“I can hear you, you know,” Matt yelled from the bedroom. “Stop hitting on my girlfriend, McCoy.”

Laughing, Savannah ducked behind the fridge door and grabbed a bottle of Bud. “I appreciate the offer,” she said in a mock whisper. “I’ll let you know when I tire of him, okay?”

“Deal.”

With another laugh, Savannah rounded the counter. She paused only to ruffle his hair before sauntering out of the room.

As he watched her go, he couldn’t fight the little burst of envy that rippled through him. O’Connor had really lucked out with that one.

But just because he appreciated what the other man had didn’t mean he was looking for that special someone just yet. At the moment, he was content with no-strings sex and the occasional—fine, frequent—three-way with Dylan.

Hell, he’d only turned twenty-seven last month. He still had a shitload of sexual energy to release before he settled down. Besides, he sucked ass when it came to talking to women. He knew exactly what to say to entice them out of their panties, possessed all the right words during sex, but his out-of-the-bedroom conversational skills were lacking big-time.

Good thing tonight was all about the bedroom. Or the backseat of his car. Or wherever his chosen lady wanted to get naked. At this point, he wasn’t gonna be picky.

Grinning to himself, he grabbed his car keys and headed to the front hall, where he shoved his feet into a pair of scuffed black Timberlands. He snatched a brown leather jacket from the hook by the door and shrugged it on over his T-shirt. Soft moans floated through the apartment as he reached for the doorknob. Jesus. Matt and Savannah were starting up again?

Cash’s c**k started right up in response, his balls aching so badly he wondered if there was such a thing as a testicle migraine.

Christ.

He really needed to get laid tonight.

Thirty minutes later, Cash was ready to admit defeat. The Gaslamp Tavern was a total bust. He should’ve expected that from a Monday night, but he’d hoped luck would be on his side. Unfortunately, almost everyone in the bar was coupled off, and the only girl who’d looked promising turned out to be a navy groupie he had no interest in taking to bed. The brunette had been interrogating him for the past five minutes, and he was ready to tear his f**king hair out.

“Do you have any tattoos?” she demanded as she sucked on the pink straw poking out of her even pinker daiquiri.

Cash scanned his brain for an exit strategy, but he couldn’t come up with anything decent. Especially since he’d been the one to approach her in the first place. When he strode into the dimly lit bar and spotted her standing by the pool table, he’d definitely liked what he’d seen. A nice rack beneath a tight white tee, long legs encased in dark-blue denim. Great ass. Cute face. When their gazes had met across the crowded room and he’d glimpsed the unmistakable interest in her brown eyes, he’d figured he had the conquest in the bag.

Which he did. Yup, this leggy brunette would go home with him in a nanosecond.

Problem was, he didn’t want to take her home. Navy groupies were the worst of the worst. Starry-eyed and drooly, hoping to meet a real-life hero who’d sweep them off their feet—and straight to the altar. Girls like that doled out the sex freely, but once they got you in bed, they refused to go away. And that was when they thought he was just a sailor—when they found out he was a SEAL? Damned if they didn’t go full stalker on him.

“Cash?”

Polly—or was it Patty?—stared at him expectantly. Gulping down the rest of his beer, he tried to remember what she’d asked him. Right, tattoos. “Got an eagle on my back,” he said absently.

“That’s so hot. I’d love to see it.”

Not gonna happen, babe.

Cash swept his gaze around the room, searching for a way out. He and Polly were standing by the two pool tables at the far edge of the room, but he had a good view of the main floor, which featured a handful of tables, booths lining the wall, and several high counters surrounded by tall-backed stools. Unfortunately, the two chicks Patty had been hanging out with earlier had disappeared, so he couldn’t use the old your-friends-are-calling-you escape.

“I love how all you military boys have tattoos,” Polly gushed. “I’ve always wanted one but I’m scared of needles.”

“That’s too bad,” he mumbled.

His gaze strayed to the long counter against the opposite wall. He could always pretend he needed a fresh beer, then duck out of the bar before reaching the counter…but he feared his groupie would tag along and wait with him while he ordered.

“I know you probably hear this all the time, but you’re, like, a real-life hero,” Patty babbled on.

Ditto on the men’s room—she totally seemed like the kind of girl who’d offer to keep him company while he waited out that monster line.

“Wanna know a secret? When I was a little girl, I always dreamed of marrying a navy man.” Giggling, she sucked down the rest of her daiquiri.

Shit. Running out of options here. Time to resort to default mode—the phone fakeout.

Cash jerked a little, pretending to feel his phone going off. Fortunately, the loud Katy Perry song blaring out of the Tavern’s sound system masked the nonexistent vibrating of his phone.

He slid the cell out of his pocket and brought it to his ear, lifting one finger to signal Polly that he needed a minute. The one-sided conversation that ensued was one he’d perfected over the years.