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“I’m such an idiot,” I mutter as Livi and I walk arm in arm toward the bar. Jake is in front of us, talking to Violet as he settles the check.
“No you’re not,” she soothes. “You misread the situation, that’s all. At least he’s not a local so you don’t have to see him again.” She bumps her hip against mine, and I know my best friend is right, at least there’s that.
When we reach the bar, Jake has a confused look on his face. “How much do I owe for my share?” I ask.
“Nothing,” he replies, scratching his head and handing me the check receipt. “Violet says that guy paid for his check and left more than enough to cover ours and a big tip.”
Next to me Livi squeals so loud, I have to lean away from her and cover my ears. “Fuck, Liv!” I grimace.
“Don’t you see what this means?” she cries, jumping up and down, holding my hands.
“He’s got more money than sense?” I laugh, trying to shake her off. I’m really not in the mood for her kindergarten brand of enthusiasm.
“No! He likes you! Why else would he pay our check?” The look of sweet hopefulness on her face makes me realize she’s looking at this through her newly-wed rose-tinted glasses.
“No babe, what this means is he felt guilty for snapping at me and wanted to ease his conscience.”
But as we leave the bar with Livi’s squeal and comments ringing in my ears, I start to wonder if she’s right. Maybe, somehow, I’ll get a second chance with the hunky giant.
Chapter 3
Brandon
That night my dreams are haunted by visions of flame-haired angels laying their hands delicately on my body, stroking the scar tissue that marks my upper arm and chest, making it disappear. Hands are then replaced by soft caressing lips, the smell of jasmine and a soft murmured voice that makes my dick harder than steel.
I wake up covered in sweat, my breath sawing in and out of my chest like I’ve just done the PT session from hell. As my eyes adjust, I notice it’s still dark outside and the clock on the nightstand reads four a.m.
Shit! I flop back on the bed and adjust my painfully hard dick in my boxer briefs. How the hell did that girl work her way so fully into my subconscious after that one brief meeting? The way her red ponytail swished as she walked away from me had been mesmerizing and her ass … God damn it, what a sight. Just thinking about it makes my dick throb so I roll out of bed and dig around in my duffle for my athletic shorts and hoodie. The only way to get rid of this feeling is to run, so once I’m dressed, I grab my key card and phone and head out into the deserted streets.
As I pound the pavement, I lose myself in the rhythmic motion, and my head begins to clear. I don’t have a clear idea where I’m headed, and soon I find myself running down residential streets filled with tidy homes and neat front yards. It’s a pleasant little town, and if I was looking to settle somewhere, it could be a place like this.
I snort to myself at the thought. Can I really see myself living in one of these nice homes with a dog in the yard, a wife and a few rugrats? Fuck no! I mean I don’t even have a job or a fixed address, and every time I stop for too long the past catches up with me.
No, it’s best to just keep moving. As soon as the sun rises, I’m out of here. I’ll head to Arizona like I planned and catch up with my buddy and then on to Mexico. That’s as far ahead as I can plan for now — after Afghanistan, thinking too far ahead seems wrong. It can all come to an end in the blink of an eye. So I’m just going to keep on moving and live each day as best as I can.
Suddenly, I realize that I’ve been sprinting full speed, and now I’m well out of the well-lit residential streets. The rising sun is peeking over the hills, and I skid to a halt by a white gate leading up to a large farm house. As I catch my breath, I hear dogs barking in the distance.
Instinctively, I step closer to the gate. With the help of the increasing sunlight, I see rows of kennels a short distance from the house, several large out buildings and a barn. The sign next to the gate confirms my suspicions that this is some kind of boarding kennel called Pooch Paradise. I can’t help the snorting laugh that escapes me as I read the name and the list of services they provide, everything from grooming to puppy training and socialization groups and of course boarding.
But that’s not the part of the sign that catches my eye, it’s theHelp Wantednotice pinned to it that piques my interest. It seems the owners are looking for a kennel attendant. After years of working with dogs, I know exactly what that job entails — plenty of time getting to know a shovel and a hose pipe! No wonder they’re looking for someone to fill the position, not many people can stomach it. No matter how much you love dogs, cleaning up their crap for eight hours a day can test that to the limit. And believe me when I was working my way up the ranks in the dog division, I did my fair share of shoveling shit.
Taking one more look at the house on the hill, I turn and head back into town at a leisurely pace. If I were planning to stick around, I might introduce myself to the owners, but that’s not going to happen. As I run back down Main Street, I decide to get breakfast at Dreams Bakery and then get the hell out of town. I don’t want to chance running into the red-headed angel, especially since by now she must know that I paid the check for her and her friends last night. I couldn’t stand her thanks or her pity; it would be awkward as fuck.
And it would take every ounce of willpower in my body not to grab hold of her, if only to find out if her skin is as soft as it looks.
When I get back to my room, a cold shower takes care of the hard-on that popped up again at the thought of my angel. I quickly dress and pack up my few belongings, wanting to get out of town before Main Street and the bakery fill up with people going to work.
But it seems I’m shit out of luck because when I enter the bakery, it’s already busy with people lining up for their morning coffee. I decide to get a coffee to go. Thankfully, the line moves quickly. Everyone waiting seems dead set on getting their caffeine fix and not making small talk, which is a relief. Soon I’m waiting for my Americano and clutching a bag heavy with the weight of two large apple turnovers. They smell so good that I almost can’t wait to tear into them.
“Americano for Brendon,” the harassed looking barista calls out, and I step forward, assuming it’s my order and they just got my name wrong. I grumble about it as I grab the takeout cup and move quickly out of the store, eager to drink my coffee and try one of the delicious pastries before I hit the road.
Walking briskly back down Main Street toward the motel, I calculate my journey to Arizona and figure I’ll stop a couple of times and try to make it by nightfall. Danny knows I’m coming by in the next few days, so there’s no rush if I want to take my time.
My duffle is already loaded into the cab of my pickup so I climb in and take a much needed sip of coffee, sighing with satisfaction. Next I take a huge bite of a flaky turnover and moan audibly. Jesus, that’s good — golden pastry, soft sweet apple. I demolish the first turnover in three big bites and begin the second, dusting the crumbs from my shirt as I put the key in the ignition and turn it over.
Nothing happens.
Well, that’s not true; the engine makes a whirring noise like it’s turning over, but it doesn’t start.
