Page 107 of Wicked Pickle

“There’s always what got us out of trouble before.” He grins, then punches my arm.

“Maybe. You got another tour in you?”

“Why not?”

I sniff. “Some beach time first?”

“Hell yeah. Fuck all this shit. Let’s get plastered on the beach, sober up, and then get our asses back in the Army. Start over somewhere else.”

I peer out at the houses. “We’ll have that guy sell these. We can do one tour, save up, and add this to it.”

“Maybe Mexico this time,” Merrick says. “Make it real hard for anyone to find us.”

I nod. “Meet you back out here around six?” That gives us a few hours to shuck these monkey suits and throw some things in a bag.

“You know it.” He glances behind him through the rear window. “Bikes are already in the back. We’ve got everything we need.”

“We sure as hell do.”

We get out, slamming our doors simultaneously.

I’m about to unlock my house when Merrick calls out, “What are you going to do about Symphony?”

Fuck. “Hell if I know.”

He nods. “All right.” Then he takes off across the half-dead yard.

I cram a sandwich and head to the shower, determined not to think of Symphony.

My phone is completely dead, and I didn’t bother to charge it. Maybe I won’t. Cut and run. Easier that way.

But in the dark space, warm water running down my body, thoughts of her rise up. I want her with me, her blonde hair going dark as it gets wet. Kneeling, my cock in her mouth. I picture suds rolling down her breasts, getting caught on her pink nipples.

Fuck. I fist my cock, working it, letting my mind go wild.

Only when I’ve sprayed the floor of the shower and the evidence has washed down the drain, do I remember my sketchbook is at the office.

I want it.

And I don’t want anyone else to get it, especially those fuckwads at the permit office, who are bound to show up with notices and bolt cutters the moment ours expire.

And I can’t skip the goodbye. It wouldn’t be right. She deserves better.

I shut off the water and towel off. My phone is still in my suit pocket. I drag it out and stick it on the charger. It takes a minute to come back to life, buzzing nonstop as it downloads messages.

I scan them.

Vicki. Handled.

Jake. Merrick handled him.

And Symphony.

I can’t let her words sink in. I scan it for anything I need to know, but mostly, it’s her worry coming through.

It’s fucking impossible to type what I have to say, but I do it.

Me: Got tossed in the slammer. Nothing important.

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