Читать книгу Free Fall - Jill Shalvis - Страница 7

Denton, Ohio

“SO WHICH ONE OF YOU SEXY hotshots is the best man?”

Search-and-rescue expert Logan White looked up in surprise as his entire team pointed to him.

The nurse asking the question flashed him a hundred-watt smile. “You? Well, then, sugar, it’s your lucky night.” And she ripped the light blue scrubs right off her body.

Logan, a man who’d seen and done it all and who’d thought himself unshockable, nearly swallowed his tongue. Beneath the scrubs, the nurse wore a cherry-red thong with matching pasties strategically placed over her nipples.

His best friend, Wyatt Stone—the reason for the bachelor party going on around them—grinned at him. “A little something from me to you, man. Thanks for being the greatest best man and best friend a guy could ask for.” He hoisted his beer in a toast as their friends, normally as serious and intense as their profession demanded, laughed and hooted and hollered like a group of frat boys on spring break.

Just last night the lot of them had been rappelling down the side of a mountain in a vicious rainstorm, searching for a lost teen who’d gotten separated from her hiking group. Logan had flown the mission, and when the winds had kicked up, things had gotten so tense, so damned dangerous in the ravines above the river on a black, black night, that he’d been only half convinced he could help them all out to safety.

Now they sat in the swank private suite of a downtown hotel, surrounded by posh, elegant furniture and a fully stocked bar with the large-screen TV playing the latest basketball game, acting like a pack of dogs, howling at the three nurses who’d come into the room looking for someone to “make feel better.” It was hard to reconcile, especially since he’d been working so hard he could barely remember what it was like to just breathe.

Logan had expected the strippers—hell, he’d helped pay for them. But the women in hospital scrubs—a uniform he saw daily—had thrown him off. The now nearly naked bleached blonde smiled when her two accomplices, also stripping out of their uniforms, hit Play on their portable CD player. Loud, pulsing dance music filled the air.

The woman standing in front of Logan began to move to the beat. She was twenty-one, maybe twenty-two, making him feel ancient at thirty-one, and he turned to Wyatt. “She should be dancing for you—Oof.”

Teetering in her red five-inch stilettos, she plopped herself in his lap. With a shrieking laugh, she straddled his thighs, hers wide open as she wriggled and squirmed, writhing and arching to the thumping music, grinding her crotch to his, eventually getting the sought-for reaction from him, albeit a purely physical one.

Her arms encircled his neck as she thrust her large, expensive-looking breasts in his face. “Ready for your present, best man?”

“Uh—”

She wriggled some more, and the corner of a small envelope peeked out from the front of her thong. “Just for you,” she purred, continuing to shimmy and shake. Her breasts threatened to give him a black eye. “Take the prize, hot stuff.”

With a wince—hot stuff?—he pulled the envelope out of her thong and discovered she wasn’t a bleached blonde but the real thing. And then felt like a pervert.

It was a relief to focus on tearing open the envelope. The card inside was a certificate for a seven-night stay at a Lake Tahoe resort. Logan just stared at it. Sure, he loved to ski, but he didn’t feel the need to go away. Why would he, when he did and saw things on a daily basis that most other people wouldn’t even dream of: climbing mountains, flying helicopters and rappelling out of them. Lake Tahoe couldn’t possibly dish up anything to compare.

“Wyatt, this is too much. You and Leah should use this yourselves—”

“Oh, no. We’re off to a warmer climate, thank you very much, where little to no clothing is required. This Tahoe trip is yours, buddy, for all you’ve done for me.”

He was referring to how Logan had saved his life, and Leah’s, as well, only a few months back. But Logan didn’t want to be paid for that. That was what he did. It was who he was.

The stripper in his lap was still working the beat, and he gently set her off him. “I don’t need a week off. I don’t have a week off.”

“What are you talking about?” Wyatt laughed. “We work for ourselves. You want a week, you take a week.”

Yes, they worked for themselves. Mostly. He and Wyatt co-owned the helicopter he’d flown last night. They supported their joint helicopter habit with paying jobs—Wyatt flew for the local TV and radio stations, and Logan flew a couple of local millionaires around at their whim during their business day. But they also worked volunteer for the SAR team, both men living for and loving the times they were called to fly search and rescue.

“It’s not that simple,” he protested now. “I have jobs scheduled, and with you going on your honeymoon, I’ll need to be available to fly for SAR 24/7.”

“So wait until I get back. But you’re going. You need to get away, every bit as much as I do.” Their eyes met, and all the things they’d done and seen shimmered between them.

The stripper Logan had set aside shifted her attention to Wyatt, who sat back, easygoing and smiling at her slow, sensuous movements. But Logan knew his partner extremely well. Wyatt’s thoughts were elsewhere. Probably with Leah, who he’d be marrying tomorrow.

Marrying. Logan shuddered. He had no idea why in the world Wyatt would want to screw up a good relationship with marriage.

He watched his old friend draw the stripper’s attention away from himself and onto two of their oldest buddies, who eagerly lapped up everything she dished out, and he had to admit that if any couple could make it in the crazy, dangerous world he and these guys all lived in, Wyatt and Leah could. They had a rare, beautiful, deep connection—one Logan had never really experienced himself.

“Maybe you’ll meet a hot ski bunny,” Wyatt said, and waggled his eyebrows.

“A hot ski bunny.” Logan had to laugh. “Is that what you think I need?”

“You need something, starting with a week off. Take the trip,” Wyatt said quietly. “I have a feeling about it.”

“A feeling? Hell. You fall like a brick for a woman and now you’re thinking like one.”

“Okay, how about this—you worked every single day last month, and I think the month before that, too. If you haven’t been at the mercy of a Trump wannabe, you’ve been risking life and limb for perfect strangers. It’s a bad equation that equals burnout.”

Logan looked at the strippers, and—unmoved by their gyrations—he admitted that Wyatt had a point. Burnout was lurking, flickering at the edges of his mind. He needed to get away, and skiing his brains out on Wyatt’s dime sounded…good. Damn good. “Fine, but if you have to come drag me back, it’s your own fault.”

“Duly noted, man. Duly noted. Just make sure to cut loose and have fun.”

Yeah. Logan figured if he really tried, he might manage to do just that.