Page 99 of Twins for Three Bad Boys

Bolt barrels straight toward Hank’s legs.

“Jeez…!” Hank yelps, smacking his head on the undercarriage. “Rex!”

“That’s on you,” I call, stepping inside. “You know he leads with enthusiasm.”

Bolt sneezes triumphantly.

Fletcher glances up first. The corner of his mouth ticks.

“Mornin’,” he says.

Wayne follows a beat later. “You’re up early.”

“I’ve been up since five,” I reply. “Truckers don’t sleep. We just power down briefly.”

Hank slides out from under the truck, grease streaked across his cheek. “You brought coffee?”

I take another exaggerated sip. “For me.”

He flips me off.

I clap him on the shoulder anyway and make my way over to the bench, leaning back against it, clocking in for my shift as professional nuisance.

“So,” I say lightly, glancing between Wayne and Fletcher, “what’s broken today?”

“Transmission,” Fletcher answers.

“Alternator,” Wayne says at the same time.

They don’t look at each other.

Interesting.

Hank looks between them, watching a tennis match.

“Busy,” I murmur.

“Always,” Wayne says.

There’s something tight in his voice. Something weird.

Bolt settles near the open bay door with a grunt, satisfied the perimeter is secure.

I nod toward Fletcher. “You look like you slept.”

He shrugs. “Enough.”

Wayne huffs faintly into his coffee as if that’s debatable.

Oh.

Now that’s strange.

Hank doesn’t notice, because Hank has the emotional awareness of a squirrel.

“So,” he says brightly, “Rex, tell ’em what you said about Louisiana.”

I grin. “Which part? The swamp humidity that tried to drown me on land, or the gator that looked like it had strong political opinions?”