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“You’ve still got glitter on your nipple,” I point out.
I shiver with pleasure as he blinks in confusion.
Then his deep, rolling laughter fills the night as he wraps both arms around me and pulls me in for a final good night kiss.
XX
STOLEN THUNDER
(AUGUST)
I’m having a dream.
I’m a fireman, sleeping in my bunk at the station during my shift. An alarm’s blaring, waking me up with a start and calling me to action.
There’s a big fire to be put out, the chief bellowing, and I’m supposed to throw on my gear and slide down the pole to hop on the candy-red truck so we can go tearing out into the street to save people’s lives.
Only, it’s a very strange fire station. Everything around me—from the walls to my bunk to the pole across the room—is drawn in clumsy crayon lines.
I think this might be a drawing from when I was a little boy, when I idolized firefighters.
Still, I need to get up, or the crayon-and-paper truck won’t be able to roll to save the crayon-and-paper town—but I can’t.
There’s a cold, wet nose poking me in the forehead over and over as the station dalmatian nudges me. It’s a weird dalmatian, slender and feminine, with golden spots instead of black, and hazel-colored eyes.
Instead of barking, it grins and pokes me with its paw, teasing, “Gruffykiiiiiiins. Wake up. Your phone won’t stop ringing!”
My . . . phone?
My phone.
That’s not my normal ringtone.
That’s—fuck.
That’s the shrill alarm of Rick’s Black Box emergency phone.
The dream clears in an instant, and I bolt upright in bed.
Then my entire home erupts into chaos.
Even as the blasting ringtone ends and starts again with a new incoming call, Elle yelps as my sudden movement tilts her off balance. All I see is a blur of ivory skin and bright-blonde hair tumbling to the floor, dragging the duvet with her.
I lunge for my phone while another ringtone starts screaming from the fuzzy peach bathrobe on the floor. Meanwhile, my doorbell starts dinging like mad.
Shit, what now?
Is there a missile heading for Seattle, or what?
I’m going to get one of Elle’s whopper migraines at this rate.
Tensing, I snatch my phone and swipe the call. Elle wobbles to her knees and presents a distracting view as she crawls across the floor bare assed to work her phone out of her robe.
“Merrick?” I growl into the phone. “What’s happened?”
“Oh my God,” Elle mumbles from the phone, plunking to sit on top of her bathrobe and staring at her screen. “Jesus, not even TikTok’s safe. Why is everyone calling me a ‘gold digger whore’? I’m ... using kids to get to you? Who’s Duetting my migraine at the press conference?”
Shit, shit, and also, shit.
