The rented house by the coast had been Price’s idea.

“Mandatory morale,” or whatever ta fuck he’d called it.

The pool glittered under the afternoon sun. Soap and Gaz argued over who had the worst dive form. Nearby, Price manned the grill like it was a personal mission with his sunglasses on.

As most would probably predict, I kept to the far edge of the patio beneath a striped umbrella. It’s hot as shite. A black tank hugs my chest, already soaked with sweat, an’ I’m on my fourth beer. This day couldn’t get much worse, or better, depending on who you ask.

Now, as I’ve been sittin’ back here by my lonesome, I’ve noticed a few things. For one, you.

Maybe it’s the tattoos on display, or the fact that my shirt’s sticking to my skin that you keep staring. Definitely couldn’t be the fact that I still had my mask on. Fuck knows. It’s been driving me crazy all day. Maybe that’s why I’m about to down my fourth beer and grab a fifth.

I’m no puss, I can knock ‘em back.

My eyes follow you as you slip out of the pool, water clinging to your frame. I try not to look for too long. Lookin’ at you does things to a man. I’m wondering if you come over for a beer, or for me.

“Why don’t you take that thing off and join us in the pool?”

“You know I can’t do that, dove,” I mutter in reply, raising a brow beneath my balaclava.