The skin around Fallon’s eyes tightened as they bulged from her head. “Excuse me,” she snapped.
“I don’t believe I need to reiterate, but I will. You’re a grouch because you practically live in this damn office. You probably barely see the light of day if it’s before noon, and I have never—I repeat, never—seen you with a man. Or a woman for that matter.”
Fallon narrowed her eyes and frowned in confusion.
“Hey, I don’t know what your preferences are. All I’m sayin’ is, no lovin’ is the main ingredient in bitch moods.”
For owning a burlesque club where inhibitions were checked at the door, Fallon was pretty reserved when it came to her personal life. It was just easier that way. It was her coping mechanism, her life preserver, her safety net. Keeping everyone around her at a safe distance from her heart was the only way she knew how to protect it from herself.
“I’m not going to divulge the private details of who I sleep with to you, Na,” she snapped. And the truth of the matter was, Fallon had an extremely healthy sex life. Maybe not the most adventurous social life outside the mingling required in her club, but that’s how she preferred it. She had a few men—and by “a few” she meant two—who were delighted to come to her house at any given time—just not at the same time; she hadn’t quite figured that one out yet—and fulfill her need for a warm body when she saw fit. But it was always prearranged, always on her terms, and never lasted more than a few hours. So there was no need to fill anyone in on the intimate details. She wanted to keep the men in the positions she designated for them. Including them in any other facet of her life, emotionally or physically—or even verbally—would just shift them away from their secured space. It was too risky.
Arm’s length. That’s how she liked to keep her relationships, intimate and platonic alike. That was her motto.
Hell, it should be a bumper sticker.
Crossing her arms over her chest and pursing her lips, Naomi proceeded to roll her eyes. “Mmm-hmm,” she hummed between tight lips. She had this doubtful expression thing down pat.
Bounding out of the chair as if it were a track meet event, Naomi stood up and skipped toward the door. Literally skipped like a schoolgirl. “All right, girl. I can tell when I’m not wanted.”
Yeah, right.
“I will let you get back to snoring.”
“I don’t snore.”
Opening the door, Naomi laughed, turning her head over her shoulder to send Fallon a quick glance. “For being such a lady, you snore like a three-hundred-pound man with sleep apnea,” she accused. “I could hear you through the door.”
“Seriously?” Fallon complained.
“Seriously.”
Huffing, Fallon pulled her thighs up against her chest and cuddled into the couch. “Well, it could be worse. I could drool and snore at the same time.”
“Hate to point out the obvious, but you sleep alone, girl. In your office. I don’t think whether or not you drool or snore is the issue here.” She offered what looked like a try at a partial grin and partial frown, and it was probably the most pathetic effort of comfort Fallon had witnessed to date. Then Naomi stepped out and shut the door behind her.
Much to Fallon’s annoyance, she wasn’t able to fall back asleep.
• • •
The shrill sound of the alarm sent a signal to Rafe’s muscles and his body was up and out of the bed before his mind had a chance to wake up. Then disappointment set it. He wasn’t in his room on the FOB in Afghanistan getting ready to head out for his next mission. He wasn’t about to give orders, or load his weapon. He wasn’t about to get back to the thing he loved—fighting for his country—the one thing that seemed to distract the clusterfuck in his mind from taking him over.
No. He was in his room back in his house in Colorado Springs, just outside Fort Carson. Rafe’s vision started to clear as he regained consciousness. He dropped his back onto the bed and heard a soft moan next to him as the mattress shook from his body weight.
“Dammit,” he mumbled, remembering that he wasn’t alone in his bed. The night before consisted of one too many glasses of whiskey and . . . a blonde? Murano leisurely lifted the sheet that was covering the woman next to him. Yep, she was a blonde.
He grinned.
And so was her friend.
The bits and pieces from last night started fitting together in his mind, making one hell of a slide show of nude images.
He looked down at the naked women and tried like hell to remember their names. One was Amber? Or was it April? What in the hell was the other chick’s name?