Page 7 of Hot Doggin'
His meaty fist connects with my bicep. “Why didn’t you say something?”
Instead of saying, ‘Cause you can’t get laid,’ I just shrug.
“It fucking serves you right, keeping shit from me,” McCormick says smugly.
He's right, and now I feel like a total ass. I just hate telling him I got some when he can't find any. He blames his leg and his scars, and feels like shit about himself. “Sucks about the fleas though,” he laughs, not sounding at all sympathetic.
“Yeah, they're fucking everywhere. I can't even sit on the couch. I think I've got flea bites on my ass.”
McCormick laughs so hard he has to pause the treadmill so he can catch his breath. Even Rhett, who overheard, is laughing.
“You gonna see her again?” Mac asks.
“Nah, she don't like my taste in TV shows and I don't like her dog.”
“You have great taste in TV shows,” he defends.
Of course he'd say that. We watch all the same shows together. “I know, right? Anyway, it was fun while it lasted.” Except it wasn't, because I had to stand while drinking my coffee this morning cause I can't trust my couch.
We power through our lifting routine with the weights until it's time for group. Riggs blows his annoying ass whistle, letting us know it's time. Grabbing our bags, we head down the long hallway to the back of the building where the classrooms are. Nash has Brewer pinned against the wall, practically blocking the doorway as they suck face.
“Can't you find an empty classroom?” I whine.
Brewer chuckles, pulling away from the kiss. “I'll see you after group,” he promises, heading into the classroom next to ours.
Brewer runs the addiction support group, and although Nash is a recovering addict, he prefers to join the Bitches with Stitches. What can I say? Our group is just superior.
“If we were both gay, who would be the top and who would be the bottom?” McCormick asks.
“Jesus Christ, Mac, where do you come up with this shit?”
“I don't know, I can't help it,” he laughs. “My head is full of weird shit.”
“Who says I would be fuckingyouif I was gay?”
“Just hypothetically speaking,” he insists.
“Hypothetically, I think your fucking head is bent.”
Rhett passes us, laughing. “Agreed.”
He watches him pass, followed by Riggs, who heads our meeting. “Which one of them do you think tops and which one bottoms?”
“No, you're not putting this shit in my head! I do not want to think of that.”
He cackles evilly. “What about West and Brandt? Which one of them do you think….”
He’s cut off by the couple in question who sneak up behind him. West gets him in a headlock and drags his knuckles through McCormick's thick orange hair.
“I'll call you over the next time we fuck so you can watch and take notes,” he jokes.
We take our seats around the circle, pulling our yarn and needles from our bags. I'm working on a scarf for my mother for Christmas. McCormick pulls out a deep red ball of yarn. He won't tell me what he's making, but it's usually some kind of sex toy. He has a whole collection of knitted ones that I have no clue what he does with. Nor do I want to know.
“Dude,” he says to Jax, who's already seated two chairs over. “You gotta check out this new spot I found. Off highway nine just after the big turn, right before you get to the little turn. The view is sick.”
How dare he give my spot away! “That's my spot!”What a fucking jackass.
McCormick looks unconcerned. “You said I could borrow it.”
