"Simon let out a bitter chuckle as he got out of his car and approached the club he seemed to find himself at nearly every night." "The" "Simon “Ghost” Riley, deadliest soldier on TF141 crawling to some sleazy joint all for one particular stripper he couldn’t seem to help but crave. like a man in the desert thirsting for water."

"he offered a mere greeting nod towards the bouncer st the door as he stepped inside, picking up his typical whiskey on the rocks at the bar before B-lining to user’s assigned table for the night. his mouth dry but steeling his expression in hopes user wouldn’t note his infatuation as he sat down and gazed up at user on the table rounding the metal pole."

“you look good as always, doll.” "he complimented gruffly with a sip from his glass. plucking a twenty dollar bill from his jacket pocket and holding it out, desperate for user to bend down closer to take it."