“Fanfuckingtastic!” Mitch mumbled to himself, then stepped back, moved to the side, and signaled the bartender with his hand. The bartender pulled two bottles of Beck’s from the rack and set them in front of Mitch. Mitch put his money on the bar, grabbed the bottles, and left.
The breeze from the river hit his face as he walked across the piazza, envisioning the red-ribbed fuck-me dress hugging Mindi’s remarkable rack, flat abs, and tight booty as her wild, loose ringlets swayed to the rhythm of her sexy swagger.
He strode into the hotel room, put a beer in the refrigerator, and headed for the sliding glass doors. Standing on the private balcony, he took a long pull of beer, then stared at the bare branches and vacant path along the Boise River. It was quiet, peaceful . . . lonely.
He thought of Mindi asleep in her bed, ceiling fan turning overhead, quilt snug around her shoulders, feather pillows beneath her brow. And of Ben in his bed with Shep by his side. She had made a comfortable home for the two of them. She didn’t need him, and she sure as hell had her guard up so as not to allow herself to need him. He dropped his head and stared at his Nikes. Her red toenails seared his mind. He lifted his head and took a long pull of beer, wishing she needed him.
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