cocked the hat so it almost covered one of his eyes.
He checked his image in the side-view mirror of Peterson’s van. Perfect.
“You look like an idiot,” Peterson said.
Michael waggled his eyebrows and tipped the brim. “I feel like an idiot. Why are we doing this again?”
When Peterson opened his mouth to talk, Michael interrupted. “Oh, yeah. Because you plan on owing me—big-time and for the rest of your pathetic life. I still don’t see why you couldn’t bring someone else in my place, though.”
Peterson focused his eyes on the road and didn’t offer a response. Michael took a deep breath and prepared for the inevitable.
“What do you want, Peterson? And what’s it going to cost me?”
“The thing is, I really like this girl.”
“Got it.” Michael held up one hand and placed the other reverently over his chest. “I hereby solemnly swear not to hit up your lady friend with my numerable charms.”
Even though Peterson concentrated on driving, Michael flexed his arms for good effect, doing his best not to notice how much less impressive the results were these days. A few months off from his regular training schedule for the Scottish Highland Games, where both he and Peterson were regular competitors, and he was withering away like an old woman. It was March, so there weren’t any competitions for a while, but they always did a team Top Warrior Race this time of year, to keep the brotherhood and muscles going strong.
One more month.
He just needed to give his knee, five months post-surgery and still not fully functional, some time to recuperate before he could get back on his regular track. And then it was back to life. Back to flexing his muscles. Back to being the Michael O’Leary everyone knew and loved.
“It’s not just that,” Peterson warned. The blur of trees and shopping malls blended into a kind of static as Michael waited to hear the rest. “I need your help.”
“You don’t have to say anything more,” Michael offered, trying to find his footing in the strangely heavy air between them. “She’s got this friend, and your girl won’t go anywhere without her. You need me, and you need my game. Just say it, bro. You. Need. My. Game.”
It worked. Peterson grinned.
“I might have lied some,” he admitted. “It’s not a friend—it’s her sister. Apparently, she can be high-strung, and I want to make a good impression. It’d be awesome if you could unwind her a little.”
“Unwind? Is that what we’re calling it now?”
“I’m practically doing you a favor, Mikey.” It was hard to ignore the question in Peterson’s voice. No—not a question. This was out-and-out pleading. “Molly says she’s drop-dead gorgeous.”
Michael pulled the hat down lower over his head and braced himself for the worst.
That’s what they always said.
“You’ve got to be shitting me.”
A woman seated behind them in the darkened theater shushed loudly. Michael lowered his voice a few notches and tried again. “Seriously? The woman in red? That’s the sister?”
Michael considered himself a lover of women—all women, really. Skinny, curvy, tall, short, smart, dumb… There was ample place in his heart and arms for each one. It was a credo that had turned him into a semipermanent wingman for his friends, and that was fine. He was more than happy to take on the role. After all, someone had to placate the flesh that others left behind.
But that up there on the stage hardly qualified as flesh at all. It was as though someone had sucked all the life and vibrancy out of a human being and replaced it with a zombie.
A creepy Shakespearean zombie in negligee.
“What’s wrong with her?” Peterson protested. “I think she looks nice. Check out those legs.”
“Dude. That woman is fifty, if not more. You’ve got to have the wrong one.”
Peterson leaned forward in his chair, a fluffy velvet thing too narrow to accommodate the breadth of him. “I’m pretty sure