Page 35 of Crazy Good
Yes. I want you sleeping in my bed every night.
A long few seconds pass.Sleeping sleeping? Or sleeping?
Sex is always there. In every single moment we’re together or just merely talking. It’s the elephant in the fucking room.I promise to make you come twice every single night. I want to be little spoon.I grin as I shoot off the text. Stone’s waving me to the truck, trying to pack up to leave the beach.
Okay. I’m bringing my other boyfriend with me then.I ignore Stone’s shouts, because I only see red. Before I can type a text back and hit send another of hers comes through.
Battery operated boyfriend, Mav. Get yo’ panties out of a wad. He has no problem going Windsor diving. Maybe you could help me with him? Sometimes he gets out of hand. :)
Fuck yes. I pop wood just thinking about it.Yes. Please.
I miss you so much. I want you in my arms. I miss your smile. You’re so miss-able.My heart does that weird hammering thing it always does when it comes to Windsor. I read the text a few more times. And I smile, because if she misses it, I’ll do it constantly to make her happy. I want to text her back and tell her how missing her is worse than any sort of torture I’ve had to endure in my life. I want to tell her inside her arms are where I’m happiest, where I want to call home. I should tell her I love her and that I want to make love to her the second I’m back. But I still can’t say any of those things. Time is running out, too. I’ll be down range trying to do my job and I’ll be drowning in all the words that I couldn’t say. Stone is right. I need to clear my fucking head.
I say the only thing I can that encompasses it all without actually saying it. I’ve said it once before and I think she knows what it means.You’re everything to me. See you tomorrow, baby. 5 p.m. Airport.
I unzip the top of my wetsuit, pull out my arms, and sit on a towel in the passenger seat. A few minutes pass without a message back. We’re rolling down the freeway, the beach passing alongside us as we head back to Coronado. Stone is hammering the steering wheel pretending it’s a drum, beating along to an old rock song. I smile. My phone chimes a few minutes later.
Her message reads,You’re everything, too.There it is. Just as good as I love you, too, but it’s not. And it’s my fucking fault.
“Let’s go get new tats,” Stone says, breaking up my thoughts of Windsor and my inability to tell someone I’m attached to them.
A new tat is exactly what I need. The sting of the needle, something permanent etched on my body. It’s fucking genius. I canshowWindsor how much she means to me. Pulling out the big guns is what needs to happen. I’ll be gone for six months. That’s a long ass time for her to wait for me in the real world, with every male clawing for her attention. She’s oblivious to her beauty. It only makes things worse. The dolphin dick tattoo was a joke.
I pull out my phone and Google search something. I know exactly what tat I want to get and where. This will be a grand gesture she can’t ignore. She’ll know I’m hers. All hers. Forever. Permanently.
Stone screams out a few lyrics. “I want to get a lobster body with Morg’s face. She’ll fucking love it,” he says, patting his forearm where he plans on getting the monstrosity that Morganna will surely hate. She’ll come around, like she always does with his dumbass body art, but I would pay money to see her face when she sees a lobster with her head. Fuck yes. Hell fucking yes.
I smile wide. “That’s the best idea you’ve ever had,” I tell him. It probably is. He usually comes up with stupid fucking schemes. Like the time he wanted to hold donkey races at our camp in Afghanistan. Or when he thought bringing a filthy puppy from a surrounding village back to our base would be a good idea. We had fleas in our tent for weeks. Fucking asshole dropped the dog off at least eight miles away after everyone got pissed at him. Do you know that damn dog came back? It was in Stone’s bed one morning weeks after he’d dumped it. He said it was because it was a female puppy—woman can’t resist him, even dogs. Idiot. Tattoos are always a better idea than anything he comes up with.
We hit up our favorite tat shop in San Diego. We both left with white bandages and huge smiles. I paid for both of the tats because I lost credit card roulette. We threw our cards in a hat and the artist drew one out. Of course it was mine. I don’t mind. I owe Stone more than I could pay him in a damn lifetime.
“She’s going to drop her panties the second she sees it,” Stone drawls. I clap him on this shoulder, still smiling.
“Panty dropping isn’t the problem, man. It’s keeping them on her that’s the issue,” I tease. Windsor dancing naked pops into my head. I yank out my phone to check for messages. I glance at Stone’s bandaged forearm and shake my head. Morg is going to shit when she sees his newart.“Morganna is going to sue your ass when she gets one look at that.” I point to his arm.
The artist did a good job. The best he could have done. It still doesn’t negate the lobster wearing a bikini with his wife’s face and hair. He pulled a photo off her attorney website to show the artist. So Morganna looks like a fucking shark, no smile, all serious bitch face. Both are underwater animals at least.
My tat is understated and small. It means something. It’s on my body, but it’s not for me, nope. It belongs to someone else.
*****
The bar the guys chose is so fucking loud. It’s a good blend of people. The girls in San Diego are always a mixed variety. There are the surfer girls with the jean cut-off shorts so short you see ass cheeks. Then there are the ones who wear mini dresses and fifty-inch heels to a bar.
I’m not checking them out. Steve and a few of the other guys are pointing them out, telling me I should go fishing for them. When I told them they could get their own bags for the night, they got pissy. We’re in a corner of the bar, all fifteen of us, surrounding the largest table. Security looks at us every other second. We look like a bunch of drunk swinging dicks with more muscle than they can deal with. They’re praying we don’t fight each other. Or anyone else for that matter. They won’t fuck with us. We’re loud. We’re obnoxious and we can be. That’s end of fucking story. A few mini dresses approach the table. They’re decent looking. I would have bagged them. Maybe even at the same time. Before. Way before. Steve swoops in and makes some loud joke, and offers a compliment to each one of them. They blush and giggle. Putty. It makes my stomach hurt at the haunting reminder.
I got you a present.I text Windsor, my heart racing—half from thinking of her reaction and the other half is adrenaline, coursing through me like my favorite drug.
You are my present. (But I’m excited for a gift too!) I’m in a late meeting right now. Ugh.
I’ll let you unwrap it. Is my friend Garrett Garththere?It’s like 11 p.m. on the east coast. I’m immediately suspicious. I glance up. I feel eyes on me. One of the mini dresses is smiling that smile. Directly at me. The one that says she wants my attention, now and later. I’m not a dickhead, so I smile back. I wish I were smiling at someone else. Old habits die hard. The blonde woman walks toward me; her heels and obvious drunkenness cause her to saunter more than walk. Steve gleams at me over his shoulder and I know he sent her over here as a fucking test. Still no return text from Windsor.
“Hi, I’m Lexi,” the blonde woman says. I glance down at my phone when I see that Windsor’s typing back.
I meet her gaze. “I’m Maverick. Nice to meet you,” I say extending my hand for her to shake. My hand engulfs her tiny one, her bright pink nails standing out.
“Your girlfriend?” she asks, nodding at my phone. She’s cutting right to the chase. You have to admire a woman who knows exactly what she wants. It’s easy.
I smile the big smile. I slide my cell into the pocket of my jeans. “It is my girlfriend,” I admit. It feels good to call her my girlfriend. But I find myself noticing other things about Lexi.
