Page 88 of Cocky Jerk

I’m a man who didn’t realize how empty his arms were until he held the world in them, and Tank is a man who, until now, didn’t realize how full his were. Two men divided by difference yet bound by one woman we consider our world.

Tank opens his eyes and looks at me.

“Thank you,” he rasps.

I nod, but I really should be the one paying thanks here.

Without Tank, there would be no Antonia, and my arms would still be empty.

* * *

“Are you okay?”I ask once we leave the courthouse.

“No, but I will be,” she says, wrapping her arms around my waist. “Thank you for what you did in there.”

“Just evening the score a little,” I murmur, bending my head to press my lips to hers.

Her body melds with mine and I let my mouth linger on hers for a moment. It’s only been a few days, but I missed this.

“Hey,” she says, pulling back an inch.

Her eyes meet mine as she pulls her lower lip between her teeth. Even with her eyes swollen from all the crying she’s been doing, she still manages to steal my breath.

One day you wake up and it just happens.

There’s no rhyme.

No reason.

You wave that white flag and you surrender.

“So, not too long ago, I went on a date with this cop,” she says, releasing her lip and tightening her arms around my waist. “He took me to this little hole in the wall restaurant not too far from here, where they make the best meatball sandwiches and he talked dirty to me and promised to fuck me like a gentleman.”

“Sounds like a catch.”

“Oh, he is, and you know what the best part was? It turns out he’s a man of his word.”

“Fucked you like a gentleman, did he?” I tease, watching as she tosses her head back and laughs. It takes her a minute to sober up, but when she does, her beautiful smile is still intact.

“Yeah, he did,” she says softly. “Turns out he really is a good guy.”

A good guy who still plans on taking those meatballs to go so he can fuck her like the gentleman he is.

Epilogue

Marco

“Did the edible fruit arrangementget there yet?” I ask.

Soraya huffs out an exasperated breath through the line. I’ve been torturing her since early this morning, calling the office and her cell. I’m willing to bet the first thing she does tonight when she gets home is dye her hair whatever shade means angry as fuck these days.

“For the fifth time, I will call you when the fucking fruit arrives. Now, stop calling me, Pirelli.”

“It’s not fruit, it’s melon.”

The line goes dead and I turn back to Tig.

“It still didn’t get there yet. Should I call the place again?”

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