Page 5 of Hot Doggin'
“Sure. Why not? I gotta change the oil in my bike first though.”
“We’ll stop by my shop in the morning and I’ll change it.”
“By morning, you mean like noon, right?”
Stiles chuckles. “That’s exactly what I meant.”
I finish off my sandwich, suck the grease from my fingers, and wipe them clean on my shorts. “You done eating?”
Stiles shoves the last bite in his mouth and wipes his fingers on his shirt. The opening credits roll on the show, and I turn the volume up before setting the remote down on the table. “You mind if we do that thing?”
Stiles chuffs and rolls his eyes. He settles into the couch, opening up his lap, and rests his arms along the back. “Go get your blanket,” he huffs.
“First, I gotta make sure I locked the door.” Can’t trust those Bitches not to bust in here without knocking.
After checking if the door is locked and the chain is set, I grab my throw blanket from my bedroom and sit back down. Sliding off the carbon fiber socket from my thigh, I prop my prosthetic against the side of the couch, but choose to leave my protective sleeve on so I can slide back into my leg when the show ends and Stiles leaves. I rest my head on Stiles’s thick thighs and he arranges the blanket over my legs, smiling at the silly hot dog pattern. He gifted it to me on my last birthday. The dark hair on his legs tickles my cheek. He smells like motor oil and sweat—like heaven.
“You know this never happened, right? If anyone ever finds out about this, we’ll never live it down,” Stiles warns.
“No shit. It’s not like I’m gonna tell anyone I need buddy cuddles. Quiet, or we’re gonna miss the intro.”
I hate to admit that I’m touch-starved and lonely, but if you can’t say those things to your best friend, who can you say them to? I know Stiles won’t judge me. He’s likely as lonely as I am. He doesn’t complain about being my body pillow, and I try not to make it weird by asking him to rub my head. But sometimes he does anyway. Usually, about halfway through the episode, his fingers absentmindedly find their way into my hair and brush the short spiky strands. I’m usually asleep before the show is over.
“Hey, did that girl ever call you back? You never said.”
Stiles snorts. “If she’d called me back, I’d have said.”
What the fuck is wrong with girls in this town? Can they not see this man is a catch? He’s loyal, honest to a fault, funny, and there’s not a thing he can’t fix on your bike. Stiles is a keeper. “Whatever. Fuck her. Listen, if you have to take a piss, do it before I fall asleep.” He chuckles and reaches between his legs to adjust himself. I must’ve been dangerously close to his junk. “Hey,” I add, “thanks for bringing dinner.”
“You gonna run your mouth through the whole show, or are you gonna pipe down so I can listen?”
I make the silent motion of locking my mouth and throwing away the key, and he laughs again. We both know it’s bullshit. I can’t stay quiet for long.
When it comes to eligible women, the pickings might be slim in Black Mountain, but if I ever find one who has seven out of ten of the qualities my best friend has, I’ll marry her in a hot minute.
That is, if I have Stiles’s blessing.
CHAPTER
THREE
STILES
I tightenthe last screw on the soft tail I’ve been working on for the past two days and wipe my hands clean on a rag just in time to grab my phone when it dings.
Mac:
We gonna workout our balls?
Mac:
*at
I laugh at his typo. McCormick’s fingers are as thick as mine—Not conducive to texting.
Let’s meet @4 so we can get an hour in before group.
I love BALLS.
