you were
getting your ass shot off by them haji bastards in Iraq.”
“Old history, Pete. And, hell, the exception proves the
rule. Look at that gorgeous woman who married you and you ain’t got any more
than the rest of working stiffs.”
Charlie snorted.
“Right, Stryker. Like you’ve ever had to beg for a date…
like I do every night of the week. Shit, there isn’t a woman in three counties,
married or single, rich or poor, that wouldn’t give her right ovary for a roll
in the hay with the All Night Wonder, Nathan Stryker, the Devil Detective
himself.”
“Jesus, Charlie. I’m gonna put a limit on you tonight. You’re
already over the top. One more bit of advice, Charlie, then I’ll end my little
economics lesson regarding the wages of women and sin. There’s not a woman
worth looking at who’d have any idea of what you were talking about if you
invited her for a ‘roll in the hay.’ You’ve got to update your pick up lines,
buddy, or so I was told recently.”
Jeremy twisted in his chair for a better look at the doorway
and whistled.
“Damn. Charlie’s not exaggerating. You gotta admit, Nate, a
babe like that comes along once a millennia — and no fuckin way in
ChicadiafuckingFalls.”
Dan joined in with a quizzical glance in the direction of
the eye candy.
“Hell, I’ve never seen her dressed up but I think that’s the
‘fire chick.’ You know, that hot rookie, who works with your cuz, Connor? Every
guy in town is talking about her….”
Nate didn’t hear the rest of Dan’s sentence over the roar in
his ears as he rose to his feet.
He watched the hostess lead Erin and Blake to their table.
It was a miracle Nate could make out the color of her dress through the red
haze glazing his eyes. But if he had to describe it, he would simply say it
matched the color of her eyes. How else could you describe a bluish green color
so vivid and so perfect that it made the turquoise of her eyes even brighter?
Two tiny bows, one on each shoulder, were working overtime to hold up the top
of her dress. From the intriguing bounciness he saw when she turned, she’d
decided the shelf-like bodice of the dress didn’t require a bra. If it had been
up to him she’d be wearing a burka. As if the top wasn’t risqué enough, his gut
clenched when he saw that the swirly bottom of the dress reached all of six
inches below her curvy derriere.
Somewhere in the background fog of his brain, he heard his
buddy mutter, “So that’s what they call ‘fuck me shoes?’” For once Charlie’s
sartorial nomenclature was on target. If Nate had ever seen shoes that
warranted that crude label it was the strappy platform patent leather sandals
Erin was wearing. They made her endless toned legs show-stopping. Instead of
her usual ponytail, she’d let her long dark hair hang free. The spit in his
mouth dried up at the thought of winding his fingers in that curly mass, and
opening her lips and throat to his ravenous mouth.
As accurate as Charlie’s crass descriptions were of Erin, he
was even more on target when it came to her escort. Fuck. Who knew the walking
talking model for “distinguished wealthy gentleman” was alive and well in
ChicadiafuckingFalls? Christ, the guy even was a little gray at his temples. He
had one of those lean corded bodies that small athletic men strived to achieve
— either by hitting the gym or in “sports” like running or biking. The caveman
in Nate reveled at the knowledge that he could eat the little fucker for
breakfast and not burp. With the advantage of her five-inch heels, Erin was in
fact a couple inches taller than the guy. It didn’t seem to bother the
pretentious prick a bit, as he pulled out her chair and brushed his stealthy
fingers against the curve of her lower back.
Ignoring the warning shrieks from his rational brain, Nate
went with the wisdom of his smaller head instead. He was out of his chair and
heading across the room before his buddies could stop him. He must
getting your ass shot off by them haji bastards in Iraq.”
“Old history, Pete. And, hell, the exception proves the
rule. Look at that gorgeous woman who married you and you ain’t got any more
than the rest of working stiffs.”
Charlie snorted.
“Right, Stryker. Like you’ve ever had to beg for a date…
like I do every night of the week. Shit, there isn’t a woman in three counties,
married or single, rich or poor, that wouldn’t give her right ovary for a roll
in the hay with the All Night Wonder, Nathan Stryker, the Devil Detective
himself.”
“Jesus, Charlie. I’m gonna put a limit on you tonight. You’re
already over the top. One more bit of advice, Charlie, then I’ll end my little
economics lesson regarding the wages of women and sin. There’s not a woman
worth looking at who’d have any idea of what you were talking about if you
invited her for a ‘roll in the hay.’ You’ve got to update your pick up lines,
buddy, or so I was told recently.”
Jeremy twisted in his chair for a better look at the doorway
and whistled.
“Damn. Charlie’s not exaggerating. You gotta admit, Nate, a
babe like that comes along once a millennia — and no fuckin way in
ChicadiafuckingFalls.”
Dan joined in with a quizzical glance in the direction of
the eye candy.
“Hell, I’ve never seen her dressed up but I think that’s the
‘fire chick.’ You know, that hot rookie, who works with your cuz, Connor? Every
guy in town is talking about her….”
Nate didn’t hear the rest of Dan’s sentence over the roar in
his ears as he rose to his feet.
He watched the hostess lead Erin and Blake to their table.
It was a miracle Nate could make out the color of her dress through the red
haze glazing his eyes. But if he had to describe it, he would simply say it
matched the color of her eyes. How else could you describe a bluish green color
so vivid and so perfect that it made the turquoise of her eyes even brighter?
Two tiny bows, one on each shoulder, were working overtime to hold up the top
of her dress. From the intriguing bounciness he saw when she turned, she’d
decided the shelf-like bodice of the dress didn’t require a bra. If it had been
up to him she’d be wearing a burka. As if the top wasn’t risqué enough, his gut
clenched when he saw that the swirly bottom of the dress reached all of six
inches below her curvy derriere.
Somewhere in the background fog of his brain, he heard his
buddy mutter, “So that’s what they call ‘fuck me shoes?’” For once Charlie’s
sartorial nomenclature was on target. If Nate had ever seen shoes that
warranted that crude label it was the strappy platform patent leather sandals
Erin was wearing. They made her endless toned legs show-stopping. Instead of
her usual ponytail, she’d let her long dark hair hang free. The spit in his
mouth dried up at the thought of winding his fingers in that curly mass, and
opening her lips and throat to his ravenous mouth.
As accurate as Charlie’s crass descriptions were of Erin, he
was even more on target when it came to her escort. Fuck. Who knew the walking
talking model for “distinguished wealthy gentleman” was alive and well in
ChicadiafuckingFalls? Christ, the guy even was a little gray at his temples. He
had one of those lean corded bodies that small athletic men strived to achieve
— either by hitting the gym or in “sports” like running or biking. The caveman
in Nate reveled at the knowledge that he could eat the little fucker for
breakfast and not burp. With the advantage of her five-inch heels, Erin was in
fact a couple inches taller than the guy. It didn’t seem to bother the
pretentious prick a bit, as he pulled out her chair and brushed his stealthy
fingers against the curve of her lower back.
Ignoring the warning shrieks from his rational brain, Nate
went with the wisdom of his smaller head instead. He was out of his chair and
heading across the room before his buddies could stop him. He must
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