Laughing at the stupid jokes being passed back and forth. The dimly lit section of the Cheesecake Factory was the latest theatre for their mission. Mission accomplished meant getting these Pasadena, CA socialites out of their clothes and back to the new bachelor pad as I had recently divorced the previous small-town socialite, I now found myself replicating this calamity at this table. My longterm friend and Marine battle buddy Juice was currently flashing that goofy smile he used every time he wanted to get laid. At over six feet, a muscular frame, and the knack for rubbing words together, his blue eyes and California surfer disposition melted many an undergarment off many a lady. I looked at the biracial beauty I was to make swoon. She was quite the looker, not my usual type, but when in Rome as they say. Since leaving the Marine Corps, Juice and I had taken to taking our training and experience in several combat theatres to the private sector. That's a fancy way of saying we were mercenaries. The outfit we worked for had several lucrative government contracts and mainly sent us out on close protection duties or the occasional capture mission. It was a pretty good loose for us and the pay was good. In our off time, we spent it bird-dogging the local females, shooting, hiking, and any other legal or illegal mischief we could find. Were now on our third glass of the cheapest red on the menu, after steaks and vegetables, the usual crappy before sex food. The juice was now telling his over dramatized Iraqi goat herder story. It's a real hit with the ladies, but after the millionth time, it's just dumb as fuck to me. Our waitress pads over, "did you guys save room for dessert?" in which I reply, "no thank you, " thinking of my waist. Juice quickly contradicts that sentiment, "he is just...