His throat started to hurt and Dylan looked like a gremlin, yapping about Laura and how it was all destroyed now and who was crazy enough to run in the woods alone in the dark and why hadn’t he been there more for Dylan after Jill and then his words went into slow motion, like molasses pouring from his gaping maw, until Mike had to look away. Acid trips were less surreal than this.
“Laura thought we were mindfucking her, Mike,” Dylan growled. “That we were laughing at her, like we planned some sort of joke and she was the punch line.” He ripped his hands through his hair and made a keening noise not unlike one he had made when the doctor had come to them after Jill had coded. “And who can blame her? I pop up like I’m stopping by for tea and cookies and BAM! Her first threesome.” Dylan collapsed on the bed, shaking his head and groaning, hands clamped on his temples.
“It would be a bit jarring.” Shit, Dylan was right. He couldn’t run now. What next? His muscles kept tightening, spasming without conscious effort. The urge to move was too great. This was not going to end well.
Dylan sat up and shot Mike a withering look of incredulity. “Jarring? Who are you—the queen’s PR person? Keep calm and carry on is one thing. Keep calm and act like a robot just makes you look like an ass, Mike.”
Blink. Mike didn’t know what to say. Had nothing to say. He needed to run. Lungs felt like they were collapsing in, his spine curling forward, his knees itching and nerves burning.
Run.
“And then there’s the whole billionaire thing!” Maniacal laughter poured out of Dylan’s mouth. Now he was just plain old scaring Mike. So much for that run. He plopped down next to Dylan on the bed and just watched him.
A grotesquely loud gurgle vibrated from Dylan’s gut. “Sorry,” he muttered.
“Gotta eat.” Mike shrugged. “Laura and I didn’t really even get dinner going,” he added guiltily. The sight of the unfinished meal made him go cold. Memories of what had transpired a few short hours ago, the promise that held everything— he had to get out of there.
“I don’t really—you know, just being here bothers me.” Smoothing the bedsheets, Dylan looked around the room. “I just—”
“Yeah. Me too.”
“Did we fuck this one up?” Dylan’s eyes begged him to say “no.” Mike couldn’t. He wasn’t a liar by nature, not even a social liar, and right now he didn’t have an answer. Whether they could reach Laura or not, on her terms and her timeline, would be key. Trying right now, when she was raw and hurt and bewildered, wouldn’t do anyone any good.
“I don’t know.” Dylan grabbed a shirt, some ratty Rush concert t-shirt his older brother must have bought at a concert in the late ’80s, and tossed it on. Mike wanted to say the exact right thing. Perfect words that would solve this problem. That, however, was the problem with words—he never could use them well enough to make any mess better. In fact, he always seemed to make it all worse when he opened his mouth.
Action made so much more sense.
“What time is it?” Dylan asked, looking around the room for the clock. He fingered a hole in the hem of the shirt, worrying it bigger.
“It’s gotta be past two. And good grief, man, you’re a billionaire. Buy a new shirt. Hell, buy the band Rush. You can afford it.”
“Geddy Lee’s not my type.”
Mike stared out the window. “The night is black, without a moon.”
“And if you choose not to decide, you still have made a choice. What’s next, Mike? You gonna rickroll me?”
“Over pancakes?” Mike grabbed the keys to his car, a new Jeep Grand Cherokee. Loaded. Paid cash.
Dylan’s eyes lit up. “Jeddy’s pancakes? They’re open twenty-four hours. I could go for some chipotle maple sausage crepes.”
Ugh. “Whatever happened to a simple short stack?”
“You are so vanilla.” Mike arched an eyebrow dramatically in response. Dylan backpedaled. “OK, OK, not so vanilla. Just boring.”
Mike’s feet itched to run. Pancakes first. If he carb loaded, he could bang out a good half marathon later. “Jeddy’s it is,” he agreed. Dylan fairly bounced out of the house. So easy to please.
“The ride’s a good hour.”
“Worth it!” Dylan shouted as they ran for the jeep.
If only chipotle maple sausage crepes solved everything.
“You what?” Josie’s voice was as close to a shriek as Laura had ever heard, her face flushed with shock and awe. “You WHAT?”
Laura literally ducked and covered, her face so hot she imagined it would burn her fingers if she touched it. “I know. I really am a slut.” One call to Josie and her friend had come over bearing a large box of Godiva chocolates, a bag of salt ’n vinegar potato chips the size of a third grader, and new fingernails: Beetles album covers. Abbey Road was currently shoved in Laura’s face, accusing and menacing.