The Consequence of Revenge

Shoot me now.

With an irritated sigh, I walked out onto the terrace that was connected to my hut and led out into the water. I took a seat on the dock. The ocean was just a few feet below, beckoning me to jump in. I looked around, then slowly stripped off my shirt and jeans. With one final glance around the corner, I slid my boxers down to my ankles and jumped into the glassy water.

The warmth of the ocean mixed with the humidity of the air felt like absolute perfection.

I swam toward the dock again and noticed Little G poking his head out from the room. “Aw, little man, you come out for the party?”

“Tell me,” a female voice interrupted. “Do you name everything?”

Becca walked around the corner and sat on the dock, pulling her knees to her chest.

“That depends.” I swam closer to her. “Is it cute bordering on sexy that I name everything or lame?”

“Hmm.” She tapped her chin. “Depends. Why do you call him Little G?”

I pointed at the gecko. “Because he’s a gecko and he’s small, thus Little G. I didn’t say my names were brilliant.”

“So.” Her eyes narrowed. “You call me Little B?”

I grinned shamelessly. “You do the math.”

“Max . . .” Her voice held a warning edge.

“P.S.” I swam closer to her and grabbed at her ankles. “I’m naked.”

“Oh.” Her face flushed, she jerked her ankles away from my grasp and laughed. “That’s . . . um, nice.”

“It really is.” I let my eyelids almost fall closed over my eyes as I scanned her perfect form outlined in the moonlight. “Care to join?”

“Not much of a swimmer.” She grinned. “Sharks, remember?”

“Ah,” I sighed. “Afraid I’ll bite?”

Becca burst out laughing. “Doubtful.”

“Excuse me?” Okay, after the snake incident my confidence was a bit shaky, but what the hell, it’s not like I’d gotten a personality transplant.

“Max.” Becca giggled. “No offense . . .”

Not a fan of sentences that started out as insults.

“But you’re kind of harmless.”

“Harmless?” I repeated. “As in I’m a badass hunting dog that’s just been tamed but can still bark and bite like the rest of them?”

“No.” She licked her lips. “More like a blind, very old, old, old—”

“Stop saying old,” I snapped.

“Lapdog.”

“Lap. Dog?”

“Yeah.” She grinned wider.

Why the hell was she smiling? Was she mocking me? Me? Max? King of the Jungle? “Grandpops had a lap dog—it used to get the shits around the house and always found the playroom as the best place to hide the evidence. I hated that dog. I wanted to drop-kick it. But it was too damn passive. The one time I yelled it walked right over to my G.I. Joe and dropped a load. So.” I glared. “Are you saying I’m like Squeaker?”

“Is that the G.I. Joe or the dog?” Becca dipped her toe into the water.

“Really? The very fact that you have to ask that means you have no idea what you’re talking about. Who names their G.I. Joe Squeaker?”

Becca leaned forward, her white tank top catching in the wind, making me stare like a dog, just not one who sat on your lap . . . unless . . . well, at any rate, she leaned forward and said, “What was your G.I. Joe’s name?”

“None of your business.” I sniffed and grabbed at her foot, massaging the bottom of it and pulling it farther into the warm water.

“Come on.” She leaned over farther. Damn, that shirt was low, just low enough too. I cleared my throat and looked away.

“Joe-Joe.”

“Like the potato?”

“No!” I released her foot. “Like Joe times two! Like double the badassery!”

“Or like the band K-Ci and JoJo.”

“I’m not a lapdog,” I said, changing the subject. “And honestly, I’m a bit insulted that you think I’m harmless.”

Her eyebrows lifted.

“Harmless would mean I haven’t been staring at your breasts for the past ten minutes dreaming about what they’d feel like cupped in my hands. Harmless”—I drew out the word—“would mean I haven’t been thinking about what you taste like—everywhere.” I smirked. “Harmless? Oh, honey, if you think I’m harmless then you’re in deeper than you think, but that’s okay. I like it that way.”

“What way?” She exhaled quickly, then stood.

“Just because I’m friendly doesn’t mean I’m not dangerous.”

“You named a gecko,” she pointed out.

“True.” I nodded. “I’m a friend to the animals.”

“And a snake was in your pants.”

“Right, but—”

“You screamed like a girl.”

“Not true!” I yelled.

“And . . .” She held up her hand like she was doing a damn countdown! “You’re kind of, like . . .” She leaned forward and whispered, “A bit . . .” Her eyes teased. “Metro.”

“As in . . .” I baited her.

“Feminine,” she snapped. “Yup, that’s the word. And Max, I mean that in the nicest way possible.”

“You mean . . .” I licked my lips, then slapped the water. “In the kindest way you can possibly say it, ‘Oh, look, Max has boobs’? Or you mean it in the way that says I lack the proper sexual magnetism to get your engine going?” ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">