Page 9 of Hot Doggin'
“Okay,” Riggs says, cutting off the rest of his sharing. “Anyone have anything of value to say? Jax?” Jax waves him off, shaking his head. “Pharo?” He also shakes his head. “Fine, then we’ll wrap it up early.”
“Hey, Riggs,” I call, crossing the circle to him. I tug at my shorts, pulling them partway down my ass. “Are these flea bites on my ass? Or is it something else I should be concerned about?” He would know with his medical background.
His face scrunches in distaste. “Pull your fucking pants up, Stiles. I don’t wanna see your ass. You should be more concerned abouthowyou got flea bites on your ass.”
“Oh, I know exactly how I got them. I sat on that?—”
“Nooooo,” Riggs called loudly, covering his ears. “Can’t hear you.”
Shrugging it off, I tug my pants back up. “Do you wanna grab lunch?” I ask McCormick.
“Sure do. Let’s hit that Mexican place again. And when we’re done, we can head back to my house and I can take pictures of your butt and Google them on Web MD.”
“You two scare the fuck out of me,” West says, shaking his head.
“One hundred percent,” Jax agrees.
CHAPTER
FOUR
STILES
“Fuck, that’s hot.”Grabbing a hot pocket from the toaster, I juggle it in my hands until it’s cool enough to touch. Crumbs fall all over the beat-to-shit Formica counter. On the first bite, I burn my tongue, and then have to do some weird Lamaze breathing to cool my mouth down. I finish it one-handed as I throw stuff into a cardboard box. My meds, all six bottles. My favorite mug that says, “I’ve got a profile for that, Sarge,” and my to-go packets of hot sauce I pilfered from the drive-through chicken place.
I can’t eat shit without hot sauce on it. It's probably from my time in the Army, when I used to put hot sauce on everything to disguise the terrible taste, especially the MREs. How West eats those things willingly is beyond me.
That’s about all that’s worth taking from the kitchen. I move on to the bathroom, chucking my razor and shaving cream, toothpaste and toothbrush, my comb, beard oil, and my trimmers into the box. I debate whether I should take the last roll of toilet paper with me when my phone rings.
“Yeah?” I answer.
”What are you doing?”
Fucking McCormick. I swear to Christ he can’t go a full hour without checking in.
“Packing.”
Dead silence, and then… “Packing?” I have his attention now. “Where the fuck you think you’re going?”
“To the motel down the street.”
“Hot date?”
“Fucking fleas. I told you, this place is infested. My landlord is kicking me out so she can fumigate.”
“Exterminate,” he corrects me.
“Pretty sure it’s fumigate.”
“Whatever, I gotta go.”
So fucking weird. Why the fuck did he call me if he was just going to hang up on me?
Fifteen minutes later, I figure out why. I’ll bet ten bucks that whoever’s knocking on my door is most likely him.
As soon as I open it, I wish I hadn’t.
”The fuck is wrong with you?” he barks.
