Chapter 13 Harrison
Harrison
Just as I open the door, something small smacks into my chest. I catch it without thinking.
Three kids. Six hands. Catching airborne projectiles is instinct now.
I glance down. A Pixy Stix.
“Subtle.”
Zac steps into my path, dressed to the nines and wearing the kind of smug smile that means he knows exactly what I’m about to do.
“Going somewhere?”
“As a matter of fact, I forgot my tux.” I tear the top off the Pixy Stix and dump the sugar straight into my mouth, holding eye contact while I wait for him to move.
Normally, I wouldn’t mainline sugar like this.
But I haven’t eaten all day.
And it’s cherry. My favorite.
Zac doesn’t budge.
“I should go,” I add, slower this time.
That’s when Brian slides in beside him, right on cue, a garment bag draped neatly over his arm.
“You’re in luck,” he says. “One tux. Right here.”
He gives it a pat.
I look between them and shrug. “A regular tux won’t fit my arms.”
I flex, just enough to make the point.
And yes, I hear myself.
Absolutely bragging.
Brian gives my bicep a squeeze like he’s checking produce. “Good thing I dropped by. I hear the gun show sells out fast.” He taps the embroidered H on the garment bag. “Which is why I brought you yours.”
“What?”
“I swung by your place on the way here.”
“Oh, good,” I mutter. “You found my tux.”
Brian arches a brow. “If by found you mean I had Ollie excavate it from the depths of his cave-of-wonders closet like it was in witness protection, then yes. Yes, I did.” He winks and shoves the bag into my chest. “You’re welcome.”
I drape the tux over the nearest chair and mentally consider my options.
Shredder?
Fire?
Unfortunately, both require privacy. And since they’ve made themselves annoyingly comfortable, that’s not happening anytime soon.
Zac pats my cheek. “Hannah gave us a heads-up that you might attempt a daring escape.”
Brian tsks, smooths his cuff, and preens in front of the mirror. “The kids sold out the location of your tux for a pack of chocolate-covered marshmallow Santas.”
I snort. “Is that really the going rate for my children’s betrayal?”
Zac presses a flask into my palm. “Relax. I brought your reward for adulting.”
I’m already twisting the cap. “So there is a god.”
He grins. “I’m more of a divine enabler. Patron saint of booze.”
“Do not forget bad decisions,” I add, taking a swig.
Cherry sugar melts into whiskey on my tongue. Sweet. Sharp. My new favorite.
“Speaking of bad decisions…” He drops into a chair and gets comfortable. “Tell me you did not physically redirect Little Miss Pixie Stick into the arms of Travis.”
“Seriously?” Brian stares at me like I just confessed to a felony. “You threw her at the guy all the PAs refer to as Mr. Hemsworth.”
I blink. “I thought that was his name. Travis Hemsworth.”
They lose it, bursting into laughter.
I run a hand down my face, a low growl slipping free.
Which makes them howl even louder, doubled over and wiping tears.
My brain flips me the middle finger and shifts into overdrive. Now all I can see is her. And him.
And… fuck. Did that motherfucker touch the small of her back as he let her in the car?
The metal flask pops hard in my death grip.
All laughter abruptly stops.
Zac smirks. “Something on your mind, big guy?”
I tip back what’s left in the crumpled flask. “Nope.”
His eyes gleam as his smirk widens. “Liar.”
“I’m not lying,” I lie.
“I saw the way you looked at her.”
“How did I ‘look at her?’” I say with air quotes.
“Like a man in the desert, staring at a Creamsicle.”
“I was not.”
I totally was.
Zac points at my face. “Admit it. You’re into her.”
God, would I love to be.
Stop it.
I drop into the chair and start unlacing my boots. “I am not into her. As a matter of fact, I didn’t even get her name.”
Zac drags a chair up beside me, flips it around, and straddles it, and just stares.
Forearms hooked over the backrest. Head tilted. Eyes narrowed.
I feel like a rare primate on exhibit.
“What?” I scowl.
“Just…” His lips twitch. “Fascinated.”
“By what?”
He hums, rubbing his chin like a man solving a puzzle. “You’re the chief of security for a global reconnaissance empire. Satellites. Databases. Black ops toys that would make the CIA cry.”
“And?”
“And yet,” he smirks, “you don’t know her name.”
My jaw tightens. “Your point?”
He shrugs. “At the snap of your fingers, you could have her high school GPA, blood type, bra size, and preferred e-reader font. Her name isn’t exactly out of reach.”
He’s not wrong.
What makes it worse is that my traitorous brain immediately supplies one inconvenient fact.
I already know her bra size.
Two glorious D-cups, pressed flush against my chest earlier today.
And now that’s all I can think about.
