"We tried to have his wings clipped," Sean said. "But neither of us could do it, everyone at the shelter was afraid of him, and then a lady came along who knows how to handle parrots. So he's her problem now."
"And he's probably still talking trash about us," Paul grumbled.
"Well." Travis shrugged. "Can you blame him?"
"Fuck you, Travis."
Sean and I both snickered. To me, he said, "See why these two get along?"
"Mm-hmm." I glanced at Travis. "Two batshit peas in the same batshit pod."
"Hey!" Travis wagged a finger at me. "Show some respect."
"Respect my elders?" I shot back.
Sean and Paul both laughed.
"He's got you there, Travis," Paul said.
"And you'll always be older than me," Travis said. "So bite me, Gramps."
Yeah, I thought as the banter went on, I could definitely get along with this group.
A few hours, an amazing meal, and a lot of shit-talking later, we said goodbye to Paul and Sean, and walked back toward Travis's car.
"So," he said as he took his keys out of his pocket. "What'd you think?"
"They're a lot of fun." I paused. "What do you think they thought of me?"
Travis shrugged. "Well, I can usually tell if Paul's giving my date the side-eye, and I didn't see him do it once today. So . . . I'd say he likes you."
"Phew." I made a theatrical gesture of wiping my brow. "Then we can keep fucking."
He laughed, elbowing me gently. "It would take a lot more than Paul's disapproval to chase me out of your bed."
"Really?"
"Mm-hmm." He stopped, and when I faced him, he grinned. "In fact, you could probably chase me into it right about now."
"Is that right?" Never in my life had I wished more for the confidence to touch a man in public.
"Yep." He nodded toward the car. "What do you say we get the hell out of here?"
"I say, 'Why are we still standing here?'"
"Good point."
We hurried to the car, got in, and headed back to my place.
And even if I couldn't touch him in public, I had no reservations whatsoever about touching him in the privacy of my apartment.
Faster, Travis, faster . . .
Since Clint hadn't been to Anchor Point's infamous pier, I took him down there on Sunday afternoon. Of course, being November, it wasn't exactly packed with people or vendors like it would be in the summer. I preferred it this way anyway.
So I parked in the mostly empty lot, and we strolled out onto the wooden pier.
There was a sparse crowd today. I suspected the whole place would've been empty if the weather hadn't been unusually nice for this time of year. The Oregon coast could be sunny and gorgeous, or shitty and gray, and the last few days had been beautiful. This morning had been chilly-almost enough to turn the dew on my lawn into frost-but the afternoon was just cool enough to require a light jacket to fend off the wind coming in from the ocean.
During the summer, the smell of funnel cakes and popcorn would overpower the diesel fumes from the booths' generators, not to mention the saltwater. Today, though, the only places selling food aside from the restaurants along the waterfront were a permanent ice cream shop that apparently never closed, and a row of vending machines next to the restrooms.
Along the south edge of the pier, a few of the game booths were up and running. Most of them were deserted. A young dad was coaching his kids-they couldn't have been more than four or five-on how to pop balloons with darts, and some teenagers were earnestly debating whether to cough up another five dollars to try knocking over milk bottles with a softball. Otherwise, the operators alternated between checking their phones and trying not to look too bored.
"Man, my kids love these games." Clint's smile was equally sad and nostalgic as we slowed down. "My older son is like a wizard at some of them."
"Yeah? I thought they were all rigged."
"They are. But I think he googled how to beat them or something." He stopped in front of the milk-bottle game, gaze fixed on the pyramid of bottles. "We practically needed a garbage bag to get all of his prizes out of Circus Circus."
I laughed. "That's impressive. How old is he?"
"He just turned twelve." He picked up one of the softballs, tossed it up in the air, and caught it. "He was eight when he relieved Circus Circus of most of their stuffed animals."
"Wow." I whistled. "Smart kid."
His smile broadened, and he nodded. Motioning toward the milk bottles, he said, "This is the only game I've ever been good at. Once you figure out how the bottles are weighted, it's not that hard."
"Yeah?" I took out my wallet and put a ten on the counter beside the softballs. "Prove it."
Clint chuckled. "Seriously?"
"Yep." I waved for the girl running the game to collect the money. "Seriously."
She picked up the ten, handed me a dollar in change, and stepped out of the way. "Each throw is three bucks. You have to knock all three bottles down in one throw to win."
"Fair enough." Clint took off his leather jacket and handed it to me. Then he tossed the ball in the air and caught it again. He did that a couple of times while he eyed the bottles. "All right. Here we go."
He didn't just throw the ball. He wound up like a major league pitcher and slammed that fucker into the stack of milk bottles. For a second, I didn't even notice if the bottles had fallen. I was much too busy replaying the image of him throwing it. Holy . . .
I turned my head. He'd knocked the top bottle over, but the other two were still standing. As the kid behind the counter reset them, Clint picked up another ball.
"So." I cleared my throat. "You figure out how they're weighted yet?"
"Not yet. Might take a couple of tries."
Fine by me.
The second throw fucked with my pulse as much as the first one had. Maybe even more this time because I'd known it was coming, and I was already drooling just thinking about it. I swore the whole thing happened in slow motion-Clint drawing back, T-shirt pulling snug over his shoulders, lips tightening across his teeth-before he launched that softball across the counter.
This shouldn't be that hot. He's throwing a ball, for God's sake.
"Damn." He laughed, shaking his head. "Let's hope the third time's the charm."
My mouth had gone dry, so I just nodded. While he sized up the pyramid of bottles, I glanced around, wondering if there was an ATM nearby. At three dollars per throw, I might need some more cash to keep this particular bit of entertainment going for a while. I didn't even care if he won-I was perfectly content to watch him throw.
I shook myself. It had been a long time since a man had made my pulse race quite like he did. The fact that I already knew what he was like in bed was almost surreal.
"Finally!" He pumped his fist and grinned, and when I turned, all the milk bottles had been toppled over. One of them even rolled, teetered on the edge, and dropped onto the concrete with a satisfying clank.
"Nice!" I laughed. "So I guess I can't bust your chops at work, can I?"
"Nope." Under his breath, he muttered, "Asshole."
The kid running the game handed over his prize, which turned out to be a steering wheel-sized plush . . . doughnut. It even had pink frosting and multicolored sprinkles.
We both stared at it.
To the kid, Clint asked, "When did you guys start doing stuffed pastries instead of stuffed animals?"
She shrugged. "That's what the company sends."
"Oh. Okay." He eyed it, and then his face lit up with a wicked grin. "I think I know what we can do with this! We should give it to one of the sentries on base."
I snorted. "Oh, I'm sure they'd love that. I mean, cops and doughnuts . . ."
"Exactly."
The kid rolled her eyes and laughed. Clint tucked the doughnut under his arm, and we stepped away from the booth.
"So, um." I looked around. "You want to keep going?" I pointed toward the far end of the pier. "Check out what's down that way?"
"How's your back doing?"
"Not bad."
"You're okay to keep walking around?"
"Yeah, yeah." I waved a hand. "I've got some Motrin with me if it acts up."
"Sure, we can keep going, then."
So, we did. Strolling along, talking about nothing, we kept going toward the middle of the long pier where several people were fishing over the edge next to the No Fishing signs. A couple were hoisting up a crab pot, and a dozen seagulls patrolled the area in search of handouts or unattended catches.
Clint stopped. "Do I hear seals?"
I craned my neck. It was hard to hear much over the squawking seagulls and the country music blasting from someone's radio, but then I heard the distinctive barking. "Yeah, I think you do. Or sea lions. I think that's all they have here."
We moved toward the sound and looked over the railing into the water.