Page 14 of Walking Wounded

“Morning,” Hal returns.

Maddox steps up behind his wife, kisses the top of her head, squeezes her waist in his large tan hands. Then he shoots a smile across the bar at Luke. “And you’re Luke, right?” He breaks away from Sandy to lean across and shake hands. He’s strong, and Luke feels the restraint in the grip, like Maddox is trying not to crush him. “Matt Maddox.” His grin flashes in a loose, easy way, like a man who smiles often. “Don’t even think of calling me Matthew.”

“Yes, sir.” Luke smiles too. It feels stiff and hesitant, but it’s there, that smile.

Maddox turns to Hal. “Lemme grab my shoes.”

“Yeah.”

“Take sweatshirts,” Sandy advises. “It’s cold out there.”

“Yes, ma’am,” senator and security guard say as one.

Sandy smirks and Luke reads it asmy boys.

How much he’s missed out on, these three years. A whole chapter of Hal’s life.

Too soon, the front door is closing, and he’s alone with Sandy Maddox. He’s terrified.

Sandy Maddox, though, doesn’t seem to like awkward silences. “That friend of yours.” Her Southern accent intensifies. Sweet tea, paddle fans, Sunday hams. “He’s something, isn’t he?” She shoots a glance across the bar as she flips pancakes.

“Uh…” His pulse thumps and his tongue goes dry. Shit. Does she know? How could she know already? Is it in neon across his forehead? “I’m not sure what you mean.”

She laughs and flips the pancake. “What’s that they say about being too close to someone to see how bright they shine?”

“I’ve…never heard that.” God, he sounds like an idiot and a half.

“Must just be something Mama always said.” The pancake comes out of the skillet and she’s already pouring another with her other hand. “Short stack or Hal-sized?”

“Short’s fine. Do I dare ask how big the Hal-sized one is?”

She hovers her hand off the counter by about a foot and Luke grins. It steals across his face before he can dwell on his nervousness any further.

“Yeah, that sounds about right.”

“He eats more than Matt, and that’s saying something.”

“Hmm.”

The pancake is ready to flip; she does so with grace and fires a look at him. “So what about you, Luke? We’ve really gotten to know Hal, and he’s talked you up big time.” She smiles. “But what’s your story? I always like it straight from the source.”

“Story? I’m not sure there is one, to be honest.” He shrugs. “Just…you know, me.”

“I have a cousin who’s a writer. That’s exactly the kind of answer she’d give me.”

He lifts his brows in silent question, not sure he wants to know the answer.

“It’s always about stories with writers – just not their own. Somehow, writers are never the heroes of their own life stories, just shadows off to the side, recording everything.”

The air leaves his lungs in a quiet rush.

Sandy sets a plate in front of him, heaped with fluffy cakes. A fork. A bottle of real maple syrup. “How am I doing so far?”

He clears his throat and picks up his fork. “Dead-on, actually.”

She nods. “So.” She gives him a small smile. “Same question. Hal says you’re a poet who wants to write novels.”

Her eyes are bright, motherly, understanding, and he looks down at his plate. “That’s pretty much it, actually. Nerdy kid. Liked to read.”

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