. I hold the phone against my ear for a few additional seconds.

I drop the cell to my side, balling it in my fist. “Fuck!” I bellow, my growl echoing in the vast expanse of my bedroom. Existing in this interminable state of almost gone is miserable. Windsor almost saying love is also a fucking drag. I don’t fault her, because I feel her affection in every word she says to me, in every breath she takes—in her huge blue eyes when she gazes up at me. She needs time. I can give her that.

I drag one of the huge black bags into my closet. I’ve packed all my uniforms already, so I go to the side that houses my t-shirts. Scanning the hangers I pull off one that says The Dude Abides, another that has a huge mustache sprawling across the front, and another that says Yo Mamma. All exceedingly appropriate. I fold them the way you’re supposed to fold a t-shirt and put them in my bag followed by a red poncho, a sweatshirt with an AK printed on the front, and a pair of Elvis sunglasses. My skintight, spandex American Flag shirt goes into the mix and I start to feel a little lighter doing what I do every time I ship out. The familiarity of packing eases the burn a little. I feel even better when I pull out my leather, badass eighties rock gear.

The costume reminds me of Stone, so I dial him up to talk about what he’s bringing and to make sure I have all the necessities on the pack-out list. He convinces me to bring my big screen TV because Morganna isn’t letting him take their TV from their living room, and I have an extra for occasions like this. After that long, drawn out conversation, in which he forced me to listen to the new rock song he just wrote for Morg, I call Steve. I need to make sure they don’t expect me to go to the bar hopping party. He tells me I’m a pussy—that I’ll regret not tapping a few girls from the Maverick stock sex pool. I tell him he should bag them instead. He agrees and I’m off the hook.

A few hours later I’m stacking all my bags next to the front door, feeling a little excited to deploy, when Windsor rushes in. She has on a gray skirt and a black button up shirt, the top two buttons open. Her hair is up, but pieces have fallen down into her face. Her smile, like it always is when she first sees me, is God damned brilliant. She kicks off her heels and runs toward me. She knocks into me as hard as she can, but I catch her easily and pull her up so her face is level with mine. Her eyes say I miss you. I want you. I miss you. I could stare into them all day long.

Windsor shakes her head and says, “God, you’re even hotter than when I left this morning. How do you do that?”

I let it rip—the big smile, because she’s looking at me like I’m the fucking prize. Her gaze lands exactly where I want it. Almost immediately, she kisses me. Her eyes fall shut as I lower her to the ground and bend down to avoid taking my mouth off of hers. Reaching up, I release her hair so it falls down around her shoulders and fist it in my hands. Her fingers snake under my shirt and skirt up to rest on my chest, always one hand on my heart…over her tattoo. She loves it. I love her.

I help her take my shirt off. My heart races at skin on skin contact because it knows what comes next. Who am I to deny it? I unbutton her shirt, teasing her mouth with flicks of my tongue and gentle kisses. She tilts her head to get a better angle and joins in the competition to see who