Zac and Brian watch me with a suffocating amount of annoying silence. God, I hate when they go all quiet-psychoanalyst on me.
I give up. Crossing the room, I ditch my wallet on a table, take a seat, and yank off a boot. Then the other. Each one hits the floor with a dull, irritated thud. “Maybe I’m not interested.”
Brian shakes his head. “So, we’ve reached the lie-until-you-die portion of the conversation.”
I say nothing.
“I know her name,” Brian adds. “I’m surprised you don’t already know it.”
“Why would I know it?” I stare as he removes a folded piece of paper and hands it over.
So tempting.
I ignore the impulse to take it and blow out a breath. “A name leads to a number. A number leads to”—I wave a hand, struggling for the words—“other things.”
Brian tilts his head. “Does someone need a refresher course on the whole how-babies-are-made thing?”
“I’ve had three,” I deadpan.
“Sure. But Snooki’s almost six. That’s basically a doctorate’s degree in celibacy.”
I glare at him. Hard.
Brian strolls past me and starts fiddling with my wallet.
“What are you doing?”
“Leaving it for you in case you grow a brain. Or balls. I’m also exchanging these crisp c-notes for condoms.”
“A hundred dollars a condom? That’s highway robbery, considering they’ll never see the light of day.”
“First of all, genius, they’re not supposed to see the light of day. And second, when Mt. Vesuvius finally erupts, you will thank me.”
“Mt. Vesuvius?”
“It’s what we all call your dick.”
I glare.
Brian gestures at my zipper solemnly. “Pressure like that could take out a city block. It’s being added to the FEMA watch list as we speak.”
Zac adds. “The poor girl will need a personal injury waiver.”
They laugh like hyenas.
I cross my arms. “Are you two done?”
“Almost.” Zac wipes at his eyes, chuckling hard. “Should we warn her about the blast radius, or let her find out the hard way?”
“At least supply her with a mop.”
“I hate you both,” I mutter, undoing the first button of my flannel shirt. “Unlike you two players, I don’t date.”
“Reformed players,” Zac corrects, then gently adds, “No one’s asking you to dive into the deep end. We’re just suggesting you do… coffee. Or lunch.”
“Is that what the condoms are for? Lunch?”
“Dip in a toe.”
Brian shrugs. “I’m pretty sure Mt. Vesuvius could use a little thirst quencher.”
“Stop calling it that.” I hold a finger up. “I’m about to get sold to the highest bidder for one date. One. If that’s not cannonballing into the deep end, I don’t know what is.”
“Pay to play doesn’t count.” Brian shakes his head. “That’s doing your civic duty. Parading your wares down the catwalk for half a second before you’re auctioned off like prized, revirginized beef.”
Zac nods, thoughtful. “Possibly to someone online.”
I peel off my shirt. “What do you mean?”
He puffs air in his cheeks. “Some women like to bid from home. You know. They’re private.”
I narrow my eyes. “Is private code for eighty?”
“No,” he says, a little too fast. “They just don’t want to be on camera.”
“At least, not without their teeth,” Brian adds. “But yes. Private, too.”
I throw my hands up.
Zac jumps in beside me, loops the tux tie around my neck, and squares me in front of the mirror, bare chest and all. “Relax, big guy. Not everyone is private. Just a few ultra-high rollers.”
“The octogenarians?” I growl, unamused.
“Or possibly the celebrity types,” Zac says. “Sure, they might pay a pretty penny to indulge in some man candy”—he gestures at my crotch—“but no one wants to be caught on camera with a death grip in the Nutter Butter jar.”
My face falls. “Are you seriously telling me I’m about to be… Spotified?”
Brian tilts his head, thinking. “More like trending on OnlyFans.”
“What the hell is an OnlyFan?”
They stare. Brian smirks, “Think of it as a subscription service, Disney Dad.”
“It’s very exclusive,” Zac points out. “Very… interactive.”
The fact that they’re both barely containing their laughter again ensures I will be googling it the second they leave.
He musses my hair. “With your looks and killer dad-bod, women will be licking screens worldwide.”
“Men, too.” Brian waggles his brows. “Good thing someone manscaped.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Get. Out.”
Brian salutes as he heads for the door. “On behalf of the troops, we thank you for your service.”
“I expect hazard pay, a chopper on standby, and, if it goes to hell, a medal of valor. Full. Fucking. Honors.”
He rubs his chin. “There’s a medal for fucking honors?” He shakes his head. “I was in the wrong service.”
Zac checks his watch. “You’ve got fifteen minutes.” Then he taps another straw of sugar on my chest. “Somewhere, there’s a Pixie Stick with your name on her.”
“Out!”
He tucks it into my pants pocket as they shuffle off.