Myron shook his head, grinning. “Doesn’t sound like bullshit to me but good common sense. Remember, I’m also married—and happily. I played your game for years, different woman every day of the week, a flavor of the month. But at some point that crap gets old. I wouldn’t trade being married.”
Dalton figured he didn’t want to hear anything else Myron had to say. He wasn’t in the mood. Taking his drink, he said, “I’m grabbing a table. Talk to you later.”
Crossing the room, he saw several women checking him out, some brazenly, not even trying to hide their interest. Surprisingly, he wasn’t in the mood for them, either—women throwing themselves at him, probably needing a good fuck as much as he did. So why was he having a pity party when he could probably go somewhere and have an orgy? He felt the answer soak deep into his skin, and he could taste it on his lips. Because he only wanted a certain woman. One who was more edgy than soft, sharp than dull, one who invaded his dreams every night like she had a damned right to be there.
He slid into a booth and took a sip of his scotch, loving the taste. He needed it tonight. His brain was on overload. Last night had been a jolt to his system, and something was still kicking inside him. Anger. Frustration. Horniness. All three. He hadn’t liked giving in to Jace’s suggestion that they give their father time to decide how he would deal with them. Shit, they weren’t children but grown-ass men. What was there to deal with?
“Mind if I join you?”
He glanced up and stared into Stonewall’s face. He took another sip of scotch. “Does it matter if I mind?” he asked flatly.
“Not really,” Stonewall answered, sliding into the seat across from him. “Now that you know what my job entails, there’s no longer a reason for me to be discreet or keep a low profile.”
Dalton wasn’t sure whether that was good or bad. The fact that he’d been followed around for a little over a month without his knowledge still didn’t sit well with him. The USN had taught him how to be on his guard, expect the unexpected and be ready. But over time, once he’d put the agency behind him, he had stopped looking over his shoulder. Now it seemed he would have to start doing so again for an entirely different reason.
Stonewall summoned a waitress to take his drink order, giving Dalton a chance to study the man more closely. He figured Stonewall was in his midthirties and worked out a lot, probably hitting the gym every day. Dalton could tell that even while talking to the waitress, Stonewall was scoping out his surroundings and had taken stock of every single person in McQueen’s, somehow making a mental note while not missing a beat. And he was doing so with evident ease and efficiency, which led Dalton to believe he was well-practiced at it.
As soon as the waitress left, that assumption led him to ask, “How long have you been doing this?”
Stonewall’s gaze shifted from the backside of the waitress walking away to Dalton. His eyes were filled with male appreciation, and Dalton knew that the smile touching the man’s lips had nothing to do with the question but with the woman he’d just ogled.
“Why do you want to know?”
Dalton shrugged. “Let’s just say I’m curious.”
At that moment, the waitress came back and smiled at them both before placing Stonewall’s drink before him. This time, they both watched when she walked off. Knowing they were looking, she put a deliberate sway in her hips for their benefit.
Dalton grinned. “I love coming to this place.”
Stonewall nodded. “After my first night of tailing you, it became obvious that you do.”
Dalton took a sip of his drink and watched as Stonewall did the same. Just to make sure the question he’d asked earlier wasn’t lost in the shuffle, he leaned forward in his seat. “So how long have you been working for Summers?”
Stonewall took another sip of his drink. “Off and on for about ten years, while working on my degree.”
“Degree in what?” Dalton asked with a raised brow.
“Education.”
Now he’d heard everything. “You ever use it?”