Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 103033 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 515(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 343(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103033 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 515(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 343(@300wpm)
See how he’d like that. I smirked to myself, fully prepared for a hothead’s reply. That was my brother in a nutshell. The fanciest suits by day, impossible to ruffle his feathers, but once the gloves came off… And I knew what buttons to push where he was concerned.
The games he and I had played when we’d been younger had probably not been what one would describe as safe or sane. Of course, it’d all started with alcohol. I’d been home on leave from the Navy; he had been in college, sick of school, full of testosterone. We’d missed each other, and we’d been incapable of expressing it without a fight, which had led to something entirely different.
The concept of if you can take it, it’s yours had been born.
My brother answered, and it was flirtier than I would’ve expected.
The fight is half the fun ;)
Macklin was quick to jump in.
Don’t make me hard when I’m at the restaurant, Sirs. Save it for a group-play date. Speaking of, please set one up!
Fuck, we might as well.
Walker’s final text gave me a time frame.
Before February’s over. After that, I will be busy as hell for a while.
Macklin had to get one in too.
Master sets my limits. Just tell me where to show up and when, and I’ll be there, hopefully to watch you two take Santiago. Then we can bukkake the fuck out of Gael. Just a thought. I gotta go back to work. See you at dinner, Master. Lock that shit down, Dean! With Gael and Santiago, I mean. Go for it. XO
Go for it.
Right.
I was going to “go for it.” I was going to go for a playtime dynamic. Period.
When Joshua and Gael filled the coffee table with beverages, little sandwiches, fruit, cheese, and cucumber sticks, I was struck with guilt. I’d just been sitting here like a comfortable tool.
“I see I have to up my game.” I cleared my throat and sat forward a bit. “Are we allowed to leave the premises for a meal, Daddy Joshua? If so, I’d like to take y’all to dinner.”
“Daddy Joshua,” Gael laughed. “That’s so funny.”
There had to be something wrong with him. Nobody had ever accused me of being funny.
“I’m sure we can work something out, pet, but I’ve got dinner covered for tonight.” Joshua sat down on the other end of the couch and patted the middle spot for Gael. “I’m making beef stir-fry.”
Fair enough. Tomorrow, then.
“So what is it we’re going to do here?” I wondered. “There has to be something other than just being bait around campus I can assist with. What else did the credit card information give you?”
Joshua shifted in his seat so he leaned back against the armrest. “Not much, to be honest. He’s careful. He only uses the credit card for gas and when he picked up the rental, so I don’t know where he’s staying or where he eats.” He helped Gael open his juice box while the boy munched on a cucumber sticks as if it were cake.
Chewable water, no thank you.
I’d been cursed with both diabetes and a severe sweet tooth. Walker liked to say it was a good thing I had the self-discipline of a warrior, whatever that meant, but I still suffered every single day. Of course, it was made worse by the fact that I couldn’t cook worth a damn, so whenever I got hungry, I had to fight the urge to buy something I wasn’t allowed to eat.
“You brought work with you, didn’t you?” Joshua asked.
I nodded once and bit into a sandwich. It was gone in two bites, but it was damn delicious. Turkey, crisp lettuce, tomato, and cream cheese. The bread tasted heavenly.
“I suppose I can get started on an article I’ve been postponing,” I said.
“May I ask what it’s about, Sir?” Gael wondered.
“Of course.” I chewed what was in my mouth and swallowed before I continued. “I’m part of a research study that compares soldiers from World War II to post-9/11 Afghanistan. From PTSD symptoms and government rapid action—or lack thereof—to parents who received a flag instead of their home-coming child.”
Some things never changed.
“That sounds heavy,” he murmured. “So that’s what you’re writing about?”
I half nodded and took another sandwich. “It’s a part of a series. This one will dive into the hero status we cling to in order to justify the loss of a soldier’s life, so you can imagine why I’m reluctant to write it.”
“Yikes.” He winced. “Yeah. I don’t envy you. That’s what’s so conflicting about war—and loving to read about it, for that matter—because I hate that it exists, I constantly want to understand it, I admire those who are willing to risk everything, I get angry and emotional when people are disrespectful to those who sacrificed too much, and…it’s just a big mess in my head!” He gulped in a breath. “It’s like thinking about how big the universe is. Once you’re comfortable in your opinion, you have a little voice going, but consider this…? In the end, I’m split between, yeah, they’re definitely heroes and what a waste of a life and what would we do without their sacrifices? Cuz it’s not like we can get politicians to go to the front lines.”