Ride the Tide (Deep Six #3) - Julie Ann Walker Page 0,3
Wolf settled himself onto the barstool next to Mason’s.
The two of them had become instant friends when they’d been teamed up as swim partners way back in BUD/S—Basic Underwater Demolition/SEAL—training. And through all the intervening years, Wolf had never run out of inspirational quotes. He fancied himself a scholar of the world’s philosophers and religions.
There were times, including this one, when that could get damned annoying.
Instead of answering, Mason kept quiet. He hoped his silence conveyed his wish for more coffee and less talk.
“I said,” Wolf said louder, “a wise woman once—”
“First off,” Mason muttered irritably, “what part of this face”—he pointed to his scowling mug—“makes you think I’m in the mood for morning convo?”
“You’re never in the mood for conversation,” Wolf drawled, his Oklahoma accent making the words sound twice as long as they normally would. “Don’t matter what time of day it is.”
“Second off,” Mason went on as if Wolf hadn’t spoken, “what’s that supposed to mean, anyway? If you risk nothing, you risk everything?”
“It means you should pull your head from your ass and go for it. Take her up on what she’s offerin’.” Wolf stuck a cocktail straw between his teeth and hailed the bartender to put in an order for a Bloody Mary. Hitching his chin toward Alex’s table, he added, “Come on, man. You know you want to.”
Mason hadn’t been kidding when he said he wasn’t in the mood to talk. But he sure as shit wasn’t in the mood to talk about Alex and her heart-stopping offer. “Anyone ever told you you’re a board-certified fuck-ace who should mind his own damned business?”
“Sure.” Wolf’s onyx eyes flashed with humor, proving he was impervious to Mason’s insults. “You tell me all the time. That don’t change the fact that every time you see Alex’s wild, windswept curls and wide, green eyes, you start scoutin’ the area for horizontal surfaces.”
“For fuck’s sake.” Mason snorted. “Tell me you haven’t taken up writing poetry too. That’ll be the straw that breaks this camel’s back.”
Wolf shrugged. “Reckoned that was nicer than sayin’ you’re pantin’ after her because she’s sexy in a girl-next-door way that makes most men dream about doin’ extremely naughty things to her.”
Mason felt his expression turn sinister.
“Whoa there, brother.” Wolf lifted his hands. “Not sayin’ I’m one of those men.”
“I don’t pant.” Mason truly hated this conversation. “’Cause I’m not a dog. And I’m only interested in her for her brain and its ability to help us find the Santa Cristina. If anything’s sexy, it’s her frontal lobe.”
Wolf curled his lip. “Gross.”
“Ya-huh,” Mason admitted. “Sounded better in my head.”
“Most self-delusion does,” Wolf quipped, and before Mason could tell his former swim partner to go eat a big, steaming pile of unseasoned shit, Wolf added, “ Look, man, you want Alex. You know it. I know it. Anyone with eyes in their head knows it.”
So much for my whole stony-faced fighting-man persona, Mason thought crossly.
“So why don’t you do us all a favor,” Wolf went on, “and quit pretendin’ otherwise?”
Why indeed? Mason could think of at least a dozen reasons. But he pretended the question was rhetorical and, instead of answering, let his gaze roam around the room.
Like most establishments on this island at the end of the Florida Keys, the bar—with its kitschy ship’s wheel and cheap, strong drinks—was filled with two kinds of people. Those nursing a hangover from the night before. And those who were bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, eagerly discussing their plans for the day while partaking of the hotel’s complimentary breakfast buffet.
Key West was unique in that it attracted, in equal measure, fun-seeking tourists and those looking to fall off the map at the end of the road. It wasn’t at all odd to see a cheery-cheeked suburban-mom-on-vacation sitting next to a grizzled old barefoot sea dog.
Just one of the things Mason liked about it. Reminded him of his hometown. In the Hub of the Universe, the Ivy Leaguers could often be found rubbing elbows with the tough crowd from the Lower End, especially when they were all rooting for the Sox or the B’s.
“That wasn’t rhetorical,” Wolf said, and Mason imagined how gratifying it would feel to plant a fist in his friend’s mouth.
But the better angels of his nature won out, and instead of inflicting bodily harm, he said, “You know after what happened with Sarah, I’ve sworn off the fairer sex.”
“Please.” Wolf snorted. “You may have the others fooled into thinkin’ you’re runnin’ some sort of one-man masturbation marathon, but