Page 3 of Walking Wounded

She rolled her eyes. “Everybody’s clamoring for Maddox. But his dad – that’s the real story. That’s the story we’re gonna get.”

“But…”

“Doesn’t your bestie work for Maddox anyway? There’s your in. He can vouch for you. What’s his name? Hank?”

“Hal,” Luke said, feeling numb.

“There you go. Hal. Old Man Maddox doesn’t want to talk to anyone, so get Hal to put in a good word on your behalf.”

“Are you sure…”

“Yes. Now go pack a bag.”

Which was how Luke ended up on his third official assignment.

And which was why he was sure it would be a total flop.

~*~

As luck would have it, he ends up at baggage claim beside the battleax with a thing for harrumphing. He tries to hang behind her, staying out of notice, but of course she turns and gives him the stink-eye. He knuckles up his glasses and gives it back.Bite me,he thinks.

Because traveling makes him surly as a baby with a wet diaper.

But not because of nerves. Nope. No nerves. Why would he be nervous?

A shout rings out behind him. “Luke!” And his eyes flutter shut briefly.

It’s a deep voice. Achingly familiar. He hasn’t heard it in person in three years, only the muffled over-the-phone version. It sounds happy, he thinks. Yes, for sure. Happy. His best friend is happy to see him. Maybe the old shit is finally, really, trulyold shit, and behind them for good.

Luke turns, and there’s Hal walking toward him, long strides eating up the distance, looking like he’s put on another twenty pounds of muscle.

He looksgood.

He’s wearing grownup clothes now, slim jeans, and casual brown boots, and a button down shirt with a canvas jacket over it. Casual, but mature, like someone with a well-paying job, like someone with a wife and a baby at home (which he doesn’t have…yet). He’s got a hint of a five o’clock shadow, but his hair is neatly styled. He has his sunglasses hooked in the collar of his shirt, and that makes Luke’s palms clammy, for some reason.

“Dude,” Hal exclaims, reaches him in one last big stride, and catches him in a crushing man-hug.

It’s a warm, strong, smothering hug. Hal smells like outside and fancy shaving cream.

Luke claps him on the back in kind and says, “Man, I can’t breathe.”

“Oh, shit. Sorry.” Hal steps back, his large hands still on Luke’s shoulders.

“Don’t say ‘shit,’” Luke advises. “Lady Pumpernickel over there will have your ass.” He jerks a thumb over his shoulder.

Hal snorts and grins, but he also shoots a look to the once-again-enraged dowager countess and says, “I’m sorry, ma’am.” Because Hal isn’t just huge and bone-pulverizingly strong, but a total suck-up too.

Luke rolls his eyes.

And Hal’s eyes come back to him, still the color of moss, as if that might have changed in the intervening three years. “Look at you,” he says, clapping both Luke’s shoulders. “You look…” His smile tweaks. “Well, kinda like somebody who lives off coffee and smokes.”

“You know me well.”

“All that writing’s gonna kill you, you know.”

“Quicker than you think.”

“Where’s your bag?” Hal steps around him, the places he’s touched on Luke still warm from the contact. “I’ll grab it.”

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