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Less questions.

I let my cell rest on the edge of the nearby dark blue, cushioned chair and reach for a pair of spare jeans on the shelf.

Unlike my woman’s phone, I don’t expect this one to ring this many times.

Or keep ringing.

Or go to voicemail.

“You fuckin’ kidding me?!” I grumble under my breath at the same time I yank the pants on.

Post getting them zipped in place, I hit redial, refusal to not be answered escalating.

Is it my shit?

Is it all fucked up?

Are my calls not getting through to anyone?!

Ripping off my collared work shirt precedes me reaching for one of my bulletproof vests, anticipating its likely need.

Something is fucked up with Emmerz.

I know it.

I fucking feel it.

Hearing a voicemail message – yet again – doesn’t deter me.

It fuels me.

Has me furiously pounding the call key for the third time.

His ass will pick up, or I will send a Rugrat to his final act for patching to make sure that he fucking does.

“Not,” breathlessly huffs Dive over Lady’s moans, “a,” her sounds grow louder, “good-”

“Yes!” shrieks his woman.

“-time,” grumbles my best friend prior to groaning.

“I-” is all that manages to make it out before the call abruptly ends.

Okay.

Cock blocking isn’t my thing, but this is a life-or-death sitch.

His dick can wait.

Immediately, I hit his number again and snatch a spare black tee to pull on over the armor.

This time two rings occur prior to him commanding, “FuckoffDock.”

“404,” gets spewed before he can hang up for a second time.

Displeased grunts can barely be heard around Lady’s panting, “Can it…” they moan together in tandem, “fucking wait?”

“No.”