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I wave him and his fuck-ass saying off. “Find that on another pillow, did you?”

“Yeah, and on the back it said: Don’t be a pussy.”

With that, he disappears inside, taking that rumored “healthy masculinity” with him.

What a load of shit.

Regarding Kota’s car and it’s dusty, definitely worn-down tires has me cursing out loud. All the orgasms in the world aren’t going to distract from the fact that not one of these is new.

Maybe a pass through the car wash and some tire shine will help.

Goddamn it. If that’s not manipulation, I don’t know what is.

Looks like I’m not getting next week off after all.

My smile is automatic as Miss Pep and Step bounds up to me after camp, not just from seeing her after several hours but seeing her like this—cheeks flushed, eyes bright. The girl loves cheer.

A few other cheerleaders look between us as they pass to their own cars, their gazes lingering longer on me. I’m wearing a snug white T-shirt, so it’s probably the tattoos. They’re not great tattoos either. A buddy of mine did them, most while I was drunk, some while he was. He’s a decent artist, so they’re not total ass, but a lot of the lines could be cleaner and there are entire sections that are raised thanks to the cheap ink he used.

“Bye, Scoops,” one girl calls in this direction, getting a wave in return from Kota.

“Scoops?” I ask her.

“It’s a nickname. Don’t ask.”

“I have to. Why Scoops?”

With a sigh, she reluctantly explains, “There was a week, freshman year, where I was obsessed with Scoops chips, okay? That’s it.”

I can’t even imagine Kota tearing into a bag of corn chips, let alone multiple.

“A week?”

“Literally a week.”

My smile grows. “And now you’re branded for life?”

“If it’s not an anecdote in their speeches at my wedding, I’ll be shocked.”

Although it’s a struggle to keep my smile in place, I do feel it tighten. Kota’s wedding. A big affair, I’m sure. Lots of white lace, flowers everywhere, champagne flowing, a live band, caterer, guests flown in, the whole fucking nine because Kota? She deserves it. She deserves the world.

Kota also loses some of her shine as she studies the ground between us.

Slipping her bag off her shoulder, I put it in the back seat of my Ram before opening the passenger door for her and helping her inside.

Not only did I learn how to drive for Kota, I bought this exact model with her in mind, too. I figured a truck with some type of extended cab would be the most practical. It can fit almost every situation that might come up. Passengers? Gear? My quad cab fits it all. Moving? Want to catch a drive-in movie? My bed is cleaned out and ready to go. Hauling? Never done it but I already got the tow hitch installed in case I ever need to. Need to rear-end an ex to interrupt his blow job? Consider it done.

“So? What was the damage?” Kota asks.

“Damage?”

“For the tires. You still haven’t told me.”

“Oh. Uh. Only twenty-five bucks.”

“Twenty-five dollars…per tire?”

“No. Total. They were able to patch just the one.”