Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 80431 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80431 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
“God, you’re fuckin’ done.”
“And happy to be.” Dusmeyer sighed. “Finding a different set of legs at every port is getting old, man. I’ve outgrown that shit, y’know. I wanna have kids, a fuckin’ family before my balls start shooting dust when I’m up in it.”
Oakley barked a gruff laugh.
His best friend was crass as fuck, but Oakley would kill and die for him. He was happy Dust had found someone. But damn, it made him take a long, hard look at his own life.
At thirty-eight, he wasn’t getting any younger, and the job had a way of tacking on an extra ten years.
Dusmeyer met Miranda six months ago—a Navy judge advocate with brains that could run circles around all of them—and he’d had stars in his eyes ever since.
His senior chief wasn’t the only one on his crew with a steady girl—White had a pretty cool guy—they were thinking of settling down with.
“I’m tellin’ ya, Chief. I’m gonna marry that woman as soon as I get the nerve to ask her.”
“Never thought I’d see the day the Dust Man found his match or a woman who could hold your interest for longer than three months.”
“Yeah, well…the game has to end at some point, yeah.”
Oakley left their conversation at that. It was getting a bit too real for him.
When he searched for their waiter to order another beer, he was surprised to see Chief Sawyer sitting alone on the last stool on the other side of the bar.
Because of the lack of lighting and the distance from the action, not many ventured over there.
But there he was, in a tight white T-shirt beneath a worn brown leather bomber jacket, with half his stern face and blond hair concealed by the shadows.
As if Sawyer could feel Oakley’s eyes on him, he slowly lowered his gaze from the television mounted over the bar and locked eyes with him in a way that was damn near challenging.
Chief Aiken Oakley
Oakley nodded once, then went back to drinking his brew, but now he was hyperaware of the green eyes that continued to dart in his direction. Every couple of minutes, a chill would run down his spine, and he’d have to fight not to glance back.
Dusmeyer started rambling about the stats the Braves pitcher had during last night’s game, but Oakley wasn’t listening. He was agreeing, but he didn’t know what to.
“Yo, ain’t that Sawyer over there giving that brunette you were admiring the brush-off?”
Oakley finally had a reason to turn around, and sure enough, the pretty woman was standing close enough that her round breast caressed Sawyer’s upper arm.
Oakley tried to play it cool. “Yeah, I think it is. And I wasn’t admiring her. I just noticed her.”
“Well, looks like you still got a shot. Sawyer’s clearly not interested.” Dusmeyer was staring blatantly. “He must have someone at home.”
Probably does.
“She ordered Sawyer a shot, but he turned that down too,” Dusmeyer told him.
“What the fuck, Dust? You gonna give a play-by-play commentary on the man all night?” Oakley frowned. “Mind your own damn business.”
Dusmeyer stared at him for a moment before he scoffed and went back to his drink.
Trying not to watch Sawyer was like trying not to rubber-neck at a car crash in the next lane. He risked a glance back to see the brunette rolling her eyes and walking away from Sawyer with a look of disappointment.
When she was gone, Sawyer stared dead at him in obvious invitation and held up the abandoned shot left on the bar.
Did he want to accept?
It took thirty seconds before Oakley was off his stool and telling Dusmeyer he’d check him later.
He’d barely settled on the seat beside the other chief when the man’s spicy scent overtook his senses.
“Chief.”
Sawyer slid the shot of amber liquid toward him, then raised a finger at the bartender to bring him one too.
“Chief,” Oakley responded.
He didn’t wait for Sawyer to get his own before he downed the shot. It wasn’t as if they were about to do a toast or some shit.
The alcohol seared his throat before it heated his chest with an enjoyable sensation. His slight hum of appreciation was his way of saying thank you.
After Sawyer put his own back and took a few gulps of his beer, Oakley thought he should say something.
“Your crew ditch you?”
Sawyer didn’t turn in his direction, his eyes still on the television screen above them.
The game was a blowout and not that interesting, so he wondered if Sawyer was another who didn’t like to look into his eyes.
“Nah. They went to a country bar… I chose this one.”
“Why?”
“I hate line dancing.”
Oakley chuckled. “Okay, I get that. So, you don’t mind chillin’ alone, huh?”
Sawyer turned and pinned him with a serious glare, holding eye contact like a lion locks onto a gazelle.
“I prefer it,” he rumbled.