Hung

Hunter’s romantic repertoire makes me look like the world’s most talented Don Juan.

“I’ve got plans.” Hunter grins.

No, no, no.

Change the topic. Do not imagine what’s on his to-do list for tonight. I eyeball the chow line, instead.

“We’re first in line.” I’m never first. Don’t get me wrong—it’s not because I’m gonna voluntarily hang back and let someone else charge the goodies. The breakfast line is usually more stampede than orderly queue, and my teammates play dirty. It’s weird, because while we’re not Miss Fucking Manners, out in the field we look out for each other like we’re channeling our inner Musketeers and it’s one for all and all for one no matter how much fire Mother Nature tosses at us. Add pancakes to that equation, however, and I’m surprised we still have twenty hotshots. Pretty sure that if we were in a plane that crashed in the middle of the Himalayas, none of us would hesitate to eat the others. Tastes like chicken, right?

Hunter looks at me and I give him a big ass grin. It never hurts to play nice. Hunter’s gaze narrows as he takes in the cooks, waiting to serve up the day’s breakfast, and then he shoves me forward. “After you.”

I smell pancakes, bacon, and nothing out of the ordinary. “Not hungry?”

“Not for what those girls are cooking up.” He backs up, putting some more space between me and him.

Danger.

I eyeball the row of stainless steel heating trays. Still looks like pancakes and bacon to me. Smells like breakfast with a side of Styrofoam and coffee. Whatever trouble he sees, I’m not seeing—and I’m hungry as fuck. I look behind me, and sure enough, the rest of the team is hanging back. What’s up with that? It’s not my birthday and I’m not that much older than the other guys even if they do like to call me Gramps. Or Grumps. Age before beauty, right? Looks like I’m taking one for the team.

“Avenge my death,” I mock-whisper to Hunter and slap him on the back even harder than he walloped me in the spirit of keeping things even.

By the time I reach the start of the food line, I’ve figured a few things out. My teammates may have cleared the way to the pancakes for me like Moses parting the Red Sea, but looks like it’s a one-man pass. As soon as I’ve gone, they all fall in behind me, jostling for position like they always do. Whatever’s up, it’s only gonna shit on me and that’s fine because I’ve just spotted an unexpected bright spot in an otherwise suck-ass day.

Sarah Jo is working the line today.

Her haphazardly buttoned flannel shirt gapes as she shovels pancakes into a stainless steel warmer, giving me an excellent view of her blue T-shirt that announces Firemen do it hotter, the pink curlicues scrolling across her tits. I know she’s wearing the matching hot-pink bra because the lacy strap peeking out from beneath its evil cotton overlord just screams look at me. So I do. Even though I shouldn’t. It’s like being handed a beer when you’ve decided tonight is a dry night or a slab of chocolate cake an hour after you start that diet. I have no will power when it comes to Sarah Jo, just a whole lot of dirty thoughts, and I’d absolutely love to show her how this fireman does it.

The truth is, I am dirty. Whether she is is still up for debate. The last time I saw her, she was more scared than turned on. I remind myself that makes her really off-limits while I grab a plate and a napkin full of rolled up silverware. She’s wearing my favorite skirt, too, the one made out of some kind of clingy fabric that hugs her ass and stops two inches below the flannel shirt and far, far above her hiking boots. I suspect she thinks wrapping herself up in an acre of used flannel will be some kind of penis deterrent. My dick, however, just decides that she’s gift-wrapped herself for us and we should tear into her one button at a time.

My dick has the best ideas.

She glances toward the start of the line, and the southern parts of me perk up and wave hello.

Bad hotshot.

Dating anyone in camp is a potentially messy mistake, and she’s given me no real reason to think she might be interested anyhow. Plus, the odds of her lasting the summer are low. She can’t cook worth a damn, although her enthusiasm more than makes up for it as far as I’m concerned. Burnt eggs taste way better after I’ve brushed up against her. Or snuck a peek down the front of her T-shirt when she bends over, flashing me the sweet valley between her tits. Or… yeah. I’ve got a fucking catalog of dirty fantasies and she’s got… coffee. She beams like a lighthouse as she hands out the Styrofoam cups and fusses over her basket of Mini Moos and sugar. She always remembers how I like mine and hoards the French vanilla creamers for me. Mentally, I smack myself. This sounds way too kindergarten. Maybe I should pass her a note. I could itemize all the ways I like her—and want to do her.