Next step up the vocab ladder—or down, as it were— was probably pantywaister. He wasn’t exactly sure where that little ditty had come from, but it was synonymous with terms like sissy, the old-school pencil-necked geek, and the newer little bitch. These were the guys who might well have the impulse to change a tire for a woman, but would have trouble lifting the spare out of the trunk—and forget about working the lug wrench. They were also the sort who threw like girls, shrieked when they saw rats, and would call the police in a bar brawl instead of getting in there to start punching.

His father had always believed women were weaker, and maybe when it came to hefting bales of hay for six to eight hours straight in the ninety-degree heat, he might have had a point. But Isaac knew a lot of females in the service who could not only pitch baseballs like a man; they could punch as good as one, too—and had better aim.

Strength didn’t have to be identical to be equal. . . .

God, why the hell was he thinking about his father?

Right. Back to the Dictionary of Dickless Wonders. Which apparently his pops had been an editor of.

The lowest of the low . . . the bottom rung . . . the ball shriveler of them all . . . had to be pussy. That was the kind of thing that, if your buddy was joking with you and busting you for something, he could throw it out and the shit was funny. If the word was said seriously, however, it was a leveler. In general, nonspecific terms, pussy could refer to a guy who, say, couldn’t perform in bed with a woman he had the hots for. And then capped that lack of follow-through with . . . oh, say—and this was purely a hypothetical—maybe collapsing naked on the floor of said woman’s loo and crying like a motherfucking baby.

Until she had to come and comfort him after he had let her down. After endangering her life and her professional career.

Yeah. Something like that.

As he groaned in the dark, he couldn’t believe the fucking mess he’d made out of the whole thing. Stopping in the middle? Going into the bathroom and pulling a hankie routine?

Why didn’t he just put a dress and some nail polish on and call himself Irene?

Shit, the sex . . . the sex had blown his mind. Literally. And that had been the problem. Some kind of fissure had been opened in him the instant he’d sunk into her wet heat, and with each pumping thrust, what had started as a hairline fracture grew into a vast divide.

It wasn’t about fear. Or second-guessing his AWOL status.

It was the fact that when you were on the job with Matthias, you were so damn busy keeping yourself alive that you had no clue how under-the-gun you were.