Page 10 of Hero Hair

Chapter Four

Macs

Teala doesn’t respond to my text right away. This is already more work than swiping at my cell phone screen. Maybe she has no clue who I am, so she’s ignoring me. I text a little more detail. Moose gave me your number. I work with him. There, now she’ll know exactly what she’s working with. Literally and figuratively. I’m not lazy. It’s quite the opposite. I’m one hundred percent constantly. Keeping things like women and dates less complicated is a requirement for my sanity. I drum my fingers on the side of the cabinet as I let my imagination get the better of me.

After a daydream moves from me killing a bad guy while fucking a bottle blonde, I realize there’s still no response. If Moose hadn’t told me she was worth it, I wouldn’t have even bothered with explaining. I tap my foot to the beat of the music as I alternate my gaze from my cell phone to the kitchen cabinets I’m currently trying to put up in my dust bowl of a house. My friend Tahoe is outside with the table saw and a cooler of beer. For a drunk Saturday, he’s gotten more accomplished than he usually does. He’s the one friend who knows how to do everything. He’s a kickass SEAL and he built his own house from the ground up.

He lumbers through the front door with an armful of unpainted molding and drops the stack on the counter in front of me. “Time for paint,” he says, wiping his brow with a tattooed covered forearm. Tahoe is his nickname because he’s built like a motherfucking SUV. He has everything including that third row in the back most other trucks are void of. Picking his beer up, he polishes off the contents in a few seconds flat. “What the fuck are you doing in here?” he asks, his brow furrowed at the accumulating molding.

I shrug, finish my own bottle of beer, and set the empty down in front of me. “I’m exercising,” I say, flexing my bicep as I make a show of popping the top off another brew. “Painting will be quick. You’re doing the time-consuming part outside.”

“Fair point. Maybe we should trade places.” He scoffs and digs for his cell phone in his pocket. A huge grin breaks out on his scary face.

He flashes the screen my way.

“Nice rack,” I say. “Is it new?”

Tahoe is a bigger player than I am. His game is a little sketchier than mine.

“I don’t know. I don’t have this number programmed into my phone.” He smiles widely.

I shake my head. “I don’t know how you keep them all straight. You need to tighten your game.”

Licking his lips, he sets off to text back. “Nope. My game is airtight, bro. Watch this. ‘Those are the most beautiful tits I’ve ever seen. I want to test their density. Meet me tonight? Where?’” Tahoe reads the text aloud, then makes a show of hitting send.

“What if her face doesn’t match her rack? What then?” I ask.

He cracks his neck, tilting it from one side to the other. “Then I fuck her doggy style while holding on to the prettiest part of her body.”

I grimace. “Fucking dog.”

“Dog. Yes. Doggy style. You’re finally getting it. You swiping any pussy tonight?” His question reminds me about my unanswered text.

I glance down at my own phone.

“You’re such a modern playboy. I’m too old school for that shit,” he drawls. A man like Tahoe can procure women however he sees fit. He’s just leaving my avenue alone. Brotherhood runs deep. Sort of.

Teala is texting back, the gray bubble forcing excitement down to my cock. “Looks like I might be doing it the old school way tonight, bro. A chick Moose set me up with.”

Tahoe raises one bushy brow. “Moose? As in I don’t like women, Ryan Perry?”

“One and the same,” I reply. I don’t want to give away any of Moose’s secrets, so I don’t say anything more. “Friend of a friend or something,” I explain when he flicks a confused look my way, then focuses his attention back on his own cell when another text message pings.

Teala finally responds. What did you have in mind? She’s a grammatically correct texter. That’s a good thing. I have a few pet peeves outside of the typical ones, and grammar is one of them. Women who can’t be bothered to spell out the word ‘you’ annoy me.

What do I have in mind? Well, thanks to Tahoe, doggy style is edging to the top of my list. I pick up the pile of molding and bring it over to the bench in my living room and spread it out—no need to return the text right away when she took her time. Tahoe comes over, a shit-eating grin still on his face, and starts painting the long pieces of wood a bright white. He’s humming some melody as he works only he manages to make it sound creepy.

I run my hands through my hair and take a sip of beer. The room swims a little. I’m not sure how best to convey exactly what I want the outcome of our date to be. I pick up my phone and see she’s writing again. I text before hers comes through. Whatever you want. Free tonight? That’s vague enough. It’s also pretty clear.

Dinner? Her reply is swift.

Ah, dinner. That’s more than I usually do. I’m buzzed and this isn’t my usual circumstance. I can be a good guy like Moose. At least for an hour or two. Sure. La Samba at eight, I reply, glancing at the clock. It’s four.

“I’m off alcohol for the rest of the afternoon,” I proclaim, draining my beer, one finger in the air to drive my point home. “I’ll head outside to sand,” I reply amidst Tahoe’s sudden outburst of booing and cackling. I have to be somewhat sober if I’m going to fuck her properly. You see, there must be rules if my game is to stay in tip-top shape. Inebriation in any form past buzzed isn’t allowed from either party.

Despite what it may seem, I do care if women are satisfied. It’s not just about me. Well, it sort of is, but my perfectionist ways swing into my sex life as well. I spend hours upon hours training to be the best at my job. It’s cutthroat—the balance of life or death perched between my forefinger and the cold metal trigger. Some of the drive to be successful is bound to drip into my sexual escapades. The need to be the best isn’t something that can be dulled. In truth, it would make my life a little easier if I could subdue that instinct.

The pile of wood that needs to be sanded is large and looming. I set to work with the bright sun beaming down on my neck and bare back. Tahoe has given up humming his death tune in favor of singing Elton John. I shake my head. Crazy motherfucker.

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