"So. You gonna tell me why you're really here?"
The question takes Jo by surprise, to say the least, because in direct contrast to the light-hearted nature of the conversation between them up to this point, this is something entirely different. Foreign. It is hardly hostile, of course, and she can already tell that, whatever her answer is, there will be no judgment for it at all.
Still, something about the way Pete is watching her sparks a faint hint of trepidation. As though he already knows something about the truth behind her decision to visit her uncle, without her ever saying a word. And even if she is well—aware of how she can trust him with anything—that she has always been able to trust him like that—Jo still hesitates, a frown marring her features and prompting Pete to attempt to coax her yet again.
"You're the one who said you weren't following me, Jojo."
"Sounds like you're just fishing for an admission that I was."
"Would I do that?"
"Oh you absolutely would," Jo replies, a laugh escaping as she takes in Pete's expression of feigned indignation with both hands pressed over his heart as though he's just suffered a mortal wound, "Come on, don't give me that look."
"What look?"
"The look that says you're trying to get out of admitting the truth."
"Answer my question, and maybe I'll stop giving you the look," Pete counters, unable to fully restrain a grin in response to Jo's suddenly narrowed eyes, "Or I could just start guessing—"
"Please don't."
"Floor's all yours, then."
"I really don't like you sometimes, you know that?" Jo sighs, the words obviously lacking any real sincerity, despite her lingering apprehension over coming clean to any degree at all, "I'm assuming you—remember Jake?"
"What, the puddle pirate?"
"Rescue swimmer, actually, but yes. That's him."
"I remember him," Pete admits, watching as Jo takes a long pull from the beer in her hands, as though she needs the liquid courage to continue speaking, "You finally wise up and leave him in the dirt?"
"Actually, he left me."
"Shit. Want me to go up to Alaska and kick his ass?"
"No. No, I definitely don't want that," Jo protests, the reluctant smile that tugs at both corners of her mouth easing some of the knot that seems to have twisted itself inside of her chest with a vengeance, "It's just—it's more of the same. Nothing new."
"Well he's a dumbass for letting someone like you get away."
"He wanted what he wanted, Pete. That just—wasn't me."
"Like I said. Dumbass," Pete persists, aware of Jo's skeptical expression, and trying not to let her knowledge of his own tendencies where women are concerned dissuade him from elaborating further, "Bet I'm starting to look pretty good to your dad, by now."
"I don't know that I'd go that far."
"Yet you're laughing. That might mean I'm not all that far off the mark."
"Or maybe I'm laughing because my dad doesn't know everything that went down."
"Seriously?"
"That, and he knows how you are."
"Yeah, but if I had the right girl—"
Pete trails off almost as soon as he starts speaking, and Jo is stunned to realize that, for someone who she has always known as being more than comfortable with speaking his mind, he suddenly seems as though he is willingly going mute. In the dim lighting of the bar, it is impossible to tell if he is actually flushing, or if the darkening of his skin is simply a shadow or two, instead. But Jo isn't about to allow that particular uncertainty to deter her. Especially when her continued observation of his features seems to render him incapable of looking her in the eye.
"If you had the right girl, what?"
"Nothing."
"It doesn't seem like nothing—"
Allowing her own words to trail off into nothing, Jo wavers over what exactly she should do, a desire to get to the bottom of the change in her friend's demeanor at odds with knowing that if she presses him too much he will only pull away. As much as he's never had much of a filter, that does not always translate to anything even remotely pertaining to emotion.
Her own indecision appears to have given Pete ample opportunity to cast around for a reasonable distraction, though, and Jo forces herself to bite back a somewhat resigned sigh as she watches his gaze wander about their surroundings for a moment before he is turning back to offer her an almost conspiratorial smile, with one thumb aimed at a group of patrons gathered around the bar.
"What about him?"
"What about who?"
"The tall one. Easy on the eyes. Doesn't look like a pilot."
"Pete, what are you doing?"
"What does it look like?" Pete quips, the almost mischievous hint to his smile causing Jo to raise an admittedly skeptical brow, "I'm helping you."
"With?"
"You don't want to be around pilots. He doesn't look like a pilot."
"Oh. Oh, I see what this is."
"You—you do?"
"You're trying to set me up," Jo states, her tone only bearing a slight hint of accusation, because in light of the way Pete almost appears to be genuinely sheepish, she is honestly more amused than anything else, "That's what this is all about."
"I have no idea what you're talking about."
"Uh-huh. Sure you don't."
