Page 60 of Hot Doggin'
Moving sucks. Packing sucks. Cleaning sucks. But it’s all worthwhile because I never have to say goodbye to him again and watch him walk out my door for the night.
“We have to stop by the leasing office and terminate my lease.”
I give him a gentle smile. “We did, yesterday. We’re just here to clean and pack today.”
Stiles’s dark brows draw down tight over his eyes. “Don’t let me fuck this up by forgetting shit. It’s important. I don’t want my broken head to ruin this for us.”
“Babe, you’re not gonna fuck this up. Trust me, okay?”
He grins. “I like when you call me babe.”
It takes us twice as long as it should to finish because we can’t stop making out every fifteen minutes. Like a couple of teenagers. All day long I’ve been walking around with this stupid perma-grin on my face, looking like a damn fool.
It feels fucking amazing. Being in love, and with my best friend, so I know it’s real. I can trust this feeling. Stiles isn’t going to run out on me, or change me into someone else, or any of the things that have happened in my past relationships.
We’re solid. Ride or die.
“That’s about it,” Stiles calls from the bathroom. “We’re done.” He walks out carrying a basket of laundry. “We’ve just got to get this stuff washed.” He passes it off to me. “Why don’t you load us up while I turn in the keys at the office?”
“I’ll meet you in the parking lot.”
We end up at the shitty laundromat closer to our place rather than the nicer one near his. After dumping his laundry in the machine, we take our usual seats, with our backs against the wall of glass windows so we can keep an eagle eye on our load. People at this laundromat are notorious for stealing clothes outof the machines. I rub the toe of my boot across the dirty floor. It’s straight up fucking nasty. If you accidentally drop a piece of clothing on this floor when you’re switching machines, you have to wash it again before you can wear it.
The tops of the machines have a layer of dust two inches thick, and the area surrounding the vending machine has dried up snacks and food stuck to the linoleum. It’s been there so long, the ants don’t even want it.
“Someone should clean this shithole up.”
“One hundred percent,” Stiles agrees. “Check out Flavor Flav in the back,” he says, nodding his head in that direction.
He’s talking about the tall skinny white man, wearing black denim shorts and a white T-shirt four sizes too big. He’s holding his pants up with his right hand so they don’t pool around his ankles, and his left hand is clutching the giant gold stopwatch around his neck.
I can barely get the words out around my laughter. “Maybe he’s timing his laundry?”
“Yeah,” Stiles laughs, “that’s it.”
“You want a drink?”
“Nah, I’m good.” Stiles eyes the vending machine warily. “They probably haven’t restocked that soda machine in six years.”
“Probably.” I push to my feet and shuffle over to the vending machine, dropping money into the slot. A green can rolls out the bottom, and I grab it up and pop the top, tilting my head back for that first effervescent sip that makes my mouth tingle. A man walks up, presumably to grab a soda, and pauses to give me a once over. He reads my shirt, ‘Save A Cycle, Ride A Vet’. It’s one of my favorite ALR shirts.
“Did you lose your leg in a motorcycle accident?”
“Afghanistan,” I answer, taking another swig.
“Oh. Thank you for your service.”
“My pleasure.”
When I take my seat beside Stiles, I give him a sideways glance, sizing him up. He’s quiet. Too quiet. “You good?”
“Yeah. My sister called yesterday while I was at work. My nephew’s getting ready to ship out for basic training.”
“Already? Damn, it feels like yesterday we were at his school talking to his JROTC class.”
“Yeah. It snuck up on me.”
His face is drawn tight with tension creating a furrow between his brows. “Hey. He’s gonna be fine.”
