Fuck.
Okay, so he didn’t have a lot of experience sending dick pics. None, actually.
But even drunk, he should have had some fucking sense.
Moron.
He hit the button for the elevator, waited a godawful long time for the car to come, then got on and headed out to explore the new city that was going to be his home.
Logan was going to beat this jet-lag, dammit.
First stop was to take a Lyft down to the waterfront and see Pier 39. He’d never been to San Francisco before, having grown up in the mid-west before joining the military and spending most of his time in Germany, Japan, and then various bases across the States. But he’d never been to San Francisco. So, when his brother had moved out of his apartment in the city and had needed to sub-let the space, Logan had jumped on the opportunity to spend his first few months out of the military somewhere new.
Somewhere to reset.
To figure out what the fuck he was going to do with his life.
He had some technical skills, but what he actually enjoyed? He was . . . drawing a blank.
That was the confusing and frustrating part.
He’d been competent for fifteen years and now he had to figure out the next chapter of his life. No pressure, no big deal.
Sighing, Logan thanked the driver then got out of the car. Immediately, he was blasted with surprisingly cold air, the wind whipping through his coat and hair. It wasn’t as frosty as a German winter, but it was a damn lot colder than he’d expected for California.
Fog curled around the buildings, the bay was churned up into heavy waves, and even though it was relatively early on a weekday, the pier was busy.
He wove his way through the crowded boardwalk, taking in the myriad of shops with racks of sweatshirts lined up in front of their doors—a smart business move as far as he was concerned, based on the wind and fog. But there weren’t just T-shirt and souvenir and sock shops, there were also galleries and candy shops with huge drums full of salt-water taffy and root beer barrels and ribbons of colorful, twisted sugar.
But it didn’t take long for him to reach the end of the shops and slip through an opening that led to a wooden walkway surrounding the perimeter.
Here was the part he liked.
Actually being able to hear the waves crashing against the support posts, the barking of the sea lions as they alternately lounged and jostled for prime position on the floating platforms in the water. There were only a few other people walking or taking in the view, mostly older folks or couples sneaking in an early lunch.
Here he could smell the tang of fish.
Here he could hear the waves.
Here he could feel a bit more like himself.
Logan stood for a few moments, watching the sea lions, enjoying the breeze and the fact that he didn’t have anything pressing on his time.
He could binge bad TV all day, wander around the city for hours, go to bars, get numbers from beautiful women, and . . . send random dick pics.
Groaning, he pulled his cell from his pocket and took a photo of the sea lions, then one of fog-enshrouded Alcatraz in the distance, which made him suddenly have the urge to watch that old Nick Cage movie, The Rock. Well, know what? Once the cable guys came that afternoon, he could watch it. He had all day to watch. He had six months to watch it. He—
Was going to go absolutely insane unless he found something to do.
For nearly all of the last fifteen years, he’d been told when to get dressed, what job to do, when to eat, when to go to bed.
Now five days of freedom, and he was losing his mind.
But all Logan could picture were endless blank days of waking up and wandering around or watching TV until the sun set and he got tired enough to sleep.
What a prime catch he was, having this much of a pity party.
Deliberately, he pulled up the app on his phone and scheduled a ride to take him back to the apartment. It was time he pulled his shit together and began figuring out what the rest of his life would entail.