faded t-shirt tight across his chest, which got the attention of the local trolls. He ignored them. They’d get excited if someone stuck a cardboard cutout of Eisenhower in here. All they were interested in was a military benefits package. As long as their prey was wearing a uniform, they didn’t really care.
Fortunately, they were easy to deal with. Standard operating procedure was to head off to a hotel room to “handle business,” give them the number to a pay-as-you-go cell, then spend the next morning bleeding the minutes dry texting your squad about the night prior. After a couple of years, he was pretty practiced at it. He just didn’t feel like dealing with it tonight.
Casually, his gaze rolled back to the boys. They were just ramping up to decide who got who. He sighed and gestured for a refill.
“Third one of the night. You’re on a roll,” the bartender said with a sassy grin.
“Darlin’, you ain’t seen anything yet.” He gave her a wink and took the full glass with him. Sliding in beside Rod and Parra, he gestured to his drink. “Sorry, had to burn a few off before I was good n’ ready. So…who are we?” he asked the ladies with a practiced smile and a shitload of false sincerity.
“I’m Diana…”
“Stephanie…”
By the third name, Michael had stopped listening and just smiled in the appropriate places. Already he could see the sparkle of calculation in their eyes as they tried to work out who was the highest ranked in the group and thus earned the most money.
“Oh, and Jasmine just went to powder her nose ,” one of them announced, waving in the vague direction of the ladies’ room before she leaned forward and gave them all a good view of her cleavage. Like balloons stuck on a twig. Michael stuck his nose in his glass again.
He took a long, hard drag of his drink and suppressed the sigh that wanted to inflate his chest. He was starting to feel pretty buzzed and his apathy was in full gear. He leaned over to Parra and gave him a soft nudge of the elbow.
“They’re all yours. I’ll take the wildcard.”
Parra glanced at him like he was sick in the head. “You never take the wildcard.”
Michael shrugged. “Eh, just not feeling this bunch. You guys have your pick. I’ll take the leftovers.”
Parra didn’t argue. No one wanted to be saddled with the wildcard, the unknown in any bunch, much less asked for it. He took the busty one dead center, saddling up on the couch next to her and wrapping an arm around her shoulders. The rest descended like vultures on a fresh kill.
Without a lady to cozy up to, Michael sat in a tall chair just off the dance floor with his glass. Idly he scanned the female populace, just in case there was anyone who either caught his eye or who he felt the need to tear the clothes off for a night of hot and sweaty sex.
His gaze had just swept the dance floor and dismissed all possibilities when the door to the ladies’ room opened. The wildcard.
Michael looked up and the glass paused halfway to his lips.
It was the hair that drew him in at first. Dark as obsidian, it was soft and wavy, not fancy. Simple, and Michael was in the mood for simple. Just one look at her and his cock stirred with interest.
He wasn’t even past the hair when her dark eyes hit him. Exotic, they looked either Latin or Asian. Maybe a mix of both? He’d seen his fair share of Latin being around the guys. She could pass, but not entirely. It was a blend of drop-dead-sexy with slightly sophisticated, and a dash of innocence all tossed into one tightly sealed packaged he wanted to rip into.
The lips, oh God, were they full. He’d kissed a lot of women in his day, and those lips were the set he wanted now. Nice, full, and pert, like Angelina Jolie had just handed them out on loan. He’d have to write to Angie later and thank her for her generosity.
The wildcard was dressed in slacks and a simple blouse for going out. Black, nothing fancy or tacky like the rest of her
Fortunately, they were easy to deal with. Standard operating procedure was to head off to a hotel room to “handle business,” give them the number to a pay-as-you-go cell, then spend the next morning bleeding the minutes dry texting your squad about the night prior. After a couple of years, he was pretty practiced at it. He just didn’t feel like dealing with it tonight.
Casually, his gaze rolled back to the boys. They were just ramping up to decide who got who. He sighed and gestured for a refill.
“Third one of the night. You’re on a roll,” the bartender said with a sassy grin.
“Darlin’, you ain’t seen anything yet.” He gave her a wink and took the full glass with him. Sliding in beside Rod and Parra, he gestured to his drink. “Sorry, had to burn a few off before I was good n’ ready. So…who are we?” he asked the ladies with a practiced smile and a shitload of false sincerity.
“I’m Diana…”
“Stephanie…”
By the third name, Michael had stopped listening and just smiled in the appropriate places. Already he could see the sparkle of calculation in their eyes as they tried to work out who was the highest ranked in the group and thus earned the most money.
“Oh, and Jasmine just went to powder her nose ,” one of them announced, waving in the vague direction of the ladies’ room before she leaned forward and gave them all a good view of her cleavage. Like balloons stuck on a twig. Michael stuck his nose in his glass again.
He took a long, hard drag of his drink and suppressed the sigh that wanted to inflate his chest. He was starting to feel pretty buzzed and his apathy was in full gear. He leaned over to Parra and gave him a soft nudge of the elbow.
“They’re all yours. I’ll take the wildcard.”
Parra glanced at him like he was sick in the head. “You never take the wildcard.”
Michael shrugged. “Eh, just not feeling this bunch. You guys have your pick. I’ll take the leftovers.”
Parra didn’t argue. No one wanted to be saddled with the wildcard, the unknown in any bunch, much less asked for it. He took the busty one dead center, saddling up on the couch next to her and wrapping an arm around her shoulders. The rest descended like vultures on a fresh kill.
Without a lady to cozy up to, Michael sat in a tall chair just off the dance floor with his glass. Idly he scanned the female populace, just in case there was anyone who either caught his eye or who he felt the need to tear the clothes off for a night of hot and sweaty sex.
His gaze had just swept the dance floor and dismissed all possibilities when the door to the ladies’ room opened. The wildcard.
Michael looked up and the glass paused halfway to his lips.
It was the hair that drew him in at first. Dark as obsidian, it was soft and wavy, not fancy. Simple, and Michael was in the mood for simple. Just one look at her and his cock stirred with interest.
He wasn’t even past the hair when her dark eyes hit him. Exotic, they looked either Latin or Asian. Maybe a mix of both? He’d seen his fair share of Latin being around the guys. She could pass, but not entirely. It was a blend of drop-dead-sexy with slightly sophisticated, and a dash of innocence all tossed into one tightly sealed packaged he wanted to rip into.
The lips, oh God, were they full. He’d kissed a lot of women in his day, and those lips were the set he wanted now. Nice, full, and pert, like Angelina Jolie had just handed them out on loan. He’d have to write to Angie later and thank her for her generosity.
The wildcard was dressed in slacks and a simple blouse for going out. Black, nothing fancy or tacky like the rest of her
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