Yup, it was Kit and his Daddy. Kit was obsessed with military stuffs.
“Mine’s charging.”
“All right… Uh, lemme read. This here?”
“Yes, Sir.”
They were clearly busy, so maybe I should go wait out front.
“This comment’s wrong,” Mister Colt said.
“Crap. That’s mine.”
“Sorry, baby. But at that many Gs, you’ll lose blood in your brain, you’ll gray out?—”
“But you’ve spoken about six point seven and eight before.” Uh-oh, Kit wasn’t happy.
“Not with this aircraft,” Colt responded. “I’d say no more than six point five. After that, you’re overstressing it. Flight’s over. Consider that dive—you’re going from 8000 feet to, what, 3000? It’s immense pressure at 450 miles per hour.”
Kit huffed. “They should fly F-18s instead, then.”
Colt chuckled. “Then it woulda been a different story—hold on. Where are you goin’ now?”
“To admit I was wrong,” Kit grumbled. “Consider me flying up to lame-duck territory.”
That made Mister Colt laugh.
No ducks were lame, but I appreciated the mention. Ducks were awesome and should be discussed on a daily basis.
Ash never mentioned ducks. That irked me. Never about seeing any cute ducks in special places like his glovebox, in his pants, in his lunch box, at home…
Huff.
I turned around again and headed for the exit—only to come to a stop when I heard people coming down the stairs.
“No, let’s go out front,” someone said. “The shit stains from the Brat Squad are always on the patio. I think I saw Kit when we arrived.”
Whoa! Was that the troll? I hurried over to the edge of the doorway so I could hide.
“What’s wrong with Kit?” someone else asked. “I’ve only seen him clown off online—and talk about airplanes.”
“Oh, please. The rich guy who’s never suffered a day in his life suddenly bags two Doms? He’s hardly any better than Noa.”
“You don’t sound bitter at all, mate,” the friend chuckled. “There’s something about you and that Noa bloke. Didn’t you bottom for his Daddy Dom last year?”
I poked my head out a little from behind the doorframe, but I couldn’t see them. Wait—never mind. They reached the bottom steps just then, and they were carrying what looked like one of those portable X-crosses.
“We never got that far,” the dipshit replied quietly. “We played a little nonsexually, but he has this rule where he doesn’t get intimate with anyone the first few weeks.”
Um. That wasn’t true. Noa had told me about the day he and Mister KC finally got together. And all the group-play events that’d ensued.
“You’re not friends with them, are you?” the dipshit wondered.
“Fuck no,” the friend laughed. “They’re ridiculous with their constant bratting, but I don’t let them bother me like you do.”
Okay, so they were both dipshits. Dipshit motherfuckers!
Why were they being so mean? Kit and Gael had said there was very little drama at House Mclean.
