Page 27 of Hot Doggin'
Stiles sets his burger down on his plate and sucks his fingers clean. “I keep trying to figure out why I’m not freaking out.”
“Have you never thought of me like that? Ever?”
“I mean, I thought damn, he looks good tonight when you’re dressed up for a date. Or, Christ he has a fat cock when I see you wear tight boxers, but that’s not the same thing as I want to suck his cock. You know? But then you kissed me and it felt like the easiest thing in the world. Also, the hottest. It just clicked and I think…” Again, he glances around “… I think I was just bullshitting myself all these years. It was easier to follow the status quo than to shake things up. I was in denial.”
I wipe my mouth on a napkin and smirk. “It’s not just a river in Egypt.”
“Glad to know you were paying attention in third grade Geography. Your turn. How long, Mac?”
“It all started when…”
“Gentleman,” Craig interrupts. And I’m cracking up because now I don’t have to answer him.
“I’m not through with you,” he threatens.
“I hope not.” I shoot him a playful wink and he kicks my leg under the table. The prosthetic one. I hope he hurt his toes against all that carbon fiber.
Craig bends down, bracing one hand on the table and the other on my back. “We’re honored you chose to ride with us today. I know how much loyalty you have for BALLS.”
I could make a joke here, but I won’t. Of course, Stiles can read me like a book. He sends me a warning glare. “It's alright. They have plenty of people to march with them in the parade. And the parade route ends in their parking lot, so we’ll be there to help out with the festivities afterward. They’re planning a family day.”
“It's a great organization,” he says. “A few of our brothers chose to march with them today instead of riding with us, but it’s all good. In the end, representing vets is all that matters.”
“One hundred percent.” I fist bump his knuckles.
Craig walks away, and no one usurps his spot. We’re a tight group, but Stiles and I usually keep to ourselves. I keep an eye out for Barbie, but thankfully she’s absent today. About forty-five minutes later, we climb on our bikes and pull out of the lot in a double file line, keeping formation as we merge onto the parade route behind the Boy Scouts. They pass out candy to kids lined up along the sidewalks, but they drop a shit ton of lollipops and candy along the street that ends up getting crunched beneath my front tire.
Stiles laughs at me, knowing how it fucks with my OCD. My apartment can look as if a hurricane got hold of it, but my truck and my bike are spotless. Always.
I’ll have to scrub her down later.
Black Mountain turned out in style, dressed in red, white, and blue, waving American flags and banners that depict branches of the military.
A tightness squeezes my chest. It’s pride. Respect. Honor. I’m part of this community of vets who served. I lost my leg. It changed my entire life. This day is a celebration of my sacrifice. It’s a celebration of my buddy’s lost life. It’s a celebration of the life I still have after nearly losing it.
I glance at Stiles, and he shoots me a wink. How does he do that?! I swear he’s clairvoyant. What did he call it? Empathetic? Whatever. I’m convinced he can read minds.
We ride through the center of town, past coffee shops and boutiques, past the Black Mountain Tavern and the post office. All the businesses have decorated their storefronts for Veteran’s Day. I love living here. The small-town feel, fresh mountain air, and unrivaled views make it the best little city anywhere. I stumbled upon Black Mountain accidentally after my service, when I came here to rehab at BALLS, and I’m never leaving. This is home to me now. It’s a far cry from Flagstaff, Arizona, where I grew up. But with both my parents gone, I have no reason to return there.
The blistering sun burns the back of my neck and cheeks, and I wipe the sweat from my brow with the back of my hand. Stiles reaches behind him and pulls a tube of sunblock from his saddle bag, tossing it to me. He always carries it with him because he knows I forget. My pale skin burns just thinking about the sun.
When we pull into the BALLS parking lot, the place is already crowded with parade-goers and vets. I park my bike beside Stiles’s and search out the Bitches. Jax is in step right behind us. He rode a ways back in the parade, but that’s Jax. He likes to keep to himself.
Brandt flags us. We approach the blue canopy and when I get a look at what they’ve got going on, at the shit spread across the table, I slow my steps. A line of kids block the front of the table.
“Grab a glue gun and jump in,” he urges, looking harassed. West’s hands are covered in glitter and bits of brightly colored tissue paper.
“Whatever that is,” I point to the project in his hands, “I don’t want none of it.”
Brandt laughs, more of a scoff, really, and shoves a bunch of pipe cleaners at me. “Shut up and make this into an American flag.”
Turning over the red and blue fuzzy stems in my hands, I shake my head. Not even God is that talented, and certainly not me. “Who’s bright idea was it to have us man the arts and crafts table?”
Brandt smirks. “Riggs.”
“Fucking figures. Where is he, anyway?”
“Manning the grill,” Jax says, pointing down the sidewalk.
