Chapter Two

It was the same Friday night that he had had the week before. And the week before that and before that. The same damn Friday night that he’d have the next week, and the one after that. Every Friday night was the same, and Dean Jessop was sick to death of it.

Not that he was in Shooter’s every fucking week, but the location hardly mattered, did it? If he was in Shooter’s or at The Cave or drinking beer with Dallas and Chris and Jim at his place, it was always the same. He was always the same. And God knows, the women were always the same.

Dean glared around the bar, pissed off at the noise and heat and smell. The other guys were all paired off already with women draped over their laps, and he knew as the lone man without a chick, he was a vulnerable target. Sure enough, the blonde at the bar was still eyeing him even though he’d shot her down pretty firmly earlier in a fit of bad mood. He knew she figured that after a few more drinks, he’d change his mind about her. The sad thing was, she wasn’t wrong. Another two rounds, and he’d be ready to go home with just about anyone.

“Hey, Dean. You gonna relax and get into the spirit of the party?”

He looked back at his friends. Chris’ chick-of-the-night was up at the bar getting another horrible fruity drink and Chris was leaning forward, staring at him.

“I’m trying, man. Slim pickings tonight.”

The two women at the table looked offended.

“I’m not referring to you, of course, ladies.” Dean flashed them his charming smile and they calmed down. “I mean everyone else.”

Dallas ran a massive hand up and down the redhead’s leg. “Uh-huh. We sure lucked out, huh?”

“I think we did, baby,” she purred back. “The second you guys walked in, every woman in the place wanted to be where I am right now.”

“And where you’ll be later,” Jim said. The blonde on his lap smirked and rubbed his broad chest.

Yeah, OK, Dean knew that the four of them made an impressive group when they walked into a room. Tall, muscular, strong, with a general air of 'don’t-fuck-with-us', they were all former Rangers now living semi-civilized civilian lives in their own ways. They weren’t in active combat anymore, but every man still lived and breathed what he had been through in Afghanistan, and they were one tight group. It seemed to Dean that women couldn’t wait to work their way into their little circle, but it was a hopeless case: no woman would ever be able to be much more than a fuck to any of them.

Dean, Jim and Chris had been through training together and then served in the same unit. After three tours, they were all fully operational and highly-trained and skilled killers. By contrast, Dallas had been the sharpest sharp-shooter around. He had been brought in for extreme situations and he’d blow someone’s head off, pack up his shit, and then disappear until the next assignment; as befit a sniper, the man had practically been a ghost. Despite that, they’d all become friendly. There was lots of downtime when waiting for a target to emerge from a building, and they had spent it hanging out, talking, learning to totally have each other’s backs.

Back in the real world now – as Dean still had to remind himself to call it – they stuck together, they picked up women, they drank beer and worked out. And they talked; they talked all the time about sports and poker and their jobs. But never about anything else. They knew better than to go back there unless they absolutely had to.

Dean sighed and looked around the bar again, wondering if maybe he’d just give the whole night up as a lost cause. Maybe he should just duck out, leave the boys to it. Go home alone, have a beer and watch some bad late-night movie on TV with his feet on the coffee table.

Dallas saw Dean’s face and knew his friend wasn’t into it. “Hey, man. One more beer before you go. OK?”

“Yeah. Yeah, OK.” He shrugged his huge shoulders. “Sorry, guys. I’m just not feeling it tonight.”

“You’re not feeling that?” Jim nodded at the blonde leaning on the bar so her ass jutted out. “Really?”

Dean’s well-practiced eye took her in. Tall and curvy and in a tight dress which left nothing at all to the imagination, he thought she wasn’t even wearing the tiniest of tiny thongs under it. She was all cleavage and thighs and deep tan, and he honestly couldn’t figure out what the fuck the problem was here. She was stretching her neck and arching her back, displaying herself for him, but he didn’t want one single thing that she was offering.

You’re just tired. Take a night off from it all.

“No, not really.” Dean turned away from the blonde again. “But yeah, I’ll grab one more beer and head out. You guys need anything?”