One Lucky F***ing Redneck

Rig locked himself in the office right after breakfast -- he had a bit of a hangover, a touch of a headache, a buttload of paperwork to do, and absolutely no fucking patience. It was a good room: coffeepot, leather sofa, stereo, big ass desk, its own phone, a great view, even a little half bath.

He might just stay in here until tomorrow, until the work was done, or until his crabby-assed mood disappeared. One way or the other, he was not inflicting it on his boys. He started pot of coffee number three and changed the CD from Garth to George Strait.

Rock had knocked earlier and then he'd sent the kid to knock, but Rig ignored them both. It was for their own good. It surprised him a little, that they'd given up after just one try each.

He was pouring himself a cup of coffee when he saw why. Outside his window, naked as the day they were born, were his ex-marines. Arms wrapped around each other as they kissed.

Rigger chuckled, shaking his head. If anyone had bet him five years ago that those two would be involved in a serious, butt-ass-naked liplock under the sun itself, why, he'd not even have the shirt on his back.

They were two good-looking sons-of-bitches, too, both built like brick shit-houses. No wonder he kept them.

He found a spot at his desk where he could watch and still at least pretend to work. Whether they were looking to give him a free show or it was just happy coincidence, there was no reason not to appreciate it.