"I don't," Pete insists, attempting an air of innocence that he knows almost immediately will never be believed, "You just—you don't have to settle, you know?"
"Settle? Who—Pete, who am I settling for?"
It honestly isn't all that surprising that Pete does not respond to the question, and Jo uses the silence to take a sip of her beer. If she thinks objectively, then sure, there really is no reason to balk at the guy Pete is clearly trying to push her toward. But she can't think objectively. Not when something in the way her friend keeps eyeing her suggests there is something more beneath the surface.
"Pete."
"Hmm?"
"What is this really about? That contractor?"
"This isn't about Charlie."
"Ah, so she has a name," Jo teases, just barely suppressing a laugh in response to Pete's rather obviously flustered expression—an expression that turns a bit more skeptical as soon as he watches her attempt to cover her mouth with her hand.
"It isn't about Charlie."
"So who is it about?"
"I think you already know."
Still confused, to say the least, Jo cannot help but give Pete a look that probably suggests she is starting to think he's lost his mind. And maybe he has, because he certainly isn't making any sense. If he's not talking about the woman from the club, she has no idea what else he could be referring to. And settling? How can she settle for anything if nothing has happened?
But then it hits her. She'd been hoping for someone else to be waiting at the door, earlier. Pete had noticed, even if he'd only shrugged it off by teasing her for it.
He has to be talking about the pilot from the club.
"This is about Tom isn't it?"
"You're on a first-name basis with him already?"
"Pete, be serious, here—"
"C'mon, Jojo, you know that's not really my style."
"Maybe you should try to make it your style. Just this once."
"Sounds boring," Pete deadpans, almost immediately grinning in response to Jo's answering roll of the eyes, "But for the record? Kazansky's an ass."
"Oh really."
"He seemed to think you never actually said no to the drink."
"It was—the no was implied," Jo stammers, hoping to mask the flush that she can feel burning against the skin of her cheeks with another sip of beer, though just a singular look at Pete's expression tells her the effort fails in seconds flat, "What?"
"He apparently didn't think so. And I figured now that you're not with your puddle pirate—"
"Rescue swimmer."
"Whatever. Since he's an ass, too, maybe you'd like to have a go with someone else."
"So Jake and Tom are why you're suddenly so intent on playing matchmaker?"
Almost as soon as she says the words, Jo begins to wonder if she should have opted for staying silent, instead. If she should simply allow him to play this little game—whatever it might actually mean—without question. His expression falters, just a bit, and Jo is surprised by the accompanying stab of guilt she feels as a result.
She isn't particularly concerned with how Tom Kazansky either did or didn't take her evasion of his offer to buy her a drink, or so she tries to convince herself, but apparently Pete is. And she'd only fessed up to everything with Jake, because she knew Pete would eventually end up dragging it out of her, anyway. She'd certainly never expected him to fixate on it like he has…
What doesn't surprise her, in the midst of all of this, though, is how his next remark shows her all too clearly that he is trying to avoid a direct admission of such a thing with everything he has.
"Okay. So that's a no on matchmaking," Pete says, downing the rest of his own beer and placing the bottle on the bar with a soft thud, clearly not at all concerned with yet another rapid subject change in next to no time at all, "What about dancing?"
"Well now you're just giving me whiplash."
"Maybe that's the point."
Aware of Jo's answering frown, Pete already begins to wonder if perhaps he has gone too far. If there will be no way to avoid her questions, and the answers that come about as a result. She's always been just a little too perceptive, for as long as he's known her. Able to read him in seconds, even if he opts for the routine of deflecting.
Deflection is exactly what he's trying to attempt, now, but in spite of her obvious awareness of it, Pete is surprised to realize she appears willing to accept it.
Or at least she does if the exasperated sigh she gives before her reply is any sort of indication at all.
"If you're trying to keep me on my toes, Pete, you're gonna have to work a lot harder than that."
"Is that a challenge?"
"We both know you're going to treat it like one anyway," Jo shrugs, aware of Pete's predictably self-assured grin, and yet choosing to allow him to tug her away from the bar and toward a space where several others are already dancing, instead. She still isn't fully convinced there isn't something more going on, here. She isn't certain that allowing Pete to avoid the subject altogether is the smartest choice.
A part of her cannot help but feel concern for her friend's antics, but given the almost mischievous glint in his eyes at the moment, Jo chooses to push that feeling to the side, at least for now, because in spite of her best efforts, the confidence behind his reply and flash of teeth in a smile isn't entirely something she can resist.
