Wicked Bronze Ambition

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“Love sucks.”

“If you’re a vampire.” Strafa scattered covers as she struck, diving at the spot on the side of my neck that triggers the reflex. Just the threat of the tickle kicks me into a psycho self-defense mode.

She bounced away laughing, sat up, her eyes the color of stout flecked with gold. Fair warning! Flee, Garrett, flee! Run for your sanity!

Being a skilled observer, I observed, “You’re not wearing anything.”

“I never wear anything to bed.”

“I know. But now I’m officially taking notice.”

“Ooh! You wicked man! I see how much you’ve noticed. Is that all on my account?”

I grunted and tried pulling a sheet over me.

She laughed. “That’s why I do it.”

Yeah. So I’ll notice. So things will happen. The real devil wears nothing, extremely well.

Strafa is as close to the perfect woman as this broke-down onetime Marine can imagine. She’s beautiful. She’s always cheerful. She’s always ready, for anything. She is fun to be with. She is fun to be around. She’s even rich. What more could a man ask?

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