Page 3 of Force At Third

I glance at John Paul—Pope. “You going?”

He eyes me skeptically and nods. “Yeah.”

“She gonna be there?”

“If you can’t handle it?—”

“The ex here?” Turner cuts him off.

I lift my chin, and he laughs as he looks at Pope.

“There will be no issues. We were at the concert the other night. Met up with Hart and saw Rudy G.”

Pope arches a brow. “A little confused as to why that means he isn’t going to be a dick to one of my wife’s best friends.”

“He found a hometown honey to play with.”

“I didn’t find a hometown honey to play with,” I scoff at the idea. “I’m not playing shit but baseball. You’re the one talking about the chick you had grinding on you, and you don’t even have her number.”

“You get your girls?” Turner asks.

“Turner,” I groan out my frustration then remind him, “I don’t do hometown honeys. She was a hot chick who I stood with at the concert.” And whose company I wished I’d enjoyed without thinking about Gwendolyn’s.

I was sure things would have progressed had Vander been at the show with me and not with his women—open relationship. I don’t understand it, but that’s not the point. But yeah, no.

Gwendolyn fucked me up real good this time.

“You ever see her again, you better get me her friend’s number.” He winks then heads toward the shower room.

Not gonna happen.

Pope turns to me. “I don’t want to get involved with whatever you and York do or do not have going on, but I will ask if Frankie Frangula is at the bar, you just leave it alone for tonight.”

I don’t reply.

“My wife and her girls seldom get together anymore and?—”

I grab my towel and try not to slam my locker … too hard. “For someone who doesn’t want to get involved, you’re doing just that.”

“Not trying to be a dick,” he calls to me.

Let’s be clear here, I am never a dick to Gwendolyn York, but there’s nothing I enjoy more than getting under her skin … except getting inside her.

* * *

Walking toward my ride, I hit my key fob and unlock the door.

“Late workout tomorrow. Do you feel like heading out of town for the night and finding something to play with?” Vander asks from behind me.

Turning, I hitch my duffle over my shoulder. “We won. We hit O’Donnell’s,” I remind him of the unwritten rule established after one of the owner’s cousins opened a bar right off Revolutionary Field property.

He frowns.

“You and your girl already on the outs again?”

“Nah, we’re good,” he mumbles. “You staying at your townhouse tonight?”

I probably should have bought the row of four townhouses when they came up for sale since I’ve rented one for a few years now, but I’m not a city guy—I prefer my beach house on the shore. But tonight?

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