Page 57 of Iced Out

My brows furrow. “Awhat?”

“You know, the thing where you make a mold of your dick and turn it into a dildo.”

That sounds like the kind of gag gift I’d get someone—especially Oakley—so I can’t even be offended by his assumption.

“No, it’s not sex shit. It’s…” I sigh, shaking my head. “Would you just fucking open it already?”

He rolls his eyes and peels the paper off the box. “Way to spoil the fun ofmygift.”

“I’m about tempted to take it back altogether,” I mumble under my breath in indignation, crossing my arms across my chest and digging myself further into the couch cushions. Leave it to him to make a nice gesture into something I regret doing. “Jackass.”

He’s down to the box now, ripping off the lid and clearing the little tissue paper crap out of the way.

“Oh, don’t be like that. I—” he cuts off, clearing his throat and looking up at me. Two big, brown eyes peer straight into my soul when he does, and it gives me an uncomfortable ache in my chest. One I don’t fucking like, making me think maybe this was a really bad idea.

No. Actually, it definitely was a bad idea.

Shit.

“Look, if it’s stupid or whatever, just return them. There’s a receipt in there. I was just trying to be funny.”

He glances back down at the box and whispers, “You got me socks.”

The way he says it, with reverence almost, makes it sound like I got him something far more…meaningful than three pairs of fucking socks. Of course, these aren’t just any socks. They’re the funny, crazy kind he wears under his official uniform.

Lucky socks, per his superstition.

I’d seen them a couple weeks back online when I was scrolling through one of my socials. Apparently, my phone did that creepy thing it does, listening in on one too many of my conversations with Oakley about his damn socks. So lo and behold, I had ads for socks plastered across my feed. When I found these on the site, they were too perfect to pass them up.

One pair is all black with white writing on it reading, “00 FUCKS GIVEN”, with the zeros looking like the timed out clock of a scoreboard. The second pair are white with a ton of eggplants on them and says, “I give the best blow jobs” down the sides.

The last pair is covered in suns and rainbows. Near the top in bold letters, it reads, “It’s a beautiful day” and then “Don’t fuck it up” on the bottom of the foot.

They’re my favorite.

“You…got me socks,” he says again, and this time, it hits me square in the chest.

“Yeah.” My shoulder lifts in a shrug when he looks at me again. “It’s not a big deal. Like I said, I just thought of you when I saw them.”

He doesn’t say anything, instead tearing my favorites out of the package and holding them up in front of him.

“If you don’t like ‘em—”

“They’re perfect,” he cuts me off, his voice ragged like he’s just run a marathon.

A sense of awkwardness falls over us, and I’m not sure why. Maybe because I wasn’t expecting a couple goofy sets of socks to get him all in his feels, or maybe because he feels guilty for not getting me anything. Whatever it is, it sticks to the air like cling-wrap, and it’s stifling.

Enough to remind me why I rarely do things like this for people.

He lifts the other two pairs up, turning them over in his hands and reading them again before a small smile forms on his lips. “These all seem like they’re meant for you.”

He’s got a point there. Because I laughed my ass off when I picked every pair out.

“Maybe, but I don’t wear lucky socks. It’s your thing.”

“My lucky socks don’t have profanity on them,” he counters. “Just like…ducks and donuts and shit.”

I give him my winningest grin. “Perfect time for an upgrade.”

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