Page 62 of Fixed Asset

That wasn’t the reaction I was expecting. Out of sheer morbid curiosity, I asked, “Why does that suck for him?”

“Because, Jack, size matters,” she solemnly informed me. “There’s too small, too big, just enough, and holy wow. Women like just enough and holy wow if they find it. But too big is just that—too big. A woman will see that, consider her vagina’s future, and not want the repercussions of too big. Hung like a horse is way too big. Then there’s running; who wants a horse cock between their legs when they’re out for a jog? I mean what does he do, tape that bad boy up so he doesn’t bruise his thighs? And just in case you were wondering, you fall into the holy-wow category.”

Fucking hell, she was funny.

“Good to know.”

“So? Do you think he has a shaft sling that contains it or does he tape?”

A shaft sling . . . good Christ.

As funny as she was, I was done talking about Mason’s dick.

I leaned in, hooked her around the neck, and took her mouth. Then I got her tongue and didn’t let her go until she groaned down my throat, and my dick twitched in warning it was time to get my woman home before I committed a felony and fucked her in my truck in a semipublic parking lot.

On a smile, she said, “I take it you’re done discussing Mason’s package.”

Yeah, I needed to get my woman fed and home.

To conclude the conversation, I closed the door, made my way around the hood, opened the back door, tossed her bag and mine into the back seat, and hauled my ass in.

She was still smiling when I hit the ignition and the dash lit up.

“It pains me to say this, but it’s a sweet ride.”

“I needed something to take up to the mountains when we train.”

“You said you had two trucks.”

I pulled out of the parking spot much slower than Mase and answered, “She’s an old nineteen-seventy-seven square body. The C10’s lowered, wouldn’t make it up the mountain, and I wouldn’t risk her getting dinged up.”

I was pulling out of the lot and rolling to a stop at the red light, waiting to make a right, when Catarina asked, “How far do you live from here?”

I wanted to correct that question to “How far do we live from here?” but I refrained.

“This time of night with no traffic, fifteen minutes. My house is out on the strand.”

“I haven’t been down to San Diego in a while,” she told me. “Is the Gaslamp district still the place to hang?”

“Can’t say I’ve been in that area since I’ve been back. If I go to a bar, I go to the Dirty Plank, and that’s in Imperial Beach.”

“Tell me about the Dirty Plank.”

“Can’t. You have to experience it for yourself. We’ll swing around for lunch before we head up to the mountains.”

Catarina fell silent, but I could feel her eyes on me instead of the sights. Not that there was much to see in this part of town, just a bunch of condos, houses, and palm trees. The beach was too far away, and the mountains were to our southeast.

“Tell me about your family,” she said.

I glanced over at her. She had her body turned facing me, elbow on the center console, chin resting on her palm, fingertips resting on her cheek. In the dim light of the dash, she looked younger than she was—not innocent, but the hard edges had softened. There was no danger lurking, no bad guys to engage, no reason for her to be on alert, so that part of her had shut down. This was a side of her I’d never seen.

From Vegas to Honduras to Belize, there had been moments when I’d seen her relax, but never completely powered down.

“I have an older sister, Anna. She was a biochemical engineer.”

“Was?”

I didn’t miss the uncertainty in Cat’s question.