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“So,” I said, awkwardly, wondering how much I could ask, “When did you get in today?”
“Afternoon. Liam and I hit the market, and Quinn used our produce to cook dinner.”
“What are they up to tonight?”
Hunter turned off the engine. “Tantric sex, Liam hopes.”
I choked on an inhale. “You’re joking.”
“Something you learn about Liam: He never jokes.”
“Seriously, he tells you that stuff?”
Hunter cracked open his door and opened the sliding door. “It’s sex, Marc. We don’t have to be secretive about it.”
“I don’t know. Feels kinda personal.”
He reached behind him, pulled his chair out, and transferred into it. He stared at me still buckled into the passenger seat. “Guess that depends on who you’re doing it with.”
I scrambled out of the van and followed him across the dark street to the warmly lit hall. Did that mean he practiced a lot of impersonal sex?
I felt a stomach-twisting emotion between jealousy and sadness. Something to delve into later, maybe. Rolling through the entrance of the old hall, we ran into a line of people searching for their names among the two dozen leftover tags. A rotund woman—mid-fifties, with a bored expression—sat on the other side, nodding at guests.
One look at the alumni surrounding us, and there was a hitch in our plans.
Hunter caught on. “Maybe if you didn’t shave tonight, entrance would be easier.”
“You think a little scruff ages me twenty years?” I rubbed my palms together. “Follow my lead. If we don’t get in, it’s because we didn’t bullshit hard enough.”
“I’m not sure if I’m rooting for us to get in or get caught.”
“Hey, you said you fake it too.”
“I didn’t say I was proud of it.”
“Well, I don’t see how else we’ll get in.”
“What if we tell her the truth? She’s bound to let in a Scribe reporter and photographer.”
“Without his camera? Let’s say she doesn’t, what then?”
“We have two V.A. names, and I hacked around and got their addresses. Both alive and kicking. We can do door-to-door service tomorrow.”
“Two? I thought we had three?”
“The eye color of one didn’t match, leaving two brown-eyed V.A.’s.”
I pivoted, legs in front of his chair, and eyed him closely. Hunter locked his eyes onto mine for a heart-quickening beat. “If you’ve narrowed it down this far,” I asked slowly, “why did you agree to come here tonight?”
He dropped his gaze to the carnation, and my heart rattled around behind it.
He turned his head toward the doors, a flash of vulnerability and disappointment creasing his brow, quickly masked. “Maybe I didn’t think things through.”
I write to you, and you write back.
I sucked in a rain-laced breath. His sister was away, Liam was busy loving Quinn . . . Maybe he was always on Demon-Slayage for the same reason I was.
Carefully, I said, “Getting in will be another thrill.” I winked at him. “I like getting my thrills with you.”
I thought it might make Hunter smile, but instead it deepened his frown.
In the end, entrance was easy. Our hostess retreated for the ladies’ room, and I didn’t waste a second penning names onto two blank nametags.
We entered the bigger of two adjacent rooms, where all the movement and laughter stemmed from. Guests carried on jolly conversations around tall, chairless, disabled-unfriendly tables. Ahead, on stage, a podium under a Welcome Alumni banner.
Waiters offered guests flutes of champagne or tumblers of juice. I grabbed two flutes and handed one to Hunter.
We tossed them back fairly quickly and grabbed refills. Champagne for me, juice for Hunter.
A familiar, rather puzzled “hello” surprised us from behind. Hannah stood in a slinky black dress and bright red lipstick, hair pinned elegantly. “Hannah!”
Hunter turned around too, draining his juice. He beckoned a passing waiter and ended up with a fresh drink.
“What are you guys doing here?” Hannah glanced at our nametags. “Dick Longe? William Stroker?”
I smirked. “You can call him Willie.”
Hunter read his name tag and shook his head.
“What?” I said. “Dick and Willie are classic old guy names. We fit right in here.”
Hannah’s expression pinched. “Stop being a jackass.”
Jackass. Jack. Ass.
You are just like me.
I stared at my champagne.
“What are you doing here?” Hunter asked Hannah politely, while I stewed in stupidity.
Hannah glanced around the room. “My great uncle is hiding around here somewhere—and it’s also my party page article for the next issue.”
An excited voice vibrated through the on-stage microphone, silencing the guests.
“. . . a wonderful evening. Please give a big welcome to the great-grandson of Gable University founder, and graduate of 1974: Kyle Gable Green.”
Hunter and I looked at each other sideways, and in comical timing, both said, “Kyle Gable Green?”
Hannah giggled. “Pretty hot for a seventy-year-old, huh?”
Sure, the guy kept in shape, had a strong jawline, a healthy crop of silver hair, and a keen gaze.
“Seriously,” Hannah said. “Why are you here? And together? Did the Chief put you onto this without telling me?”