"Damn straight."
Maybe it will always be like this. Pete, teasing her, and testing her limits, and pulling her into things she ordinarily wouldn't think of on her own as a means of keeping what's really going on in his mind out of reach. But even with her lingering concern, Jo can't help but laugh as he pulls her closer, already making an over-exaggerated attempt at singing along with the music blaring from the speakers along the way.
If nothing else, he really is succeeding at keeping her thoughts from straying even remotely close to a pilot she is all but certain she should avoid. To a man in Alaska that she thought she could have loved forever.
And for now, that will just have to be good enough.
…
"So tell me again. Why are we here?"
The question is, at its core, predictable. Of course Slider would harbor some degree of curiosity over the sudden change in venue. But even then Tom does not immediately reply, knowing that even if his companion cannot understand his motives, he will accept them either way. Or if acceptance is the wrong term, at least he knows that Slider will not make any moves to leave.
Rather, the other pilot simply leans against the bar, fingers drumming idly against the countertop while he scans their surroundings, as though attempting to discern an answer on his own. An act that is carried out with a familiar level of impatience that has Tom at least somewhat tempted to continue withholding his true intentions for just a little while longer.
"Needed a change in scenery."
"What the hell is wrong with the club?"
Again, Tom does not immediately reply, and Slider's exasperated scoff serves as every indication that his friend is already starting to gather the real reason behind their abrupt departure without any outside assistance at all. And Tom isn't foolish. He knows the reason will come out in the open eventually. Hell, he can practically feel Slider gearing up to make a comment without even looking him in the eye.
Regardless of whether or not he is truly willing to endure his companion's remarks, though, Tom makes no move to stop them, his own attention for now fixed on the task of trying to decide if this particular dive will hold any more promise than the last.
"This is about that girl, isn't it?"
"Would it matter if it was?"
"Jesus, man, you're hopeless," Slider groans, seeming to ignore the slanted look Tom sends his way in favor of pressing his case, "We already had a line-up at the club, and you drag us here."
"Do you ever stop thinking with your dick, Sli?"
"As opposed to what you're doing right now? How is that not the same thing?"
It isn't. Not really, and Tom knows that, but still the idea of it all leaves a sour taste in his mouth that he is suddenly desperate to be rid of altogether. He's mostly certain that this place is going to turn out to be just as much a lost cause as the club had been, but he'd already known it would be a long shot all along.
Jo had been at the club with family, or so he'd assumed. He can't exactly see Viper as the sort to come to a seedy little dive bar on the outskirts of town with his wife and kids in tow.
Even so, that hadn't entirely been enough to convince him not to try somewhere else, just in case she is also the sort that enjoys an evening out on the town on her own. But then again, maybe he'd made this particular judgment call based on the assumption of what Mitchell would do if he actually decided to make due on his taunt to buy her a drink more so than anything else.
This is precisely the sort of place he can see the other pilot dragging a girl on what he clearly assumes is a proper date.
Except that apparently, this time, at least, Mitchell's ego hadn't been so predictable after all.
"You're an ass, you know that, Kazansky?"
"You're still here, aren't you?"
"Only because you've given me no other choice."
"Well you're free to leave any time."
"Nah. Plenty of fish in the sea right where we are."
This time, the predictability of his companion's remark provokes a snort of what might be considered amusement, and Tom is eager to knock back a little more of the drink the bartender just placed nearby than is truly necessary while his friend returns to the task of searching for the next flavor of the week. By this time, he is absolutely certain that this place is going to be a dead end. And he isn't entirely sure which of the two potential reasons for that outcome is more disappointing.
The idea that Jo isn't at any bar. That she's at home, doing something else entirely, because for all of her apparent attempts at confidence, it just isn't really her scene.
Or, that she really is with Mitchell. That someone like Maverick can make her tick, when Tom couldn't. That it had been that way, all along.
Just about the only thing that keeps him from jumping immediately to the idea that he is playing in a losing game is the idea that, if Mav really had Jo from the start, there's no way he wouldn't make it known. The guy is a showboat. Cocky. Over the top, and quick to gloat if he thinks he has the upper hand.
If Jo was Mitchell's, there's no way he wouldn't have said something about it. And as much as he may not want to admit it, Tom is going to operate with that assumption in mind until he has no other choice but to abandon it altogether.
"Okay. Those two."
"Which two?"
"C'mon, Kazansky, open your damn eyes for a second!" Slider huffs, slumping against the bar for a moment in what is clearly meant to be a gesture of defeat, "You're killin' me here."
