Page 8 of Doing Life

“I’m fine,” Lance snapped, those lips tight, cheeks bright pink.

“Sorry.” He sighed. “It’s Sloan, Lance.”

Lance’s eyebrows drew together hard, his scars pulling, eyes rolling in a desperate way that made Sloan a little sick to his stomach. “How? Why?”

“I’m working for the police department.” That was asgood as he could come up with. ‘I’m stalking you because I want you back’ seemed like a bad thing to say.

“You’re shitting me.”

“Is this guy dangerous, Lance? I will call the fucking cops, man. I don’t hold with bullshit.”

Lance stopped, head jerking back as if he’d smelled something bad. “Sloan? God, no. No, he would never hurt me.”

Suddenly he realized he’d stopped breathing, and he was a touch dizzy from relief and lack of oxygen. Thank God for that, at least. Lance knew that was a fundamental truth.

“Sorry. I’m Sloan Ferguson.” He held out a hand to the guy.

“Chris Smith.” Chris shook his hand, looking back and forth between him and Lance.

“I—” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I imagine now is a sucky time, but could we talk soon, Lance? We have a lot to catch up on.”

That was the understatement of the century.

“I have—” Lance shrugged, shook his head. “I don’t have a lot of privacy where I’m staying right now. It’s like…a halfway house.”

Lord have mercy. He’d heard all about this, of course. The Rocking W ranch that ran this huge rehab situation had been buying up wrecked houses, renovating them, and then using them as housing while the guys were working to re-enter the economy.

Some folks thought it was amazing. Some thought the vets were a bad influence, acting like the soldiers were hooligans driving down the housing msrket.

Sloan thought that anytime a broken-down man could boost his ego by working, by learning new skills, it was good, but what did he know?

“Coffee? I’d buy you coffee at the coffee shop.” He wasn’t going to let this go. “Hell, beer and pizza tonight.Anything.”

Lance frowned and scratched his cheek, nails digging into the scars a little, and Chris’s expression darkened. “Um. Sure. Okay. But tonight I have a date with the guys at the house and a pack of party pizzas.”

“Yeah. Yeah, that’s fair. I have a beer and DiGiorno night planned myself. Long week at work.” He ate Lance up with his gaze, trying to get his fix for a few days. “Sunday, maybe?”

“Yeah, okay.”

“Should I pick you up?”

“Here.” Lance handed him a smartphone. “Put your number in as Sloan. I’ll text and let you know.”

“I can do that.” He tapped in his contact information before putting the phone back in Lance’s hand.

Chris raised an eyebrow at him, and Sloan shrugged. He had no shame. Not where Lance was concerned.

The guy bit back a smile and shook his head. “So. Party pack. Can you open the door, Lance?”

“Oh. Yeah.” Lance moved over one case, then felt along until he could open the freezer door. Chris grabbed out a pack of pizzas and put them in the basket on his lap.

“Bingo.” Lance grinned, the scars pulling hard. “I want to toss them in next time.”

“Like beep baseball shopping.”

He blinked, then bit back a chuckle. He wasn’t sure if he got to laugh at that or not.

God, he was a moron.

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