Page 73 of Dangle

“Not sure. I don’t know everyone.”

I rolled my eyes. “That sounds like an impossibility. Has to be a lie.”

“There’s a lot of fucking people in the world, kid.”

“Not that. People not liking Mexican food or fajitas. It’s like the best food. I love it when the peppers and onions get a little char on them. Fuck. Now, my mouth’s watering.”

“So, you like Mexican food. Got it.”

“Like I said, it’s very unlikely there are people who don’t. I mean, unless it’s one of those assholes who enjoy being difficultby saying they don’t like something they stuffed in their face a week prior while raving about it.”

Slone’s head cocked as he turned from the now shut fridge door, holding an enormous slab of meat with several bell peppers—a red, green, orange, and yellow balanced on top. He set the ingredients on the island, bracketing them with his palms pressed against the counter. “Not sure I know anyone like that. Do you?” he asked.

“Oh, yeah. My mother. Whenever she wants to really piss off my father, she turns very passive aggressive. It’s one of her go-to tricks. He falls for it every time. She always tells him to get her regular, but it’s never right.”

He shook his head and turned toward the counter next to the fridge, setting down a cutting board and a knife, then grabbing several onions and a couple of tomatoes and something that looked like a small, white, round, flat-bottomed ball. I had no clue what the ball was, but no one ever described me as a picky eater. I had a hard enough time keeping weight on during the season. I ate anything that didn’t eat me first, hoping to keep weight on during the season.

He turned back to the island with the rest of the ingredients and set to work chopping and slicing. The man even butchered the slab of meat.

“You’re a butcher, too?”

“I can field dress just about anything, but the Corps doesn’t really give a shit if you can do anything other than roast a kill on a spit.”

“What the… They make you kill your own food?” I exclaimed.

Knife sounds ceased as he stopped to stare at me. “Boy, I don’t know if I should laugh at the joke or explain.”

“Explain, because I wasn’t joking.”

He laughed softly. The knife started moving again. “Yes, occasionally we were required to kill our own food. It was a training exercise in case we were ever stranded or stuck out in a remote location on a recon mission.”

“Oh, okay, that makes sense.” I fought back the urge to smack myself for being so damn stupid. Added to that, I kept showing this man, whom I was really fucking into, just how dumb I could be, which only made the fight that much more difficult. “I’m sorry I’m such an idiot,” I said, staring down at the honed surface of the black countertops while I drew designs on the surface.

The knife stopped again, dropping from his hand to clatter on the island. He washed and dried his hands, then came around the island, palm outstretched. I took it and slid off the barstool I was sitting on. He walked me to the fridge and pointed at the list of rules.

Fuck. I screwed up. My eyes closed as a deep breath filled my lungs.

“Read it.” Gone was the laughing, jovial man from a few moments ago. His voice had dropped at least an octave, maybe more. The words were rough, low, and left no doubt he meant business.

“All of it?”

“Yes. All of it.”

I took another deep breath. “Slone will text Trey good morning since he wakes up at the crack of dawn. Trey will reply when he finally crawls out of bed in the morning. Check-in texts and photos throughout the day are welcomed and encouraged. Slone worries. Trey wouldn’t mind getting photos of the sexy beast he’s exclusively fucking. Slone or the team’s social media gurus must approve all social media posts before going live. Drinking is limited to two beers or one mixed drink in a two-hour period unless Slone is present and Trey doesn’t haveaccess to his phone. Slone is Trey’s first call no matter what: good news or bad, happy or panicked. But especially when Trey spirals. When Trey spirals, Trey will find a quiet place and call Slone. If Slone doesn’t answer immediately, Trey will text Slone 911,” I paused. The last rule stared me down like a goalie on a breakaway.

“Finish it.”

“Trey isn’t to talk bad himself. EVER.”

“Do you know why I made you read them?”

I nodded.

“Words, Trey.”

“I called myself an idiot.”

“Yes, you did. I won’t stand by and let you belittle yourself. You are mine. You’re my boy. You are a reflection of me, and vice versa. If you’re an idiot, then I am too. Do you think I’m an idiot?”