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CHAPTER2
- DAX -
She doesn’t date military guys.
I suppress a grumble.
I hate women like that. I ran into enough of them these past two years that I lived in DC.
The uniform does plenty to attract women. But it does nothing to make them stick. At least not in that city. Not when the bars are filled with women like my ex-girlfriend who drool over the uniform until they realize we’re just not making as much bank as lobbyists or political consultants.
Women like that diner woman, apparently.
When the worst happens, it’s funny how everyone rallies around the military. But then, when a war gets old or the headlines have turned to something trendier, women like her look down their noses at guys like me.
“I don’t date military guys.”
I hear her voice in my head again, amplified by the voice of my ex-girlfriend, Nadia, who said nearly the same thing to me after a year of stringing me along.
“I’m just over the military thing, Dax,”Nadia had said, her tone almost mockingly gentle as though she was trying to seem like she didn’t want to break my heart. After all, appearances were everything to her.“I want to date someone with a normal job.”
But there was nothing normal, I should have pointed out at the time, about the slick lobbyist she dumped me for, a guy who scores at least a half a million in salary every year, along with perks I can’t even guesstimate.
No, there’s nothing normal about that, Nadia.
She was fine, I might add, with my brand of normal until that arrogant dickhead in an Armani suit came along, driving a Jag and taking her to the restaurants that apparently only guys who drive Jags can get reservations at.
And Nadia dropped me like a steaming hot deuce sliding out of the tail end of a rottweiler.
Yep. I hate women like that.
Because the fact is, Iwasasking that woman in the diner out on a date.
How could Inotbe interested in her after noticing that she didn’t have a ring on her finger? Her pie was freaking amazing. And she looked like the sensible, kind-hearted type who wouldn’t dump a guy when some other dude shows up in a Jag.
That would appeal to me these days.
I dared to think we might be able to enjoy a few coffees or dinners while we figured out if we had anything in common besides our love of pie.
But fine. She thinks she’s too good for military guys. She’s probably holding out for some businessman from Savannah who spends weekends here and rents one of those huge houses right on the water. Meanwhile, I’m just struggling to find a cheap room so I can enjoy Tybee without the headache of loading up a shit-ton of equipment only to be stuck in weekend traffic or unable to find beach parking every time I want a dose of the ocean.
Whatever.
I check the cinch on the gear on top of my well-loved Jeep with a frown. That diner lady—Millie—probably only dates guys who drive Jags.
Screw her.
It sucks that she serves the best pie I’ve ever tasted.
It sucks even more that I won’t be able to resist going back there at some weak point of my summer to get another slice. What the hell does she put in it? Crack?
Next time I’m taking my pie to-go.
I slam my car door and buckle up, headed back into Savannah.
At that crucial point where US-80 drops down to just one lane in either direction, I find myself stuck in a parking lot-style traffic jam. Needing to distract myself from the ensuing headache, I call Mason.
“Hey, man,” I say when he answers.
