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Convinced we’re in a dead-finger-free zone, I glance to the bar where the ladies cheer, and hug my woman.
“Oi, congrats on another little ’roo, Sebastian.” Returning with my drink, Lucky clasps my arm, grins, and clinks bottles with me.
“Thanks, but I’m surprised she decided to fess up. It’s still early.”
“Sheilas expect a bit of fair dinkum truth from their friends, and even if Sam didn’t admit it, they understand on instinct alone.” That settled, my Aussie friend and I yack about the war like a couple of old geezers.
After ordering my second brewski, I scoot a chair between Slate and Hands.
My cousin-in-law holds up his bottle and salutes. “The rumor is Sam found Howie and you sent the sleazebag packing.”
“In truth, I was doing him a favor, because the Russians won’t miss next time. Fucking bastards. Foreign nationals need to stay off US soil.” My brothers and I didn’t risk our necks, so enemy combatants can run amok over here.
“Have you guys moved back home?” No doubt sensing my tension, the Patten boss changes the subject.
Once I nod my appreciation, I flash a grin to all at the table. “God damned Christmas miracle. Hallelujah, our plumbing is fixed.”
“And how is little Mike?” As Slate raises his brows, the rest within earshot quiet.
We’re all family here and their genuine concern warms my heart. “As far as I can tell, he’s fine. He may need therapy sometime down the road, but the kid is resilient and brave as hell.”
At the mention of our mission, I realize I never thanked our commander for getting arrested for me. “That day on the FDR, when you had a trussed-up Russian in the trunk. How the fuck did you finagle your release?”
“Let me answer that one.” O’Brien, who I didn’t see standing behind me, pulls up a chair and flashes his deep blue eyes. “Our task force got wind of it and arranged your boss's release.”
Hating to think the Russian got off, I'm compelled to inquire. “What about the asshole in the back?”
The JTTF detective shrugs. “The FBI has him in custody. The perp might be used for a prisoner exchange down the road.”
“And Griner?” Having walked a mile in the Fed’s shoes, I have mixed feelings about what should happen to him and I’m glad it’s not my job to dole out justice.
Scowling, Colin lifts the brown bottle to his lips and swallows. “He no longer works for us, is facing charges, and out on bail. Still, he's lucky to be alive. Speaking of Lucky, here he comes now…”
A few beers later, unable to find my wife, I excuse myself, and ask the bartender if he’s seen her. According to him, the ladies moved to the basement over an hour ago.
Downstairs, I walk past another bar and into a living-room-like area with a fireplace and deep, soft, comfortable couches. It doesn’t take long for my willie to find the red dress with the damn slit high up her thigh.
After a quick, polite hello to the gals, I whisper into Samantha’s ear. “How about a quickie?”
Face red, she takes my hand, and soon, we’re going at it. When we’re done, I depart first and of course, the first person I bump into is Dr. Blake.
“Hey doc.”
Jack Taylor's wife waves and steps closer. “Suds, so how’s it going?”
What she means to say is,how are the nightmares?
With my willy satisfied, and in the spirit of the season, I cut her a break and tell the gospel truth. “My dreams are less frequent, and I promise to schedule a few more appointments in the New Year.”
The way I figure, with another baby on the way, I should work harder to keep these monsters at bay. While we say goodbye, Samantha, looking well-satisfied too, smooths her dress, and shoots me a smirk.
Taking my arm, she walks me toward Rose and Wheels, who found a quiet corner to smooch. Those two haven’t seen each other for a long time, and I can relate. They must have a lot of sex to catch up on. Same with Saint Mia, who I can't pinpoint right at this moment, but knowing my pal Hands, he's sharing the gender-neutral bathroom with her right about now.
While Sam’s cousins get it on with their spouses, a guitar sounds in the other room. Sienna Quinn, our circle’s famous country singer must be starting her set. Her husband, the only guy in a suit, brushes away crumbs, and sits on the leather sofa beside us.
Swirling the amber liquid in his glass, Andy tilts his head, and nods thoughtfully at me. “Ursula told me your ramblin’ was cut short. Damn, I should’ve thought of that years ago.”
“Sucks for you, but I suppose, with another rugrat on the way, my ramblin’ days are over.”
