Page 22 of All of Me

Doc Brown leaned back and tapped his pen. “How about this? You avoid anyemergenciesfor a month, then we bring you in for clinical studies. A controlled experiment to see if your heart tissue repairs. We’d take scans both before and after.”

I nodded eagerly.

The doc smiled. “You remind me of my eldest. She never bothered crawling. She just went from sitting to walking.” He smirked. “She’s currently in Southern Kenya on an archaeological dig for the Smithsonian.”

I knew that was a fancy museum, and I quite liked that I reminded him of someone smart. Or maybe just stubborn, I guessed.

“What are the dangers of these experiments?” Drake asked likeexperimentswas a dirty word.

Doc Brown turned to him. “We will monitor him every moment in real time, and the second we have any indication there might be a problem, I’ll shut it down.”

I knew Drake wasn’t happy, but I didn’t care. My body, my decision. I promised to do my best not to use my ability with mental fingers crossed, and they arranged an appointment. It was only when we got back to the front desk area that I remembered I had nowhere to live, or that I had to call Diesel.

I wasn’t sure if Drake was a mind-reader but he spoke up. “We need to talk, if you’ll give me a few minutes. I owe you a thank you and a huge-ass apology.”

I stared at Drake, almost in shock. But did he mean it?

He steered me to the entrance then walked down the street, gesturing ahead to a sign that said, “The Old Bean,” and had asilhouette of a man in a top hat with a walking stick. I followed him into the small coffee shop and inhaled in appreciation, then remembering the reaction of the receptionist and when other members of the public saw my scar, dipped my head to look at the floor.

“Ringo, buddy!”

Startled at the yell, I looked up just in time for a giant of a man to push his way through the gap in the counter and head for Drake. The giant reached out with a huge grin on his weathered face and pumped Drake’s hand, slapping his back so hard it nearly sent him flying. “You in town for a while? How’s it going?” Then he saw me standing behind Drake and stepped forward with his hand out. I braced myself, but he was much gentler.

“Shae Turner, sir,” I introduced myself.

He grinned. “Call me Brew. Any friend of Sarge is welcome here.”

He gestured to a corner table, and we headed over. “Cynthia,” he boomed. A young woman wearing an apron with blond curls and the same blue eyes as the giant came out of the kitchen, rolling her eyes.

“Dad, could you shout any louder? Not sure they heard you in Alaska.”

Drake turned, and she squealed, taking a running jump into his arms, and I gaped, hearing his bark of laughter. Had those techs in lab-coats somehow done a personality transplant on gruff, silent,pissed as hell with me, Drake Starr while I was getting tested?

“How are you?” Drake said, setting her down. “You haven’t taken out your dad yet? Thought I taught you how to shoot,” he joked. I shook my head in wonder. They’d said they hadn’t given me any drugs, just taken blood, but they must have lied.

She turned to me and I extended my hand automatically, but she ignored it and threw her arms around me. I inhaled becauseshe smelled amazing—cookies and chocolate—and much to my shame, my stomach growled rather loudly.

Cynthia turned accusingly on Drake. “You’ve been starving the poor boy.”Boy?She had to be what, five years older than me, maximum? I kind of expected it from Miss Moira, but not…okay, who cared? She grinned at me. “Sit. I’ll bring you your favorites,” and she headed back to the kitchen.

“It’s been a while,” Brew said, looking Drake over carefully in case he was missing a limb or something.

“Rawlings is a bastard, you know that. Taking a few weeks off to get some work done on the farm.”

Brew chuckled. “Does that mean we might see you at our poker night next month?”

Drake shrugged. “I’ll do my best.” The door opened, and some customers walked in, so Brew went back behind the counter.

“Brew?”I asked, needing something normal to say.

“We served together, as I’m sure you gathered, but Brew was christened because the first thing he asked every day was if we wanted one.”

“A brew,” I clarified. “Beer?”

“Nah, hot tea. His mom was from England, and that’s what she called it. Tea, anyway. He drinks tea and coffee like there’s a national shortage. Good guy. Takes bombs apart.” I gaped again, not a hundred-percent sure Drake was serious, but what did I know? “Good thing you’re hungry because you’re about to get a full English.”

“Awhat?”

“British breakfast, because of Brew’s mom. He’s even got some butcher to cut English bacon. Breakfast’s the only thing they make here; well, variations of that, and all sorts of coffee and tea. When they open at six the med students line up for bacon sandwiches like it’s their last meal .”

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