Page 13 of Frog Hog

Chapter Six

Valen

“I get a little stuffy after work trips. Sorry about that,” Hutch says, tossing a handful of popcorn into his mouth—his whole persona carefree and relaxed. The man is like a light switch, two different people at the same time.

“Stuffy? That was stuffy? I mean I guess if you trade a letter, you can spell stiffy. What happens after deployment? You were only gone a week. Should I expect to be a sex slave for several weeks after six months?”

Hutch tosses me a look, one eyebrow raised. It makes me laugh uncontrollably. “You know I’m game, but I do have a life to live and money to make.” Holding my stomach, I catch my breath as I deliver my weak rebuttal. I’d be his sex slave any day of the week. If the way he finger bangs has anything to say about his sex; I’m in for a real, sweet treat.

He groans. “Fine. Fine. I guess you can be your own person if you really need that to survive. It’s been a while since I’ve had a person to come home to. I forgot how it feels to touch down and only want one thing.” My core clenches. Legitimately, tightens and loosens a few times, like a pre-orgasm, at hearing his admission.

“One thing?”

He eats more popcorn and swallows hard. “Yeah. You.”

Lady boner. “As flattered as I am, I think you need to tell me about the last time you had someone you came home to.” Tackling the hard subjects like exes and hoes is something all couples do. Even If I’d rather not know details, I know Greer will ask. Clearing my throat, I watch him mess with the drive-in speaker hanging from the window.

“I’m not married, anymore,” he says, voice flat. My hands wad into fists by my sides. He’s older. I suspected something along these lines already, didn’t I? “After her, I only messed around casually. I haven’t really dated at all.”

Choking on a kernel, I blurt out, “Why?”

Hutch takes my hand in his buttery one. “Why what? Why am I not married anymore?” His look pierces me to the core.

I shake my head furiously. “Why didn’t you date? I’m not ready for the reasons behind failed marriages, yet. You can hold on to that for a little while longer.” Like, forever. What if he’s a controlling asshole? He did just crack a joke about making me a sex slave. Oh, fuck. Hutch isn’t good at relationships. A failed marriage. “Dating. Stick to why you don’t date.” My voice squeaks like a kindergartner with strep throat.

Wiping his hands off on a napkin he sets the popcorn in the back seat and turns toward me. “We weren’t compatible. She couldn’t handle my lifestyle. I didn’t chase her around the house with a baseball bat, foaming at the mouth, Valen,” he explains. He’s obviously not satisfied his fingers are clean because he dips them in his mouth to suck the salty remnants off. The sight makes me shift in my seat.

“That’s why you were so adamant about how much you’re gone,” I say. I could have made that leap without this information, but it does focus his intentions more clearly.

“I didn’t date after because most women require too much…time. I don’t have a lot of that. When you came along, searching for someone like me, well, I guess you could say it was a match made in heaven. You have the understanding most others don’t. Even if it’s by means I’m not happy about.” Hutch unfolds my death grip and brings my hand up to his lips. He presses a cool kiss on the back. “Just trying to keep things real. Canyouhandle it? That’s what needs answering.”

My arm is limp. It would do anything he told it to. Kill a man? Okay, which weapon will you put in my hand? “I can handle anything. Not because I enjoy challenges, either. Because I think we can be something special.”

The speaker hanging in the window is blaring about the concession stand and there’s an announcement that the movie will begin soon. The scratchy voice breaks the tension in the air. Hutch doesn’t respond. He turns his head to look out the window. There are virtually no other cars around us and I know it was a purposeful move. “Do you agree?”

“You’re not going to ask me anymore questions about my past?” Hutch scrunches his brow and bites his pillow soft lip.

Crossing and uncrossing my legs, I draw attention to my bare thighs and the skirt I wore for this most momentous occasion. “Honest War,” I deadpan. His gaze flicks from my upper thighs to my face.

He nods.

“It scares me that you have baggage that heavy, but it doesn’t affect us. We can let things progress between us on their own time. I’ll admit that it made me think you probably suck at relationships, but that’s also due to the fact you admitted you didn’t date.” I lean over and grab a handful of popcorn and play it cool.

This isn’t a big deal. I’m surely not falling for this man. Falling doesn’t happen like this. It’s scripted. Hutch and I are so far off script it isn’t even funny. “There are a lot of things in life you should be scared of. I’m not one of them. I don’t suck at relationships, Valen. I only take on ones that I’m sure I can make work. That’s the difference. Realists have a very thorough approach. Why don’t you tell me a little bit about your past?” He doesn’t say men, but I know that’s what he wants to know.

“I was born and raised in San Diego. I like scuba diving and coffee dates. I enjoy riding my bicycle down to the beach and sunbathing to kill an afternoon. Greer comes to visit or I go to see her once a month at the very least. She’s my best friend and one of the few friends I have. My parents made me learn how to ballroom dance as a teenager so I can waltz like I’m floating on a goddamn cloud, and I can probably do anything to or with a computer you can conceive.”

He’s smiling, the side of his face stilted with one hand. His elbow is propped on the steering wheel and his body is angled toward the passenger seat. “Varied skills,” he remarks, pushing his lips to the side. “Something trivial now.”

I mimic his head tilt. Licking my lips, I offer a grin before crossing my legs again. “I have a vibrator named Vincent. He gets me through dry spells.” Literally and figuratively. It’s not a terribly trivial fact. Honestly, I use that damn vibe more than I’d ever care to admit.

He furrows his brow and scratches his head. “That’s a weird name. Why Vincent?”

The projector begins, previews lighting up our faces in the dark car. Hutch turns the volume down on the speaker, and focuses his attention back on my face. “You know how Vincent Van Gogh sliced off the bottom of his ear because he was plagued by depression and loneliness?” I ask, nibbling my lower lip.

Hutch widens his eyes. “Okay?”

“Well, Vincent prevents that from happening to me,” I explain. “It’s a joke, Hutch. Don’t look at me like I’m going to grab a razor and slice off your ear.”

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