"If you want a girl to screw in a bathroom stall, Sli, I'm not stopping you," Tom retorts, only just managing to resist another amused snort when his companion flips him the bird, "Didn't think you needed anyone to hold your hand."
"Yeah, well at least I'm not letting some girl who turned me down keep my balls as a little trophy."
"Little?"
"Oh screw you."
"Thanks, but I think I'll pass."
Slider's answering roll of the eyes ends up giving Tom all the reason he requires to toss back the rest of his drink and signal the bartender for another, half of his attention on his friend as he makes his over to the two women in question, while the other half remains almost entirely fixed on his own lack thereof. And while he is hardly the sort inclined towards self-pity, he can't help but wonder if spending time after training looking for a woman who may very well not want to be found is really going to be worth it, in the long-haul.
The burn of something he cannot quite place roiling in his gut as soon as he pictures Jo on Mitchell's arm, though?
That is enough to tell him the answer to his question is a resounding yes.
…
"You can't be tired already!"
"Not tired! Need to pee," Jo corrects, giggling a bit at the stunned look that steals across Pete's face, as though the idea of normal bodily functions is something she is immune to, "What?"
"Nothing. Just uh—glad you're comfortable enough to share those things with me, Jojo."
"Oh be quiet. Keep throwing beers at a girl, what do you expect is gonna happen?"
"Apparently said girl will get a little bit loopy," Pete laughs, aware of Jo's answering eye-roll, and the way she seems to stumble just a bit in an effort to turn around, "Need any help reaching the target, Chief?"
"I think I can manage reading a neon sign that says 'Ladies', Pete."
"Yeah, but can you make it to that sign without falling on your face?"
Sending Pete what she hopes will be a suitably intimidating glare, Jo turns from him completely, every last inch of her focus intent upon making it to the opposite end of the room without stumbling even a little. She knows she is nothing short of tipsy. Maybe even closer to out and out drunk, than anything else.
It isn't exactly like she started the evening with the plan to be this way, but Jo can't entirely bring herself to complain about her current state, regardless. Not when Pete's earlier mood that he apparently held no desire to explain appears to have disappeared entirely. No matter the consequences of her own choices tonight, Jo will at least be able to say with certainty that maybe it hasn't been a complete bust after all.
And if that isn't enough to have her allowing herself a satisfied grin, then the relief it provides certainly is.
Distracted by both that train of thought, and the effort it requires to continue on a straight trajectory towards the restroom, Jo does not immediately realize she is about to veer straight into the path of another woman carrying a tray of drinks over to a nearby table. By all accounts, the other woman doesn't appear to be aware of it either, too busy glancing at a small notepad, and comparing the drinks scrawled on the page to the ones perched precariously on the tray.
The collision happens in seconds, and the music dims the sound of startled shrieks and shattering glass only slightly, but Jo's attention is pulled from any embarrassment she might feel to be sprawled on the floor and half-covered in drink by the sudden appearance of a very worried frown and a cascade of brown hair tied in a ponytail falling over one of the waitress' shoulders that dominates her field of vision.
"Oh shoot, I am—I am so sorry!"
"No, I—I'm fine, I just—are you alright?" Jo asks, shaking herself a bit because her own state of inebriation is causing the woman who is now extending a hand to help her to her feet to blur in and out of focus. She's pretty, if a little flustered over recent events, with wide green eyes that assess Jo's movements as she finally stands erect.
Already, someone else is moving to clean up the mess, and Jo stoops down to the wreckage because the notebook her unintended casualty had been glancing at is half-sodden beside a clump of broken glass. But before she can fully succeed, the woman is pulling her upright yet again, a smile curving at the corners of her mouth before she speaks.
"Don't worry about the book. I've got at least fifty more of those things in the back. What we need to be worried about is that stain on your blouse."
"Oh. I—no, it's fine, I can just—what can I do to make up for—well—this?"
"Make up for it? This is the third time I've dropped an entire tray this week," The woman laughs, aware of the faint look of horror that takes over her companion's features, and sending what she hopes will be a reassuring smile as a result, "Kinda something they train us to expect around here."
"They don't—I don't know, take it out of your pay or something?"
"Oh, no. Anyone who brings a tray of broken glass to the back to get rid of it usually gets a round of applause."
"Seriously?"
"Like I said, even being a new hire, it's the third time I've done that this week. But if you want, I think I know what we can do about your shirt."
