Page 36 of Jonesing for a Spy

Strider

I shake my head, no clue what he’s on about, and hold Mirren’s eyes. “Need to know, baby. Are you okay?”

Her warm hand cups mine again, and her eyes go soft. “I’m fine.” Her voice is barely above a whisper. “Thanks for checking on me.”

My eyes drift over her head to Mikey. “Team Jones is doing just fine or so it appears.”

“I was thinking the Red Wolves. You’re small, but I bet you’re quick.”

I understood nothing about that sentence except the insult. And I can’t be two inches shorter than him at my six-one. My face must say the same.

“He’s a flanker.” At seeing my confusion, Mirren continues, “Professional rugby player. He’s impressed by people taking a lick and still standing. Now let’s get you some ice.”

I size up her brother. That explains a lot. I let her tug me around the tree of a man standing in the way and to the freezer where she extracts a blue gel ice pack and wraps it in a towel, pressing it gently to my jaw.

Mikey, not to be outdone, lifts his elbow like a wing. “What about me?”

“I’ll kiss it and make it better. How’s that?”

“Not feeling the love, Scoot. This could be life-threatening, and you’re over there cooing at some guy.”

Mirren rolls her eyes and whirls on him. “One, I don’t coo. And, two, is your life in danger because of your booboo?”

Headlights wash the house and fill the driveway. Great… just when I’d least like an audience. No, wait—that happened earlier tonight, and it was way worse timing. But this is an easy second.

Mirren hurries to the window and sags.

“Charlie?” I ask, assuming the next part of our wrecked evening.

“No. It’s worse.” She turns to face us. “It’s Mom.”

I move to her brother’s side as Mirren flies down the outside stairs. “Do I want to know how this is worse?”

Mikey shrugs. “Feels like an overreaction to me. Mom’s sarcastic and funny, a practical joker, but in a mommish kind of way. And she’s over-the-top for holidays, especially Halloween, but nothing should warrant this kind of reaction.”

We’re sandwiched halfway between Halloween and Thanksgiving, so it’s not that. Out of curiosity, I move to the window with her flanker brother right beside me.

Mrs. Jones tries to exit her small roadster, but her daughter blocks her way, arms waving wildly.

“Cool car,” I offer, adjusting the ice pack.

“Cool looking. I swear it only worked like seven days of my childhood, but she found a great mechanic, and now it’s her everyday driver.”

“What is it?”

“A 1962 Sunbeam Alpine, Series II. Don’t forget the Series II part. She won’t let you. It was a car from a James Bond film. She had it imported in the late nineties. Dad has the patience of a saint. At least I’ve heard him tell her that.”

“Can’t say I’d argue with a James Bond-mobile.”

“Same.” He looks my way. “But an Aston Martin, right? Something high tech?”

“And a road with no cops so I could open it up.”

He offers me another fist to bump. “Sorry about that.” He nods to my chin. “If I meant to hit you, it would’ve been earlier.”

I bark a laugh. “I can’t disrespect that. If it were my sister…”

“I’m in the market, you know. Is she cute?”