He sank onto his bed and Monty jumped up to join him. He scratched behind Monty’s ears. “Good job, Monts. You’re making me grow a goddamned conscience.”
Monty licked his chops. There were pieces of red shoe leather stuck in his teeth.
Pike chuckled and kissed the top of Monty’s scruffy head. Monty rewarded him by releasing some noxious gas and dog-grinning at the effort.
“Jesus, Monts.” He put his hand over his nose and mouth. “Take that stuff somewhere else.”
Monty, of course, took that as his cue to settle next to him on the bed. Pike waved the poisonous fumes away, coughing, and grabbed his cell phone.
Gibson answered on the second ring. “Please tell me you last longer than that because, seriously, any thoughts of going gay for you are definitely out of the question otherwise. I require stamina.”
Pike let his head fall back to the pillow. “Shut the fuck up and stop flirting. It’s not going to work.”
“So you kicked her out?”
“Yeah.”
“Good. You’re better than that,” Gib said, no sarcasm in his voice. “You need to stop dipping into the groupie pool, anyway. You’re too old for that shit. Find yourself some normal women who are your own age.”
“Normal women have too many expectations.”
“What? Like remembering their names and calling them the next day?”
“Exactly. Plus, I’m best in limited doses. I’d send normal women running for the hills after too long.”
“I don’t know. You haven’t scared off your friends yet. I mean, yes, I thought you were an egotistical douchebag when I first met you, but now you’ve grown on me. Like a fungus.”
“So you’re saying I should try to infect some normal woman with my fungus? Good talk, buddy. Good talk.”
“Dr. Phil gets all his best stuff from me.”
“Just tell me about this charity thing so I can get to bed and think about the sex I won’t be having tonight.”
Gibson paused as if ready to push the topic, but then relented. “Fine. The charity project would involve music.”
“Excellent.”
“And would be helping my lovely sister-in-law-to-be out.”
“Making sexy Tessa happy. Good.”
“You’d be working with kids.”
“And . . . I’m out.”
Gibson scoffed.
“You have something against kids?”
“I’m inked up, curse like a convict, and have piercings in questionable places. Parents don’t want me near their children, and the kids freak me out.”
“Bullshit. How can you be freaked-out? You’re one of them.”
“Sorry, Gib.”
“Are you being serious right now?”
“I’m not a kid person.” He could still smell the stench of the house he’d grown up in. The overstuffed diaper pails. The spoiling government-issued baby formula. His younger siblings seeking him and his sister out when their mom couldn’t keep up.