Page 54 of Waiting Game

More than that—it’s creepy.

But I don’t.

Instead, I perpetuate the crime and type:

CalKor: See you tomorrow. Be happy, beautiful

She smiles at that then curls onto her side and waves before saying, “How are you doing today, handsome? I missed you, CaptainGeorgia11.”

That fucks with my mood as I figure out how to leave the virtual room we’re in.

When I’m logged off, I get to my feet and head to the bathroom.

While I wash my hands, I stare at my reflection.

My cheeks are flushed in a post-orgasm glow and there’s a hard glint in my eyes that says everything—there’s no way that’ll be the last time I see Mia Charles orgasm.

Once I’ve dried my hands, I return to the desk and stare at the interface of the site Callan uses, then I look at his tabs.

Spying that his email is open, I head to the user settings of the cam girl site and change the email address to mine, alter the password, then proceed to delete Pops’s credit card info and replace it with my own.

Once that’s done and Callan can’t access the site anymore, I log out for good and then, to be on the safe side, clear the cookies and saved passwords.

He’s a smartass, so he’ll start up a new account, but for the moment, this is as much as I can do.

I hate to admit it, even to myself, but I need to stop him from having access to Mia.

If I could cut off those other jackasses’ access, I would.

Knowing she’s having to deal with that Rog43 and his ilk on the regular isn’t helping my blood pressure.

Fighting the desire to go pick a fight with Callan, I close the screen, snag it under my arm, and head for the door.

A few minutes later, I open Colt’s.

“If I hadn’t forgotten that you were raised in a barn, I’d have warned you that he’s going through a phase,” is his greeting, one that makes my hackles rise.

I stare at him, trying not to imagine how a fight between us would go. I’m strong but Colt’s Colt. He knows all my moves. He taught me most of ‘em.

Losing would piss me off even more.

Huffing, I join him at the window, where he’s leaning with one arm on the sill, a glass of whiskey in his hand.

“Why you can’t knock is beyond me.”

I crack my knuckles as I try to work through myfutilerage. “I forget.”

She. Is. Not. Yours.

“Well, learn not to.”

“You fuckers can lock the door.”

“Or you could knock.”

I sniff. “He went straight to you, huh?”

“Said you stole his laptop.”

---