Page 48 of Walking Wounded

Luke throws him a bourbon-smudged smile and tries to get his brain to cooperate once he’s alone. Work. Work, work, work.

It takes two minutes to realize he’s not sharp enough for divvying tonight’s interview into competent sentences of analytical text. He’s staring at his tablet, pouting at his own dim reflection, wishing he’d taken Hal up on his offer to watch a movie, when the Skype notification chimes through his earbuds. Linda.

“Look, it’s my favorite future Pulitzer winner,” she says when she appears on screen, bright-eyed and fresh at ten p.m.

“Don’t tease me with impossibilities,” he says, deadpan.

“You don’t even want to win a Pulitzer.”

“You’re right. I want an Edgar Award for my brilliant debut mystery with subtle sci-fi undertones.”

“Don’t quit your day job, kid.”

“I ought to sue you,” he says on a sigh. “Hostile work environment. Horrible cruelty. You’re damaging my self-esteem.”

She laughs and passes manicured fingers through her perfect bob. “How’s the story coming?”

Tired, muzzy-headed, he admits, “Shitty, actually.”

Her brows lift.

“He’s giving me enough info for a book,” he explains. “But, like, a long-ass, rambling book. That I have no intention of writing.”

“Would it be a good book, though?”

The question hits him as a surprise, and so does the answer that comes to mind. “You know…I think it would. That whole best friends off to war together kind of story. Generic, yeah, but the right author could make it edgy and literary, I think.”

“Hmm. The right author,” she muses. “Now where could I find one of those…”

“Linda.”

“I’m just saying.” She shrugs, expensive jacket hiking up around her ears. “You want to be an author, there’s a book that needs writing…” She makes a weighing gesture with both hands. “Huh?”

Luke sighs. “I’m going to bed.”

“Call me tomorrow.”

He disconnects the stream. Around him, the apartment sits quiet, only the gentle hum of the fridge to keep him company. He thinks he hears the sound of pages turning in a book, somewhere beyond Hal’s bedroom door. Perhaps the murmur of a voice.

He thinks.

~*~

“Ugh,” Luke says into his pillow when Hal’s hand rouses him from a fitful sleep. What he thinks isyes, keep doing that, as Hal’s strong fingers work at the tension between his shoulder blades. It’s not a tap, or a shove, or anything like that; it’s amassage, and a pretty damn good one at that, pressing firmly on either side of his spine.

Above him somewhere in the dark, Hal snorts a laugh. “Elegant.”

“Fuck you.”

“Nope. Time to get up.” Hal pats him and his touch slides out to Luke’s shoulder, squeezing once, hard, before withdrawing.

Luke groans and rolls over onto his side, squinting up through the shadows in search of Hal’s face. His profile is just visible in the glow from the kitchen light. “Does the guy seriously go running every morning?”

“Four mornings a week,” Hal says. “But not this morning. Today it’s the gym for us.”

That’s right. The gym. Fuck.

A sharp spasm of apprehension flares in Luke’s belly, and he wonders if he might be sick. “Um, yeah, actually. About the gym.” His voice catches, rough from sleep and jagged from nerves. “I think I might just stay here and catch up on writing.”

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