Hot Night. Shannon McKenna
at you! Thirty-six, and no girlfriend! It gets harder to snag a good woman, the longer you wait. You’d still look halfway decent if you’d get a haircut!”
“Look, Granddad, I’m too tired for this shit tonight—”
“You could shave, too.” Granddad was on a roll. “You’re letting yourself slide. Next thing you know, your gut rolls out over your belt, the crack of your ass starts to show, and that’s it, boy. You’re sunk.”
Zan gave the lean, muscular body sprawled out in front of him an appraising glance. “I sparred with Chris last week, and slammed him so hard he’s still not speaking to me. The crack of my ass isn’t going to start showing anytime soon. And besides, I’ve had lots of girlfriends.”
“And where are they? You tomcat around and scratch your itch, maybe, but you haven’t brought any of them home to meet us!”
Zan snorted with laughter. His discreet, infrequent affairs could hardly be described as tomcatting. He thought about Abby, and lifted his beer bottle in a silent toast. “I’m working on it, I promise.”
“Well.” Granddad harrumphed. “Work harder. I ain’t getting any younger, and I want to get me some great-grandbabies.”
“Let Jack take the heat on the grandbaby issue. He’s the oldest.”
“I will, soon as I get my hands on him,” Granddad said darkly.
“And I am going out during daylight hours this week,” Zan told him. “I’m doing a job for the Boyles. Key job for the art museum. I’ll have to interact socially, maybe even with women. Is that normal enough for you?”
Granddad stuck out his stubbled chin. “Smart-ass punk. Why the hell are you working for the Boyles, after what they did to you?”
Zan shrugged. “I’ve put it behind me. It’s a job, like any other.”
“Like any other, my ass.” Granddad let out an explosive grunt of disgust. “You don’t need money bad enough to subcontract from them two snakes. You don’t need money at all, from what I can see.”
Zan took a slow, meditative sip of beer. “I think Walt calls me for jobs because he feels bad about what happened,” he said quietly.
“Bullshit,” Granddad said, a shrewd gleam in his eye. “Walt calls you because you’re smart. He needs smart people.”
“He’s got Matty,” Zan pointed out. “Matty has a degree in electronic engineering. I don’t have a degree in jack shit.”
“Degrees don’t mean nothing,” Granddad scoffed. “You’ve got more brains in your little finger than Matty has in his whole body, and everybody knows it. You watch your back, boy.”
The door to the stairwell swung wide. An apparition in black leather, mascara and dreadlocks strutted in. His little brother, Jamie.
Zan shut his eyes and groaned. “Who the hell gave you a key?”
Jamie brandished the diamond pick and tension wrench Zan had incautiously taught him to use some months back. “Don’t need one.”
“I didn’t say to practice on me,” Zan complained. “It’s illegal.”
“So have Chris arrest me. He’d have a ball.” Jamie yanked open Zan’s fridge and eyed the beer stash with disdain. “This stuff is horse piss, Zan. Want me to go downstairs and get you a decent beer?”
“Don’t drink it if you don’t like it. What’s with your new look?”
Jamie popped open a beer, took a swig, and grimaced. “Horse piss,” he muttered again. “My look is for my play, lamebrain.”
“Play? What play?”
Jamie rolled his eyes. “Earth to Zan? I told you about the play, remember? The Stray Cat Playhouse summer stock season? They’re doing Romeo and Juliet, and I choreographed the duels. Then last week, the guy playing Tybalt broke his leg parasailing, and the director asked me to fill in. I’ve been rehearsing every night for the past week, and this is the first time you’ve noticed my makeup job?”
“Oh, I noticed it,” Zan said. “I just didn’t think it was out of character, so it didn’t occur to me to comment on it.”
Jamie rolled his heavily made-up eyes. “Just for the record, I may be a weirdo, but I’m not the type of weirdo who wears mascara.”
“Huh,” Zan muttered. “That’s a relief, I guess.”
“Tybalt’s a great part,” Jamie went on. “All I do is swagger around and make trouble. Halfway through the play, Romeo slashes my throat with a beer bottle. I wish Fiona were here. She’d get a big kick out of it.”
“I bet she would,” Zan agreed. “Bloodthirsty demon that she is.”
Granddad and Jamie exchanged meaningful glances.
“I, uh, ran into Paige at the Performing Arts Center today,” Jamie said carefully. “She looks good. Seems to be doing real well.”
Zan stiffened at the mention of his most recent ex-girlfriend. “Good. Glad to hear it. What does that have to do with anything?”
“My show opens weekend after next,” Jamie said. “It would be a perfect opportunity to, ah…call her up. See a romantic play with her.”
“You guys have been putting your heads together, haven’t you?”
“You’re in a rut, Alexander,” Granddad added earnestly. “You need to get out. Meet some ladies. It’s time to think about your future.”
“You guys back off and mind your own business,” Zan snarled.
They all stared into the TV. A blonde was pleading with a guy in a trenchcoat. He said something. She hauled off and slapped him. He planted a passionate kiss on her cupid’s-bow mouth. The girl slowly stopped struggling and wrapped her arms around Trenchcoat’s neck.
Yeah, right. That kind of move never worked in real life.
The cell rang. He fished through his pocket, eager for an excuse to disappear. Maybe Abby had gone to check her mailbox and gotten locked out again. This time in a filmy peekaboo nightie.
His bubble burst as soon as he answered. Just some dumb college kid down at the roadhouse who’d locked himself out of his car.
Boring as hell, but anything was better than staring at Jamie’s and Granddad’s disapproving faces.
“Gorgeous day, isn’t it?” chirped the girl with pink spiked hair behind the espresso cart. “What’ll you have, Abby? Your usual?”
Brilliant morning sunlight glinted off the studs that decorated Nanette’s nose and brows. They hurt Abby’s eyes.
“You OK?” Nanette’s brows furrowed. “You look terrible.”
“Gee, thanks, Nanette. Give me the usual.”
“You got it.” Nanette’s hennaed hands worked efficiently. “I’ll put chocolate-covered coffee beans on top. That’ll give you a nice buzz.”
“Hair of the dog that bit me. And make a decaf soy latte for Elaine, OK? Today it’s my turn to provide coffee.”
“Yeah, I saw her sprinting by here a couple of minutes ago,” Nanette said. “She could use some coffee. She looked stressed out.”
Abby dug into her purse for her wallet. Her eyes stung with exhaustion. She’d been too wound up to sleep, and had ended up watching the rest of the film on the Classics Channel. After the movie, she’d surfed late-night cable, anchoring herself in reality by consuming a pint of Fudge Ripple. She’d woken on the couch with Sheba draped across her neck, barely in time to shower and run for the bus.
Abby took a bracing sip of her espresso before heading