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“It’s...slightly possible,” Remy hedged.
I smiled and shook my head. “Yeah, and mix those two in with punk rocker chick, and we’ll have my dream woman...right there. Boom.”
Straightening, Remy said, “Punk rocker chick. Who’s punk rocker chick?”
Damn. There went my mouth. “No one. Just...some girl who auditioned for your drummer position the day before you did.”
Remy brought his hand up to his chin. “I thought only one girl had...had auditioned for that.”
“Yeah...and she dressed in this punk look with a spikey white Tina Turner wig, and I just had this brief little kinky vision of ripping it off and...” When I realized where I was going with my confession, I stopped cold and lifted a hand. “You know, I’m going to stop right there, stop thinking about sex, stop talking about sex, and women, and just...all that shit. Let’s go to my place and slaughter some futuristic zombies. What do you say?”
Remy opened his mouth and then shook his head. “No sé; it’s late. And some of us don’t have insomnia. I’m one of those rare breeds who needs more than two hours of sleep a night, so...yeah. I’m going to head home and crash.”
Disappointment hit me hard. I didn’t want to go home alone. But I nodded and forced a smile. “Fine then, loser. I’m going home to practice so I can finally kick your ass the next time we play.”
He snorted. “Dream on, fucker. You should just face the facts. You’ll never beat me, because I am...a legend.”
When I made it home from the diner with Remy, I felt lonelier than usual. I let Mozart out of his cage to play, so he ran and hid under the bed and was lousy company. I ended up practicing the lyrics of my new song as I cleaned out his cage.
I finally dropped off to sleep around five in the morning, and Pick called at eight.
“Hey, I got another house to check out this morning. You coming?”
Yawning as I sat up, I ran my fingers through my hair. “Yeah, sure. But I thought you were going to go back to looking at them with Eva.”
“She refuses. Says she wants me to check out this one last house. So...pick you up in ten?”
“Sounds like a plan.” I hung up and dragged my ass out of bed. Mozart banged around in his cage, reminding me I had to feed him. But after I tossed some broccoli in for him to munch on, he only looked at me, letting me know he wasn’t even about to eat that healthy crap. So I sighed and gave him some of my old stale corn nuts, which he promptly pounced on.
When Pick showed up, the first thing he asked me after I slid into the passenger seat was, “Heard anything else from your dad?”
I groaned and sank lower into my seat. “Jesus, you’re as bad as Sticks.”
“Sticks?” He lifted an eyebrow. “How’s that?”
After I told him about my run-in with the old man in Chicago and how Remy had threatened him with his mace and whistle, Pick threw back his head and laughed. “I like that kid. You need to keep him around.”
I shrugged, declining to mention how my motorcycle’s fuel line had been cut and the theory Remy had about that. I’d fixed it the next day, so no harm done. No reason at all to mention it to Pick.
“So which fancy-schmancy neighborhood are we headed to today?”
Pick sent me a look for making fun of his possibly new neighborhood, then he said, “Glendale.”
I nodded, deciding it wasn’t as ritzy as the last neighborhood we’d been to but it was a good modest, decent family-oriented type of area.
“Tinker Bell’s aunt and uncle—Reese’s parents—live around here.”
“Ahh,” I murmured. “Cool.”
>
This time around, neither Pick nor I beat around the bush. As soon as we saw the realtor, we spoke in unison. “Backyard?”
As I followed Pick out the sliding glass door, I asked, “So when’s your wedding anyway?”
“The Sunday after next.”
I froze on the back patio as Pick moved toward the middle of the yard and spun in a slow circle.
