Me
Gross. In my mind, my brother has no dick. I refuse to believe otherwise.
Charlie
I hate to break it to you, but not only does he have a dick, he’s packing a in those jeans.
Me
Is that a bat? Why the hell did you drop a bat emoji?
Charlie
I couldn’t find a baseball bat so I had to improvise.
Me
OMG, staaaahhhhhpppp. We are NOT you. He can be smuggling a cannon between his legs for all I care. If we have to stop, we're handling it like adults.
Charlie
Gurrrlllll… I’ll have you know, I was very adult when I sexually harassed your brother with my mega wand.
Me
I hate you.
Charlie
Hey, I can’t help it if he gives good And what he can do with the is
Me
Good thing I need this phone to hunt down my luggage or I’d be throwing it out the window right now.
A gust of wind rocks the truck. Pure instinct has me throwing out my hands to brace myself. The one gripping the door handle—smart move. The one gripping Chance's rock-hard thigh—not so much.
"As much as I enjoy your aggressive approach to stress relief, Squirt, maybe find a different gear shift to grab." His voice drops an octave, a dangerous rumble that definitely doesn't make my stomach flip. "You’re not tall enough to ride this ride."
"Trust me, soldier boy, if I wanted to ride anything in this truck, I'd start with your ego—seems like that's the biggest thing in here."
The air between us crackles with tension, heavy and charged. Chance's jaw clenches, a muscle ticking beneath the shadowed scruff lining his chiseled features. He takes a slow, measured breath, like he's mentally counting to ten. Or twenty.
When the truck lurches, he mutters something that sounds suspiciously like a prayer under his breath.
Knuckles white with force of his grip, he squints through the windshield.
I'm all for living dangerously, but when the speedometer starts giving me side-eye at the idea of even attempting the reduced speed limit, I know it's time to tap out.
"That's it." His voice, rough with frustration, breaks the tense silence. "We're stopping."
Relief floods me even as my stomach does a weird flip-flop thing. Not because of spending the night with GI Jackass.Absolutely not. No fluttery feelings here. Just exhaustion and frustration over my lost clothes and… everything.
At the next exit, Chance pulls into a gas station and yanks his phone from one of his eight thousand tactical pockets—seriously, who needs that many pockets—and fires off a series of texts.
The blue light from his screen catches on that jaw—the one that should come with a warning label and liability waiver. Not that I'm looking. Or cataloging the way his shit-eating grin grows with every exchange like he's collecting frequent flyer miles in the Smug Airways rewards program.
I swear, the bromance between him and my brother is as if Top Gun and Fight Club had a love child—all testosterone, no chill. They're basically soulmates joined at the hip flask, bonded by their obsession with overpriced whiskey, carving up black diamonds, and a mutual hard-on for torturing their little sisters. I swear, these two were meant to share a womb… practicing their fist bumps and secret handshakes in utero.
