That was a wincingly high desperation level, but... “You’re assuming he’s gotten them,” Rio pointed out. “Go with that:Service sucks, texting sketchy, not sure I’m getting through, please check in.”
Dave nodded, typing with his thumbs. “Cordially matter of fact. That’s good. Thanks, man.”
“He might be in a place with no cell service,” Rio said.
“Or he’s being extra douchey, seeing how many texts I’ll send him before my head explodes,” Dave muttered grimly. “Payback for the booty call I refused to answer last week.”
“Okay,” Rio said. “All right. That’s it. I’m calling bullshit. We’re done with Jon, okay? He’s an asshole. After we get back to California, I’mma introduce you to my cousin, Luc. He just moved to San Diego. You’ll like him—it’s Luc without a K or an E. That’s not why you’ll like him, that was just an FYI. You’ll like him because he’s... well, he’s smart, he’s funny, and he looks a lot like me—not too much, just enough—and well, I’m adorable.”
Dave laughed a little at that. “Remember how you saidIt doesn’t work that way?I wish it did, but... It kinda doesn’t work that way. You don’t just call bullshit and fall out of love.”
“I hear you,” Rio said. “I do. But not answering a booty call from the asshole you love because you’re out with someone new and funny and cute versus not answering a booty call from the asshole when you’re home alone, crying into your beer? I’d go with option A.”
Dave sighed. “All right. Set me up with your cousin. He better not look too much like you, because that would be weird.”
“Nah,” Rio said. “I mean, weird, yes, it would be, but no, he’s, like, a prettier me. Like, imagine I got photoshopped to look like I’m in a boy band.”
Dave closed his eyes and shook his head and let out an even heavier sigh. “All right,” he said again. But then he checked his phone. Still no text from the loser.
“I’ll give Luc your number,” Rio said. “In the meantime, get your distraction on by doing some math.”
“I’m on it.” Dave reached for the map.
* * *
“Do you remember that night I babysat for the McCoys, and I called you in a panic?” Tasha asked as Thomas finished up bandaging her foot.
“Syrup of ipecac night or the massively bleeding head wound one?” he asked. Her entire heel had been bloody and raw. Her feet were small but still very Fred-Flintstone—wide and square. In her tweens, she’d complained, loudly, about the way they looked, and he used to tease and tell her she was lucky—she didn’t need flippers when she went for a swim.
But Fred definitely didn’t take care of his feet the way Tash did. Hers were soft, with carefully pedicured toenails that were painted a very bright shade of pink.
The blister was bad—and he’d seen more than his share. Chafing and the damage it caused were a common Navy SEAL experience, and one of his many important tasks as the team’s hospital corpsman was to teach his teammates methods and tricks to avoid blisters. Prevention was absolutely the best medicine, but he also knew plenty about how to stop a blister from going full-Melvin after it started.
“You should’ve said something,” he’d chastised her when she’d first let him look. God, every step she’d taken, probably shortly after they left the burning SUV, had surely hurt like hell.
“And you’d’ve done what?” she countered, chin held high. “Given me one of your socks, which would’ve left you barefoot. Nope.”
“I would’ve packed the back of your shoe with moss,” he shot back.
“What moss?” she asked. “We would’ve had to stop to find moss, and I was already slowing you down.”
“Out in the world, something like this could easily get infected,” he’d informed her. “We’re lucky we have soap and water—and a first-aid kit with antibiotic ointment.”
He’d found a large, up-to-date first-aid kit on the shelf in the pantry. Near the many,manyboxes of condoms. Not that anyone was having sex in here any time soon, despite the bad-porno-worthy red bathrobes they were both wearing.
He’d always heard that gingers should never wear red, but that was clearly an urban legend. With Tasha’s newly-washed hair curling and gleaming around a face clean of makeup and down her red-robed shoulders, she looked like anything but a fashion-don’t.
It was weird. Without all that makeup, he would’ve thought she’d look even more like the Tasha he’d known back when they were both kids. And yeah, her freckles were more prominent with her face clean, but that was where the comparison ended. Sure, her eyes were the same deep, rich blue they’d always been, and they still held a touch of the same wiser-than-her-years, slightly sad, slightly amused wariness. But her face was a full-grown woman’s face, complete with lines made from laughter around her quick-to-smile mouth and eyes. Eyes that could flash with badly hidden longing and desire, when she thought he wasn’t watching.
Note to self: hide the vodka and Kahlúa and whatever else went into a White Russian. Cream. Ah, there probably wasn’t any cream, and almond milk wouldn’t cut it, so he was probably safe.
Thomas had gotten out of the bathroom to find Tash had set the table for him with a bowl, spoon, cornflakes, and almond milk. She’d already eaten and had put her clothes—with the exception of her winter jacket and her sweater—into the kitchen sink to soak. While he ate the world’s most delicious bowl of cereal, she added his clothes to the soapy water.
Only then was it time for first aid.
Tasha laughed a little now as he finished securing the bandage. “I forgot that there weretwonights of crazed babysitter-panic at Chez McCoy.”
“Two that I witnessed,” he pointed out. “It wouldn’t surprise me if there were a dozen more that I never knew about, at least with other, non-Tasha babysitters.”