Startled, to say the least, Jo can do nothing more than follow along after the woman, particularly as she has snagged her hand to tug her gently along in her wake. A part of her wants to protest, because clearly the place is busy, and she hardly wants to detract from this stranger's job because of her own needs. But already, Jo is starting to believe the woman will not be all that inclined to take no for an answer.
Behind the obvious charm, and wide smile, Jo can already pick up on the steel that exists as well. And seeing as she is utterly convinced that the entire collision is her fault to begin with, allowing the woman to help her, if that is what she truly wants, isn't exactly something she is prepared to resist.
Not even when she finds herself being pulled into what is clearly an employee locker room of sorts placed just off center in the room, behind the bar.
"Okay. Let's see if I still have that spare shirt in here somewhere."
"You really don't have to do this—"
"My conscience says otherwise, as the one that dumped booze all over you," The woman confesses, a smile apparent behind the words as she finally finds what she is searching for, and turns to hand it to Jo not long after, "Here. I think we're about the same size, so this should work."
"Thank you," Jo enthuses, taking the proffered garment, and allowing herself a small sigh of relief as soon as she realizes that even with her apparent state of mild disorientation, she is still capable enough to manage a smile, "Where should I um—"
"Oh! You can go ahead and change in the bathroom, right back here."
Following in the woman's wake once again, Jo slips eagerly into one of the stalls and shuts the door behind her while her newfound companion moves to one of the mirrors above the sink to adjust her makeup with a bag she must have swiped from her locker when she retrieved the replacement shirt. Carefully pulling her own sticky blouse from her frame, she slips the t-shirt over her head as quickly as she can, straightening the fabric, and peering down at the upside down logo on the front not long after.
It doesn't take very long for her to start laughing over how her inebriation makes the words impossible to decipher, despite knowing that her companion will have little to no reason to understand why she is cackling behind a closed bathroom stall door. But whether the other woman finds her state of drunkenness aggravating, or simply amusing, Jo is not entirely prepared for the question that reaches her over the sound of her fading giggles in seconds flat.
"What's so funny?"
"I'm wearing another woman's shirt, and I don't even know her name," Jo murmurs, more laughter taking over such that her next words are not entirely intelligible, even in spite of her best efforts to the contrary, "Oh Pete is going to absolutely love this."
With his own apparent interaction with the contractor—Charlie—also taking place in a bathroom, of all places, how can he do anything but?
…
Pulling the bike over to the curb that stands just in front of the place Jo is calling home, Pete Mitchell is seriously tempted to veer back into the road before she can even realize where they are.
It's a stupid idea. He shouldn't even be entertaining it, and he can already hear the string of protests Jo would give, herself, if she came out of her semi-doze curled against his back with her arms wrapped around his middle in time to notice. He hadn't even intended to get her drunk. Not really. He just wanted some time with her. He wanted to see where she stood as far as Kazansky was concerned, and tug her away from that particular mistake waiting to happen, if need be.
Getting Jo from loopy to flat out drunk hadn't quite been in the cards, even for him, but everything had all just sort of—happened.
It happened, and now Pete can't entirely say he minds the warmth of Jo's body pressing against his back. The weight of her hands resting just above his belt. The way she occasionally tightens her hold, as though trying to get closer than they are already.
Even with how he'd laughed at her when she emerged from the locker room, soiled shirt in hand, with a pretty brunette in tow, she hadn't been able to hold onto her feigned indignation for long. She had accepted his teasing, and added to it, which apparently encouraged her new friend—Penny—to do so as well.
If Penny had recognized him from their own previous encounter years ago, she showed no sign of it, and Pete certainly wasn't going to say anything to bring attention to it, himself. Not when he already had enough on his plate to earn questions from Jo without a one night stand thrown into the mix as well.
Instead, he had been content to watch as together, the two had ganged up on him even more than he could have anticipated, and he would be a fool to deny that he hadn't loved every minute…
And now, with Jo apparently still content to remain where she is, Pete is entirely powerless to resist the urge to shift so that one of his hands can cover her own, to deliver a small squeeze.
"Mmm?"
"Hey, you. We're home."
"Already?"
"Yeah," Pete confirms, trying to ignore the sudden pang that twists his gut as Jo pulls away, only keeping hold of his hand for long enough to climb off the bike, "Didn't think you'd actually fall asleep on me."
"I didn't—that wasn't me falling asleep."
"Sure it wasn't."
"Ha-ha, funny guy. Are you gonna be a gentleman walk me to the door, or what?"
"What, now you need my help?"
