So This Is War (Vancouver Agitators, #5)

by Meghan Quinn

I can’t help it. I’ve never found a woman as attractive to me as she is. She checks all my fucking boxes. Every single one of them.

“Well, I fucking remember,” I say. “I’ve remembered almost every goddamn night.” “That’s sweet,” she says. “And I love this reminiscing, but I truly think we should keep this professional, so if you could not talk about me palming your dick, I would appreciate it.”

“Great point,” Pacey says. “Explain to us why you aren’t the master of your own heart.” Silas presses his palm to his chest. “That’s a nice way to put it, man.” Pacey nods. “Thanks, it felt like it had a nice ring to it. Something in one of Halsey’s books.”

“Can you stop looking at my jaw, you perverts,” I say. “Staring at a man’s jaw is like staring at a pair of tits, and I don’t appreciate the ogling.” I press both of my hands to my jaw.

tack on a smile, painfully aware of my desperation. “Yup, everything is great.” “Okay because it looked like you were screaming into a pillow.” “Stubbed my toe,” I reply. “Got me good.” “Ooo, I hate when that happens. You okay?” “Yeah, I’m good.”

Alert. Alert. Warning. Warning. Bad thoughts are occurring. Sexual thoughts. Aching urges are taking over. Hands are ready to cup breasts. The mouth is ready to suckle. The dick is ready to pulse between her legs . . .

But instead of vocalizing my innermost thoughts, I nod. “Just love bologna is all, and someone has been eating my bologna at the arena, so I want to make sure I have some on hand because I like to eat a sandwich before every game. Kind of a tradition, and I really like the way it tastes, makes me feel like I’m gearing up for a takedown. Like a beast. A man beast. A man beast on the ice. That should be my new hashtag.” I nervously laugh. “Man beast on the ice, powered by bologna.

This . . . this is blasphemy. This is bullshit. This can’t be the world I’m living in. No, this is a nightmare. Someone punch me. Poke me. Stick a chopstick right up my dick hole.

Levi: URGENT. CODE RED. DEFCON 1. PLEASE JESUS, HELP ME! I don’t care what you’re doing, drop everything and meet me at Café Peppermint in fifteen minutes. Drinks and snacks are on me. Tell NO ONE! I set my phone down and take a few deep breaths as my cock strains against my pants. Whispering meadows. Babbling brooks. Woodland creatures. Deep breaths . . . that’s it. Fluttering branches. Cotton-candy skies. Wylie eating bologna. No. No. No. Focus. Bunny with cotton tail. Wild berries in brilliant hues of red. Singsonging birds with white chests. Chests . . . Tits.

“Are you sure? Because it seems like something’s bothering you.” You! You are bothering me, you beautiful, magnificent, bologna-eating wench.

I stand from the bed and stare down at my tented joggers. This is not going to do. I can’t go to Café Peppermint with my dick leading the way. They’ll never let me return. So I grab a pair of jeans from my closet and slip off my joggers, say a quick hello to my erection—looking painful, my guy—and slip my jeans on, sliding my dick carefully against the more restrictive fabric.

“You think you’ll go undetected walking around like that?” “Yes. People won’t notice me.” “They’re going to notice the six-foot-four man walking around with a scarf around his neck.” “Not the people I’m walking by.” “Oh-kay,” she says, giving me a once-over. “At least tuck your shirt in.” She reaches for the hem of my shirt, but I booty blast the air, backing that ass up so quick and folding over at the waist. “Penis,” I shout. “Huh?” “Uh, don’t touch my penis.” She stands back. “I wasn’t going to. I was going to suggest tucking your shirt in.” I stand taller, prouder. I flip my scarf over my shoulder, and with my chin held high, I say, “And I suggest you don’t touch my penis.”

“Thank you all for being here.” I rest my hands on the table. “I know you have busy lives, and I want you to know I value your time⁠—” “Just tell us what’s going on,” Ollie says, her arms folded across her chest. “And it better be good,” Penny adds. “Because Eli was just getting out of the shower.” “Halsey and I were just about to go to bed,” Blakely says. “I think you know what that means.” I nod just as Winnie says, “Hold on, ladies, before we get irritated with him, let’s hear him out. He wouldn’t pull us all out of our homes for something stupid.” She gestures toward me. “Tell us what’s going on.” I clear my throat and say, “I have a boner.” “Oh my God.” Ollie tosses her hands up in the air and stands. “Jesus Christ, Posey.” Penny stands as well. “You’re disgusting.” Blakely scoots her chair out, and I hold my hands out to stop them. “Wait,” I say in a panic. “Just listen.”

Levi: Okay, now I’m scared. How the hell do I battle the mistress of sex, the erotic torture lady? Blakely: Great question. Anyone? Penny: Thinking. Ollie: Well, we could . . . uh . . . Winnie: There’s the . . . uh . . . Blakely: You know, we could . . . well, no, that won’t work. Penny: *thinks* Levi: This is not helpful! Winnie: What about this, this is going to sound like a Friends episode, but she doesn’t know that you know she knows, which means . . . Levi: Hold on a second . . . to quote Friends, the messer becomes the messee?

“I never should have treated you the way that I did. I should have cherished you. I should have told you the truth right away. I should have worked with you instead of against you.

It was foolish, and I was a scared motherfucker, and I’m sorry, Wylie. You deserve so much better.”

“I wanted to tell you that you make me really happy, Wylie, and these past few weeks, although complicated, have meant so much to me. And I know it’s because I’ve found someone who understands me, who matches me in energy, and who cares but challenges me at the same time. I know it might be crazy, but from the night I first met you at the bar, I knew something was special between us. Something I didn’t want to let go of.” I wet my lips and look her in the eyes. “What I’m trying to tell you is that I’m in love with you, Wylie.”

This, her, this is all I fucking need. Nothing else.

She shakes her head in mirth. “God, you’re ridiculous.” “But I’m all yours,” I say while I roll her to her back and start kissing her all over.