Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 87078 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 435(@200wpm)___ 348(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87078 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 435(@200wpm)___ 348(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
He doesn’t answer me.
“You’re waiting for all of this to go away, aren’t you? Mike Bravo … a second chance at life. That’s why you won’t look at better places to live. That’s why you’re military minimalistic.”
“Are you really surprised that’s how I am?”
“Not at all. But we do need to push through it.” I drive to the nearest mall that will have everything we need. A Target for regular stuff and a surplus store I get a lot of my gear from.
“You really don’t have to do all this for me,” Saint says.
“We’re here now.” I lead him from store to store, picking out things for him because he keeps umming and ahhing over every single item. “Are you sure you’re gay?”
He frowns. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Sorry. I was making a very stereotypical joke about gay guys and shopping.”
“I don’t think you know the definition of a joke. Jokes are funny.”
“Like your face?”
“Wow. Maturity wins out again with you.”
“Have you met me? What else do you need?”
“I don’t even think I need all of this.” He waves his hand over the cart.
“Being a part of Mike Bravo means you need to Boy Scout for everything. Be prepared.”
“How is a pack of twenty pairs of boxer briefs one size too small going to help with that?” He holds them up.
“Oh, this is for around the house. If you’re not paying me rent, you should at least give me something to look at.” I wink at him.
“You’re trying to turn me into your very own house boy, aren’t you?”
I throw up my hands. “You caught me. I was trying to be so covert about it too. Return the underwear if you insist on getting the right size.”
Yet, he throws them back in the cart.
Interesting.
“What else are you going to make me buy?”
“What’s your boots situation? I have about ten pair stashed around the place.”
“I have … two.”
“Two pair?”
“No. Two. One for each foot. That’s all you need.”
“Not when you’re at the beach and you get called in for a job and don’t have time to stop by home first and need to go straight to Trav.”
“I can keep them in my car?”
“Do you have a car?”
“No. But I can get one of those.”
“Ooh, let’s go car shopping after this.”
Saint whines. “I’m starting to think you’re the walking stereotype of a queer guy who likes to shop.”
“I like to spend money. There’s a difference. It’s even more fun when I get to spend someone else’s.”
“Just tell me one thing. Is your house decorated like Trav’s ranch too? All zebra print and pimp-like?”
“Nope. It’s very sophisticated and classy.”
“I call bullshit.”
“Okay, it’s actually super normal. Like, you’ll ask if I actually own it kind of normal.”
“I say we go pay for this, and then you can show me.”
“No car shopping?” I pout.
“Maybe tomorrow. If I’ve recovered from today in time. I don’t know if anyone has ever told you this, but you’re exhausting.”
I pat his cheek. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but you are far from the first person to ever call me that.”
“Shocking news. Come on, show me this normal house of yours.”
I mock salute him and then begin to freak out.
My place is sacred. I’ve put a lot of work and effort into it, and I’m proud of it, but the last person I let into it hated it.
I never take hookups back to my place, and I try to put off taking girlfriends there unless we’re serious. But my last girlfriend—who loved my income but hated I spent so much time away—tried to get me to sell it. And I was close to doing it too.
It’s on an acre in Monrovia, so the price tag on the land alone is worth over a mil, which is a lot more than I paid for it only a couple of years ago.
But it’s the house I’m most proud of. It’s not much to look at from the outside, plain khaki-green clapboard house with stone foundation on the bottom. It’s everything it’s kitted out with that makes me love it, and I wasn’t able to share that with my ex.
I hope Saint appreciates it as much as I do.
Chapter Fourteen
Saint
When Iris pulls up to a secure gate in the Monrovia foothills and clicks a button on a remote attached to his sun visor, nothing is out of the ordinary.
I thought he had to have been joking about having a normal house. He’s Iris. I’d expect his place to be as outlandish as he can be. But no, as he directs the car up the long drive and the house comes into view, he was absolutely telling the truth.
A charming cottage sits at the base of a high ridge. Large khaki-green barn doors to a garage sit next to stairs leading up to the entrance.