The question is met with a poorly aimed swat to his arm, and Pete resumes his hold on Jo's hand because apparently the act is just enough to knock her off balance. Climbing off the bike himself, he wastes no time in pulling her against his side, and the soft squeak she gives in response doesn't fail to provoke a smile.
She's still in his jacket, because even in spite of the lingering warmth in the evening air, the thin fabric of her borrowed shirt hadn't quite been enough to stall the goosebumps that had littered the skin of her arms as soon as they stepped outside of the bar. But even with that barrier between them, Pete can still feel her warmth. He can sense when she scoots just a bit closer, and his arm tightens around her shoulders just a bit in response.
They're somehow already on the porch, when Pete realizes he still isn't ready for this small moment of contact to end, and so just as Jo attempts to slip from beneath his arm, he stalls her, the question that escapes not exactly something he planned to be asking her at all.
"Hey, do you still babysit?"
"What?"
"Babysitting. Is that something you still do for extra cash?"
"Oh. I um—yeah. Yeah, I mean I haven't done it in a while, but—wait, why are you asking me this?" Jo rambles, narrowing her eyes as she manages a few steps backward to lean against the front door, "You don't have any little mini—yous—running around, do you?"
"You're a real comedian, Jojo, you know that?"
"It's—kind of a valid question."
"Yeah. Not quite," Pete disagrees, laughing as Jo gives him what has to be her best effort at a pout, "No, it's uh—it's for Goose, actually."
"Isn't Goose a little old for a babysitter?"
"Only sometimes. But no, this is—this is for his son."
"I didn't know he had a kid."
"He does. He's got his wife and the boy coming in the middle of the week, but apparently the sitter he had lined up for Saturday night bailed."
Pete could have predicted the way Jo's face would fall as soon as he said the words, and a part of him knows this isn't the most rational conversation he could be having with her while she's obviously drunk. Hell, he hadn't even thought to ask Goose about it, and his friend is obviously the one with final say over who is able to be around his kid.
Goose met Jo, though. He knows her. He'd even made a comment in passing after the fact—a comment Pete has been rather studiously trying to ignore—about how if Pete was looking for a steady girl, he's blind for missing the one right in front of him.
He really has no reason to doubt his friend's approval, and judging by Jo's sudden expression of admittedly bleary determination, she is not about to let the matter go, now.
"I'll do it."
"You haven't even met the kid, Jojo."
"Doesn't matter. I'm in," Jo insists, shifting to place one hand on the doorknob resting just a little to her left, and frowning when the act causes her to stumble, "What? You're the one who asked—"
"I know. You're just—you're something, you know that?"
"Compliment accepted."
"Don't be too grateful. You might reconsider all of this when you're sober," Pete states, watching with a barely concealed grin as Jo once again fumbles at the door, and then deciding to take matters into his own hands by gently nudging her aside in order to take her keys and try for himself, "Or I'll just decide to never tell Goose you're interested, and make your next official job being my wingman."
"Your wingman?"
"You run into a girl, knock drinks right out of her hand, disappear with her into the employee locker room for ten minutes and come out with her number and wearing her shirt? Yeah. I think I kinda need you as my wingman."
"Well had I known you were so interested in wearing women's shirts, I might've tried to find a waitress for you, too."
Jo dissolves into giggles not long after making the remark, and Pete takes the liberty of guiding her inside, only just managing to stifle a low groan as soon as he realizes that Viper and his wife are sitting in the little den just off the foyer. But even the skeptically raised brow Viper sends him, while Linda stifles a laugh behind her hand is not enough to have Pete regretting his current position.
If nothing else, he'll have one hell of a story to tell Goose when they finish up training tomorrow afternoon.
…
Hello there, darling readers! And welcome to another new chapter! For those of you who have already read this, I added a little bit extra to the beginning, this time, and changed the portion that introduced Mickey to make it a reasonable way to get Penny starting to find her way into the outskirts of the gang, instead, since for this time around I'm keeping Carole involved (and I also kind of thought it might be fun to explore Penny working in a bar as a young adult where her dad may be stationed, and then later going on to own one). Hopefully all of that made sense, and the transitions weren't too jarring? One of my favorite things about a story sometimes is how initial plans can change along the way, so hopefully that isn't something that will turn any of you away!
As always, my heartfelt thanks go out to each and every one of you that has taken the time to read, follow, favorite and review this story so far! I am so very grateful for your support, and I hope everyone enjoys this chapter as much as the last!
Until next time, dear ones!
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