Keep him on track.
I see my opening and take it. I tap an imaginary watch on my wrist. Raise an eyebrow for good measure.
Pan sighs. “Fine, fine.” He rolls his eyes. “Apparently I’ve got to go.”
The girls exchange a look. “Go where?”
“Little League practice,” I deadpan, clapping a hand on each of Pan’s shoulders and pulling him up. He’s kept Krye waiting long enough, and if there’s one person you don’t want on your bad side, it’s the local Albanian mafia kingpin. “He’s our star pitcher.”
Besides, Pan’s in one of his broke phases, and he knows it. If the threat of mob violence won’t motivate him, a lack of cash will.
Pan nods. “My man Tink is right. Duty calls.” He half-lifts his helmet in a salute. “Been a pleasure, though.”
The girls look at each other. A look I know. Each one daring the other to go first.
Lauren seems to win.
“Can…” She sucks in a breath, says her next sentence like it’s all one word. “CanIgetaridesometime?”
Her eyes are on Pan, but drift up to me, briefly.
I don’t give rides. Obviously. But I like knowing I’m under consideration.
Means Tink’s doing a good job.
But these girls…
Pan sucks his teeth, fake-deliberating. “Weeeeell…”
“How old are you?” I interrupt. Gruffer than I need to be.
Lauren scowls briefly. Then flushes. “Twenty.”
“Bullshit.” Rae rolls her eyes. “She’sseventeen.Same as me.” She smiles. “But my birthday’s in four months.”
Pan catches my eyes, gives me the tiniest wince.
Told you,I telegraph to him.
He’s not that much older—we’re not, any of us. Least of all me. And he may refuse to act his age, but there are still some lines he won’t cross.
It’s why I trust him.
Lauren’s scowl at Rae deepens. I slug back more of my caffeine. And an idea hits me.
“Hey,” I say to Pan, nodding toward the outside. “Is that a kid messing with your bike out there?”
He slumps. “Aw, what the fuck?—”
There is no kid, but Pan’s territorial enough about his baby to go check anyway, and it’ll buy me a minute or two. He jogs out, and I turn back to the counter. Lean on it a little. Don’t make eye contact per se but make sure they know I’m giving them my full attention.
They’re short, these girls. Petite, as Gram would say. I’m not. That might be the easiest part about being a guy, the part that comes most naturally for me: being nearly six feet, and that’s before you add boots.
That, and making dick jokes.
Behind the counter, the greasy rollers are click-click-clicking under their heat lamps, slow-spinning corn dogs.
“Can I get one of those?” I nod.
