Page 3 of Hot Doggin'
He raises his fist, and I bump it with mine.
“Ride or die.”
That was our pact. We ride together, we die together, and generally annoy the fuck out of each other on the days in between. There’s no one I would rather have by my side. In the most unlikely ways, McCormick and I are perfectly suited for each other.
He’s the sunshine to my grumpiness. I have common sense to his impracticality. He reminds me of all the little shit I forget. I try to get him to eat healthier and take better care of himself. He finds all the best shows on TV for us to watch. I keep up with the maintenance on his bike. He handles all of my endless and exasperating VA paperwork. I do my best to be his wingman so he can get laid more than once a year.
We’re perfectly in sync in the most imperfect ways. But I wouldn’t change a thing.
I glance over at him, admiring the way the setting sun behind him appears to make a glowing inferno around his head, setting his red hair on fire.
“Quit worrying about what you were and what you’re not and just be who you are.”
“Yeah?” He looks at me with this small smile that’s contagious.
“Yeah. Ain’t a fucking thing wrong with you, besides everything.”
He grins, his bright white teeth a stark contrast against his orange beard. “You fucking love me.”
I do.
CHAPTER
TWO
MCCORMICK
“You naughty boys and girls,are you holding your big hard sticks? I am. Just look at how beautiful he is,” she purrs in her honey-smooth voice. I wish she would whisper like that in my ear.
She strokes the thick wood with her slender fingers and long pointy red nails, and I groan, wishing it was my cock. She probably couldn’t wrap her entire hand around it. I’m girthy, but it fits inmybig meaty fist just fine. Stroking it just like she’s stroking her wooden stick, I tip my head back and breathe out a satisfied sigh. Feels so fucking good.
“Be gentle now,” she warns. “Learn to handle your stick with care.”
Yeah, handle me carefully.
My head whips up when there’s a knock at my door. “Fuck, terrible timing.”
It’s either Mrs. Cartwright next door, or Stiles. Pressing my eye to the peephole in the door, I see that it’s Stiles.
I can’t even be aggravated because when I open it, he’s holding up a brown paper bag splotched with grease stains, andI can smell how delicious it is without even knowing what’s in there.
“You brought food?”
“Steak sandwiches and onion rings.”
“Sweet! I was just about to boil some hotdogs.”
“I know,” he mumbles.
“I could eat that shit every night and not get tired of it.”
“I know,” he mumbles again.
Stiles plops his ass down on my couch and opens up the bag. I take a seat next to him, sliding my knitting stuff aside, and close my laptop.
He sniffs the air. “What’s that smell?” We both take another deep sniff, but I have no clue what he’s smelling. I took the trash out earlier.
“Smells like sex.” He eyes the laptop and the yarn. “Dude, are you jacking off to Betty Beasley again?” His gaze falls on my crotch as if he can tell just by looking what I was doing ten minutes ago.
