Dylan was even quicker than Ryker, looking self-conscious to be showering with an audience. August could have turned around and given him his privacy, but he was having too much fun watching him.
When Dylan was done, August took his place, and as Dylan dried off, he made a show of soaping up his muscles, bending over and putting his ass on display as he washed his feet and lathered up his meaty thighs.
He was not expecting Ryker to walk up to the shower, reach inside, and slap his ass. He jumped, standing up and glaring at his mate as Ryker guffawed.
“I’m sorry, I couldn’t resist,” Ryker said. While August and Dylan had been in the shower, he’d put on a pair of loose sweats and a tight t-shirt, the worn cotton pulled tight around his biceps and over his muscular chest.
“Yeah, yeah,” August said, grabbing a towel and drying off before going to find some comfortable clothes of his own.
Dylan followed him into the closet, heading over to the shelves they’d cleared for him and pulling out a pair of pajamas.
When all three of them were dressed, they walked back to the living room to where their drinks were waiting.
“That’s better,” August said. He leaned back into the couch and took a long sip of his beer, kicking his legs up on the coffee table and draping his arm over the back of the couch. He glanced over at Ryker, smiling at him over the top of Dylan’s head.
Dylan sipped his vodka cranberry, looking like he was enjoying the taste. How that was, August had no idea. Cranberry juice was, in his opinion, absolutely disgusting.
“Do you guys want to watch some TV?” Ryker asked, reaching for the remote.
Dylan snuggled back into the couch, lifting his legs and crossing them. He rested his glass on his knee. “Sounds good to me.”
He shifted a little, grimacing.
“You okay?” August asked.
“My butt is sore,” he said, not looking like he was particularly upset at that state of affairs. He smiled and leaned into August’s side. “It’s fine. It’s the fun kind of sore.”
“Yeah?” August threaded his fingers through Dylan’s hair. It was still damp, and his fingers got wet. He wiped them on the front of Dylan’s shirt.
“Yeah,” Dylan agreed.
29
STEVE
When Steve left his apartment for work on Thursday morning, he kept his eyes peeled for familiar faces in the crowd. He’d spotted Betty Wiltshire one more time since he’d seen her at the café – she’d been reading a magazine across from the corner store where he’d gone for his weekly grocery run – but so far that was it.
Heading into the station, Steve made his way to the locker room to change into his uniform. He nodded hello to a couple of people he’d worked with on his way, and even had a conversation with the guy who had the locker next to his, but having made friends with Ryker and his pack had made it clear to him how lacking his social interactions had been since moving to the city.
He hadn’t made any effort to make friends with any of the people he worked with, and as such he’d developed a reputation for being aloof and thinking that he was better than everyone else.
After changing into his uniform, Steve made his way to roll call and took a seat at one of the comically tiny desks.
“Miller, we need you in the financial district again. We had a mugging yesterday and the mayor has been asked to increase the police presence in the neighborhood. That will be your and Officer Johnson’s beat for the foreseeable future.”
Steve bit back a groan of annoyance. He hated working the financial district. Nothing ever happened there, and as long as he was on ornamental duty, he wouldn’t be called in for anything unless it happened within a block of his location.
Carl, the guy whose locker was next to his, leaned in and muttered, “That blows, man.”
Steve shot him a quick commiserating nod. Carl was on traffic duty, so that wasn’t much better, but he seemed happy with his lot.
“You do what you’ve got to do, right?” he said.
Carl grinned, looking happy that Steve had replied to him. Steve wondered if he’d really been that much of an unapproachable douchebag that simple conversation was seen as novel.
If that was the case, he needed to shape up.
Filing out of the room, Steve made his way to the parking lot to get his bike, stopping by the locker room to pick up his jacket, helmet and gloves on the way.
