I clasp my arms around her waist, and she smiles at me like I hung the entire solar system for her. And if I could, I would. Her apple-scented perfume invades my nostrils to the point where I have to fight not to grow hard. She spins around, stands on her toes, kisses my lips, and slings her arms around my shoulders. As she pulls away, she studies my face and tilts her head sideways.

“What’s wrong, Wolf? You’re shaking like a leaf.”

“I need my coffee,” I lie. In reality, I need Jack Daniel’s to take the edge off. I’m pretty sure I’m the reason why liquor companies are successful. But coffee will do, for now. I need to be sober for this.

She moves to the coffee machine and grabs a white mug from the top shelf that says, “I didn’t fart, I blew a kiss from my ass” and pours the dark liquid, shoving it in my hand.

I take slow slips as it burns my tongue; she watches me like a hawk as she twirls the end of her damp hair.

“What?” I say, setting the mug down.

“Nothing. There is something I want to tell you.” Her voice is soft as silk.

I was worried she would run for the hills after I told her about my PTSD. Normal women would leave my ass in the dust. Normal women would use that information to blackmail me and get money out of me.

Gia isn’t normal.

After I finish the coffee, I set the mug in the sink. She swallows hard and embarrassment colors her face.

“Are you waiting for pigs to fly? Spit it out.”

She twist a strain of hair that’s floating in front of her forehead. Before I can milk the answer out of her, the doorbell rings. It’s showtime at The Apollo.

“We’ll talk about it later,” she says, opening the fridge, grabbing a carton of milk and pouring it in a pink bowl. She started adding colorful plates and bowls to this kitchen. I rush to the door and open it.

My ma and Herold stroll in, and Ma pulls me into a tight hug as if she hasn’t seen me in years. Herold slaps me on my back.

“You got any beer, son?” He rubs his bald head and scrunches up his pointy nose. He’s wearing a leather jacket over his plaid black shirt with his potbelly hanging over his denim jeans.

“Yeah, check the fridge and stay away from the mac and cheese. The last time you ate that shit, your farts stank so bad it smelled like something crawled up your ass and died.”

His belly moves as he laughs. I was dead-ass serious.