Page 17 of Hot Doggin'
By the time I roll up in front of the garage to pick up Stiles from work, my resentment had left a bitter taste in my mouth. He climbs into my cab, looking sweaty and greasy, smelling like gasoline, and I breathe in a deep whiff. I love that smell. I throw the truck in reverse and back out of the lot, turning up the radio as I head back onto the highway.
Stiles turns it down. “What?”
I glance sideways and frown. “What?”
“Don’t give me what. You know what. What’s bothering you?”
This is the downside to having someone who knows you so well. “Nothing. How do you know something’s bothering me?”
“I can just tell,” Stiles says confidently.
“What are you, fucking clairvoyant?”
Stiles snorts. “I think they call it empath, or empathic?”
“Whatever. I’m fine.”
“I’m going home with you, remember? So you might as well spill it or it’s gonna be a long night.”
Shit. He had a point. “Breanna.”
“Who’s Breanna?”
“Some chick I was talking to today. She don’t wanna date a one-legged bastard like me. Story of my life.” I huff and run a hand through my hair. “She’s also a porn star.”
Stiles looks pissed because I broke his rule. “Shit, what did I tell you about girls whose names end with A?”
“I know, I know! I should have listened.”
“You know what, fuck her. Fuck all of them. Let’s go out tonight. I’m tired of sitting at home watching TV.”
“Yeah?” I glance at him and he smiles. “Alright. Should I invite the guys?”
“No, just me and you. Heading out on the town and scoping out the ladies. They’re all fucking gay, they don’t want to come with us.”
“They’re notallgay,” I laugh.
“We won’t stand a chance against Pharo, and Jax is a moody bitch.”
“Good point.” I'm glad he’s off work. I waited all day to pick him up just so he could make me feel better. Stiles always makes everything better. He reminds me what’s most important.
Bros before hoes. Dicks before chicks. Bitches before witches.
CHAPTER
SIX
STILES
McCormick looks good.He made a concerted effort tonight to stand out and step out after his crushing rejection today.Anotherone. I toss back my Lager as I study him. Short-sleeved black button down that shows off his impressive biceps and tattoos. Fitted jeans and his riding boots. He looks pretty fuckable. I mean, I assume he does, if I were a woman.
His bright orange beard is oiled, combed, and trimmed to perfection and stands out against his dark shirt. You can’t help but notice him in a crowd of guys begging for attention. I just hope it’s enough to get him laid tonight. I’m sick and fucking tired of watching him get rejected. Tired of watching him brush it off like it’s nothing when I know how badly it hurts him.
Why can’t people see what I see?
McCormick is like the puppy of a golden retriever and a rottweiler. Loyal, lovable, and sweet with a good disposition until you piss him off or threaten someone he loves, and then you better watch out because his bark is nowhere near as big as his bite. But he’s sensitive. He does his best to hide it from most people, but constantly getting turned down by women killshis confidence. Makes him feel like shit about himself. Then he starts placing too much emphasis on his disability. I don’t want him thinking there’s anything wrong with him, besides every fucking thing.
That girl Gina he dated last year really fucked him over. He thought she was really into him until she started making ultimatums, demanding he put aside everything he cared about to put her first. Including me! His bike, the Bitches, the ALR—just about everything he holds sacred. Asking him to make little changes like wearing pants instead of shorts to hide his leg in public. Asking him to shave his face clean so he looked more respectable. Basically, asking him not to be himself, to pretend he was someone else.
