Page 4 of Dirty Fighter

The last time I was here, it was my father walking down the dock in front of me.

I rub my fist over the ache in my chest and push through, putting one foot in front of another until I come up on the guys.

The path is a series of switchbacks with stairs cut into the earth, topped with flagstones, and braced with logs. It’s mostly cleared of major debris, thanks to Bruce, who’s been out this week a few times to open the place up after winter and get the power and water going.

Over the decades, he coordinated as much preparation as we asked for. When I was little and my grandparents still had their health, it wasn’t much. In my early teens, he did more to make it easier for Gram and Gramps when they arrived. And then, when both were gone and it was just me and Dad, we did most everything.

It’s a nice cabin. Three bedrooms… more like two and a half. Couple bathrooms, laundry in the back, a full kitchen. Built-in bookshelves. A stone hearth. And simple furniture in keeping with my grandmother’s tastes.

Loveseats. Because even though everything else in the place was built to Stanvic proportions, she believed if you were going to sit together… you should sit together. And after she was gone, my dad and I never even once talked about changing it.

I’m not exactly sure what Bruce and his team of nephews and local kids did this year. But atop the hill, the path splits, and we cut right past the overgrown clearing toward the cabin cast in the golden shades of the late evening light, and I see the windows open and hear the music spilling out of them into the sunshine…

I’m grateful to him for taking it upon himself to decide for me.

He knew coming this first time without Dad would be rough and probably didn’t want me to feel like I was walking into a mausoleum. I kind of want to call him back and hug him for it.

He’d probably push me into the lake if I tried, but it’d be worth it.

Huska turns. “Dude, tell me the surprise is a stripper!”

I roll my eyes, digging deep for patience.

Bruce is a family man. He married his third-grade sweetheart, Sally, and blushes when she pulls him down by the ear so she can kiss his weathered cheek.

He’s not the type to surprise anyone with “entertainment.”

Reality check time.

“The surprise is that he already opened the place up to welcome us. Maybe there are baked goods… and unless you want to sleep in the shed, they’re mine.”

On the porch, I prop the screen with my knee and brace for the rush of emotions as I open the door. “Adjust your expectations, guys. It’s not gonna be that kind of week.”

Huska looks past me, one brow lifted. “You sure ’bout that?”

I follow his eyes to the breakfast bar and— “The fuck?”

While the plate of cookies with the loose layer of cling wrap on top makes sense… the open bottle of wine and spilled bag of dill pickle cashews don’t seem like Bruce’s style.

Lattner and Wexler shoulder through, stacking their coolers against the wall, before turning to me with too-eager grins. “Dude, you sure he didn’t⁠—”

I shoot Wexler a glare over my shoulder as I start toward the hall. “He didn’t hire⁠—”

“But—” He points past me.

I turn, mouth dropping open as a woman decked out in knee socks and an oversized work shirt shimmies backward out of my old room. She’s all long, bare legs, swinging hips, and fluid motion. Her hair is up in one of those sexy knots the girls call messy, with a few rebel curls hanging wild around her neck.

Holy. Shit.

Bruce… hired… a stripper?

I’m not a guy who gets off on paying a woman to take her clothes off for me and the rest of the room. It doesn’t turn me on, and I don’t seek it out. But this woman is turning my crank like I can’t remember anyone turning it before.

Only that’s not quite true.

It’s the hair, maybe. The curls. The way the gilded light spilling in gives it an auburn hue.

Her hips do some kind of swivel move that is pure sex, and the sight alone hits me hard enough that, damn, I don’t even know where that desperate sound I make comes from.