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He rummaged through the box on the kitchen counter, and pulled out some of Seth’s beacon tags. He chose the smallest, most unobtrusive ones. Davy watched him do it, fists clenched, and then turned to stare out the window into the blank darkness.
Sean stared at his brother’s back, barely visible in the dimness.
“This feels strange,” he said quietly. “Usually I’m the one freaking out, and you and Con are the ones talking me down. What’s up?”
Davy’s eyes glinted in the shadows of the room. “Did it ever occur to you that this day on the calendar really rots for me and Con, too?”
Sean held his breath, and willed his knotted guts to relax. “It’s crossed my mind,” he said. “I’m sorry. I’m not much help with that.”
Davy’s laugh was dry. “Sure you are. It’s one mother of a distraction, chasing around after you, trying to keep you from getting killed or maimed or imprisoned, or whatever. Who has time to mope?”
“That’s one way of looking at it,” Sean said dubiously. “Do you have low blood sugar, or what? You should eat. I’d cook you something, but you’ve trashed the kitchen all to shit. Grab yourself a burger on the way home. Is Margot waiting dinner for you?”
“Nah.” Davy’s voice was hollow. “I’ll just, uh, crash here tonight.”
Sean froze, playing and replaying his brother’s comment in his head. “You mean you’re voluntarily sleeping more than a millimeter away from Margot’s voluptuous body? What is up with that?”
Davy’s shoulders lifted, and dropped.
“What’s going on?” Sean demanded. “You asshole. She’s the best thing that ever happened to you. Don’t tell me you’re fucking this up. Did you fight? Did she throw you out? What did you do?”
“Nothing,” Davy said testily. “And no, she didn’t. And it’s none of your business. We both just need some, ah, breathing room.”
Now he was alarmed. Davy usually had to be pried away from his bride Margot’s side with the use of a crowbar and a pair of oversized bolt cutters. When the McClouds fell in love, they fell hard.
“Breathing room is a piss-poor idea,” Sean said. “Awful things happen when women have too much breathing room.”
“What the hell do you know about it?” Davy demanded. “You’ve never been married, you snot-nosed punk.”
Sean didn’t bother responding to that. “So is she pissed at you?”
Davy threw up his hands. “Sure, she’s pissed at me.”
“Why? If you don’t tell me, I’ll just call Margot and ask her.”
“Oh, Jesus. No. Please don’t do that,” Davy said fervently.
“So out with it. Go on. Spit it out.”
Davy struggled, helplessly. “I just…well, we’re not…she’s just angry at me because I can’t, um…” His voice trailed off, miserably.
Sean squinted at his brother, perplexed. “Can’t what?”
Davy dropped into the chair again, evidently unable to speak.
Sean gazed at him with dawning horror. “Holy shit. Are you talking about sex? You can’t have sex? With Margot the walking wet dream? What the fuck is wrong with you? Are you seriously ill?”
“No,” Davy spat out the word. “It’s just that…she’s, ah, late.”
Sean gazed at his older brother’s slumped form, unable to make out his expression in the dimness. “Late?” he echoed. “Late for what?”
“Use the tiny brain God gave you and figure it out,” Davy snarled.
Sean cogitated for a second, and sucked in a sharp breath. “Oh! Oh, shit! You mean, like,thatkind of late?”
Davy’s sigh was jerky and labored. “Yeah. She can’t be sure yet. Her cycle isn’t regular. But she’s never been this late before.”
“Oh, man, that’s too much information for me. I’m not sure I can handle the intimate details of my sister-in-law’s reproductive cycle—”
