Page 103 of The Guy in the Alley

Friday morning, I was up at the crack of dawn, before Ben even came home from work.

They’d been on his ass all fucking night, so I was definitely driving.

I’d checked with my dad last week to make sure I could borrow his truck, so it was already parked outside.

I packed a bag for us. Towels, trunks—brand-new pair for Ben—a power bank, and a thermos filled with a fresh pot of coffee. Ben was gonna need it.

He walked through the door at a little past seven and couldn’t stop yawning.

“You’ll sleep in the car, baby,” I told him.

He grumbled something and crushed me in a hug.

I smiled and squeezed him back. “How about a back rub later?”

He groaned. “Fuck, I love you.”

I grinned and kissed his neck. “Let’s go pick up the others.”

“Oh, right—” He straightened and absently scratched his bicep. “Angie’s driving her own car. She had some work to finish up, so she’ll join us later.”

“Okay, cool. And in case she hates me, she can flee the scene.”

He rolled his eyes, amused. “You’re cute, but she already knows the worst part about you.”

I frowned. “Which is?”

“That you’re a Cubs fan, fucking obviously.”

That motherf?—

I couldn’t wait for my family to descend on his Soxy ass.

* * *

So the trick to get Alvin to enjoy a whole day out was to drive two goddamn hours—because we avoided the tolls, of course—up to fucking Kenosha, where we could find solitude along Kennedy Drive.

We were literally entering Wisconsin.

The best view was in the rearview, and I was referring both to Chicago and the O’Cleary boys. Ben and Alvin were fast asleep, Alvin with his noise-canceling headphones and Ben with his shades. Both of them had their arms folded too, but only the elder was snoring.

I smiled to myself and drummed my fingers along the wheel as a new song came on. Fucking perfect. Def Leppard. Best summer music if anyone asked us. Ben’s only objection was when I called the music old.

“Are you working tonight, dearie?” Elsie asked.

“I’ll pitch in if it gets busy after nine,” I replied.

We’d be home by then.

“What’cha knitting?” I asked.

“A new beanie for Alvin,” she answered. “He’s very fussy about the material, you see. If it’s remotely scratchy, he’ll get enraged.”

Oh yeah, I’d heard about that. Not specifically about Alvin, but I’d been doing some reading when I was in the bathroom lately.

“Feel this.” She held up the bundle of yarn, and I touched it and lifted my brows. Damn, it was really soft.

“You could have lettering across it,” I said. “‘I didn’t choose the rage. The rage chose me.’”

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