Also tits, obviously. Tits were a fave, too. Little Miss Emma-Manny-Emmanuelle didn’t seem to have much of those, either.
There might have been a pierced tongue, though. Hard to tell, since he’d spent most of his time with his face through the headrest. But he thought he’d seen a little flash once or twice. That could be interesting.
And damn, she had a pair of eyes on her. A blue like he’d never seen before. They practically glowed. She hadn’t looked him in the eye often, but when she had, he’d felt pinned.
Anyway, whatever. He supposed he was thinking about her because he’d expected to have Heather and get some loving with his massage. Instead, he’d ended it with a massive hard-on and no relief in sight. Except the relief when he’d yanked one off in the blue room at the Westerly site he’d gone to right after.
He’d have preferred not to think about that. Jerking off in a fucking port-a-potty had to be a new low. But his cock had refused to calm down on its own.
He kept thinking about the little bit of a thing, what it would have been like if she’d climbed on up and straddled him on the table, like Heather sometimes did.
Those little hands with their black nails digging into his muscles. What he just knew was a tight little pussy gripping his cock. He bet she was shaved. She looked like a shaver.
Fuck, he was getting up again. Luca cleared his throat and shook his head. He pulled into the lot at the end of the block on Gannet Street. Carlo had invited him to dinner at the house, but he’d declined, saying he had a date. He didn’t, but for some reason, he was having trouble lately facing the domestic bliss of the house on Caravel Road. Everybody was in love over there. Pop and Mrs. D., Carlo and Sabina, fuck, even little Trey was in love with the damn dog. And Rosa had a new boyfriend and could talk about little else. The romance was thick enough to make a fella ill.
He supposed he could hang out with Joey, but Joey was such a sad sack. And fucking angry. Luca was finding the limits of his sympathy. It had been almost a year since he’d been shot, and still he sat around like a lump, growling at anyone but Trey. Luca felt like a heel, but he just couldn’t deal with that shit anymore, either.
They needed to find something for Joey to do. He wasn’t a moron—well, no more than he’d ever been. He simply couldn’t get around as well, or talk as easily. He could fucking work. He needed to fucking work.
Not a problem to be solved right this second, though. So Luca parked and walked down the block to Quinn’s. He’d get an overdone burger and sit at the bar with Hugh. Hugh was always good for a gripe session. And Rhiannon was off tonight, so he didn’t have to sweat some new awkwardness with her after last night.
It was still pretty early, not even seven o’clock, and it was a weeknight, so the place was close to empty. It wasn’t ever totally empty during open hours in the summer, but there was a lull in the later afternoon to past dinner time. Hugh didn’t do a happy hour—mainly because the kind of people who went looking for happy hours were not the kind of people he wanted in his pub—and his menu couldn’t be called extensive. There was a bit of a rush around noon, because his food was quick and cheap for lunch, and then there were some hangers-on after that, people who’d started drinking with their basket of chicken tenders and then just kept going. Then the place got quiet until around eight, when the locals poured in after their family dinners or whatever. And the summer people, too. Those who wanted to ‘experience’ the ‘real’ Quiet Cove and get off the tourist path. There were always some of them around.
By about ten, the jukebox would be hopping, games of pool and darts would be lined up, and people would be getting a good, honest drunk on. Things got loud most nights, but not out of control. Hugh kept a tight fist around the place. People who got out of hand got shown the door. If they didn’t want to see that door, they got helped out the back.
That was where things like last night happened.
Luca was sort of an unofficial bouncer when he was there. He and Hugh went back a ways, to their mutual fighting days. Hugh had about ten years on him and had been a kind of mentor. It had been Hugh, a straight-up heavyweight boxer, who’d suggested that Luca—who was having middling success in the ring but not really going anywhere, but who’d wrestled in school and done some martial arts training and had a naturally acrobatic kind of grace—transition from boxing to MMA. And Luca had been considerably more successful in the cage—right up to the point he’d almost been crippled.
He sat down at the end of the bar nearest the wait station. Hugh poured him a beer from a tap.