bun. “Yeah, didn’t Fang give you the memo? He’s usually so good about those things.”
Dash played the game, acting the grinning idiot of the group. He had to because, that morning, it was all he had left. “The use of the word poop emphasizes our superiority over the other squadrons. We are confident because nothing, not even a word worthy of elementary-school snickers, can diminish our badass status.”
“All well and good,” Tin Tin said with a chuckle. “But I’m giving you a ration of shit today, especially when we hit the air.”
The last to arrive, as always, was Captain Eric “Kisser” Donaghue. The muscular man grabbed his flight jacket out of the backseat of his cherry restored Camaro and looked like he always did, as if he’d banged two chicks until four a.m., when he got bored of them and kicked them out. In other words, he looked smug as hell.
Tin Tin turned toward the offices. Leah followed, the two chattering about whatever old friends do. Jon Carlisle and Eric Donaghue got along piss poorly.
“I feel so loved,” Eric said. “You limp dicks hanging out in melt weather, waiting on me.”
Dash shook his head. “And a fine good morning to you, my late friend.”
Eric held up his middle finger. “Swivel. What’d I miss?”
“We were discussing language appropriate for use by bandits.”
Eric shrugged. “Fuck. Shit. Asshole. Get the hell outta my way. What’s the problem?”
“Sounds about right,” Mike said.
“No, I mean it. Outta my way, asshole. Or I’ll get hemmed up by both Major Haverty and Major Girardi.”
Mike raised his eyebrows. “You’d like it better from Fang. Leah can get mean.”
“A piece of ass is a piece of ass. Don’t care about the rank.”
“Wow, Kisser.” Dash forced his grin, like a jester on a bad day who knew the king would have his head if he didn’t juggle and dance. “I dare you the pinks on both our cars to say that to her face. I’m surprised you still have one, considering her pretty boy Doberman is standing right here.”
“Any time, any place, boys,” Eric said, arms crossed.
Dash watched the man swagger away and hunched his shoulders. He couldn’t help his sigh—truncated because, damn, he still had balls.
Mike walked with him toward the assembly room, where everyone scheduled to fly that day would discuss mission parameters and tactical assignments. Dash’s head was not in the game. He wondered if he was so far gone he should ask for leave time. The military was generous when it came to helping keep families together. Good for PR.
“Sunny’s home, yeah?”
Of course Mike would pick up on whatever Dash was wrestling with.
Wrestling. Stripping. Fucking. He wished his lizard brain would shut up for one goddamn second.
“Yeah, got home Sunday afternoon.”
“So why do you look even worse than if she was out east?”
Dash shrugged. “You can’t guess? Worn out, man.”
“Then you shouldn’t be working so hard to force the jokes.”
“Because you know so much about humor. Suuuure. Be honest, Mike. Leah likes you for your looks. Definitely the only way a fuckup like you could snag her. Do you use a tooth whitener? Cuz my sunglasses are totally the only way I’m not blinded right now.”
Mike clapped him on the back. “Fine. We’ll play it your way. It’s as good a day as any for lying.”
“You mean flying.”
“Nope, not today. You know where I am, man. In case.”
“We done with the Oprah shit?”
“Yup.”
Dash was a liar. Mike was his best friend. They’d flown two tours together over Afghanistan, including Dash’s first. They’d survived the worst fears and celebrated getting out of some damn close scrapes.
Sunday afternoon, on the receiving end of Sunny’s declaration, had been Dash’s biggest fear and closest scrape. But he couldn’t share any of that with Mike. Unless she was particularly bold with some friend or other, she’d be hiding this too. They were trapped together in this…
Dash played the game, acting the grinning idiot of the group. He had to because, that morning, it was all he had left. “The use of the word poop emphasizes our superiority over the other squadrons. We are confident because nothing, not even a word worthy of elementary-school snickers, can diminish our badass status.”
“All well and good,” Tin Tin said with a chuckle. “But I’m giving you a ration of shit today, especially when we hit the air.”
The last to arrive, as always, was Captain Eric “Kisser” Donaghue. The muscular man grabbed his flight jacket out of the backseat of his cherry restored Camaro and looked like he always did, as if he’d banged two chicks until four a.m., when he got bored of them and kicked them out. In other words, he looked smug as hell.
Tin Tin turned toward the offices. Leah followed, the two chattering about whatever old friends do. Jon Carlisle and Eric Donaghue got along piss poorly.
“I feel so loved,” Eric said. “You limp dicks hanging out in melt weather, waiting on me.”
Dash shook his head. “And a fine good morning to you, my late friend.”
Eric held up his middle finger. “Swivel. What’d I miss?”
“We were discussing language appropriate for use by bandits.”
Eric shrugged. “Fuck. Shit. Asshole. Get the hell outta my way. What’s the problem?”
“Sounds about right,” Mike said.
“No, I mean it. Outta my way, asshole. Or I’ll get hemmed up by both Major Haverty and Major Girardi.”
Mike raised his eyebrows. “You’d like it better from Fang. Leah can get mean.”
“A piece of ass is a piece of ass. Don’t care about the rank.”
“Wow, Kisser.” Dash forced his grin, like a jester on a bad day who knew the king would have his head if he didn’t juggle and dance. “I dare you the pinks on both our cars to say that to her face. I’m surprised you still have one, considering her pretty boy Doberman is standing right here.”
“Any time, any place, boys,” Eric said, arms crossed.
Dash watched the man swagger away and hunched his shoulders. He couldn’t help his sigh—truncated because, damn, he still had balls.
Mike walked with him toward the assembly room, where everyone scheduled to fly that day would discuss mission parameters and tactical assignments. Dash’s head was not in the game. He wondered if he was so far gone he should ask for leave time. The military was generous when it came to helping keep families together. Good for PR.
“Sunny’s home, yeah?”
Of course Mike would pick up on whatever Dash was wrestling with.
Wrestling. Stripping. Fucking. He wished his lizard brain would shut up for one goddamn second.
“Yeah, got home Sunday afternoon.”
“So why do you look even worse than if she was out east?”
Dash shrugged. “You can’t guess? Worn out, man.”
“Then you shouldn’t be working so hard to force the jokes.”
“Because you know so much about humor. Suuuure. Be honest, Mike. Leah likes you for your looks. Definitely the only way a fuckup like you could snag her. Do you use a tooth whitener? Cuz my sunglasses are totally the only way I’m not blinded right now.”
Mike clapped him on the back. “Fine. We’ll play it your way. It’s as good a day as any for lying.”
“You mean flying.”
“Nope, not today. You know where I am, man. In case.”
“We done with the Oprah shit?”
“Yup.”
Dash was a liar. Mike was his best friend. They’d flown two tours together over Afghanistan, including Dash’s first. They’d survived the worst fears and celebrated getting out of some damn close scrapes.
Sunday afternoon, on the receiving end of Sunny’s declaration, had been Dash’s biggest fear and closest scrape. But he couldn’t share any of that with Mike. Unless she was particularly bold with some friend or other, she’d be hiding this too. They were trapped together in this…
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