Page 7 of Walking Wounded

Luke can’t help it. A loud, shocked laugh bursts out of his mouth. “What? You can’t cook.”

“I’m a damn good cook.”

“Since when?”

“Hey, a guy can change in three years.”

That clams him up quick. Yeah. Things can change in three years. For instance, people can forget awkward, terrible, awful misfires that…

Shit. Why can’t he stop going there in his head?

Probably that whole three years apart thing.

“I don’t believe you,” Luke says, hoping his voice doesn’t sound as unsteady as it feels in his throat.

“You’ll just have to wait and see,” Hal says, mysteriously.

Luke is shocked to realize they’re heading into Georgetown. The cobbled sidewalks, the trees in full autumn foliage, the innumerable coffee shops and upscale fashion boutiques he can’t afford to even peer inside. He feels the safety and affluence crowd up against the car windows, pressing for entry, ready to eject him.

“Georgetown?” he asks. He twists in his seat to face Hal fully, get a read on his expression.

The half of face he can see in the dash lights looks as if it’s blushing, that faint wash of color along Hal’s noble cheekbone. “My place doesn’t look like this,” he says, and gestures to the townhouses flashing past now: multi-story, brick-faced, handsomely outfitted with polished doorknockers.

Luke thinks of his own hellhole apartment and slumps a little in his seat. “There’s no such thing as a bad place in Georgetown.”

“Hmph.”

“How much is this senator paying you?”

Even in the dimness of the Jeep, Hal’s blush has become fantastic. “Enough,” he says, and clears his throat.

“Moving up in the world,” Luke says, mostly to himself.

“Don’t make it sound like that.”

“Like what?”

Hal sighs and doesn’t answer.

A building looms on the right, pale in the darkness, a combination of brick and stone, going by the shadowy threads of texture down the façade; a tall boxy structure with narrow Federalist windows. Hal turns the Jeep into the drive and pilots them down the winterized lawn to a parking lot in back.

“This is you?” Luke asks.

“Apartment two-oh-four. Yep, this is me.”

They park between a Honda Civic and a Mercedes SUV, which tells Luke that this is an eclectic group of tenants. Hal insists on carrying his bag – “Dude, this is stupid” – and leads him through a glass door into a marble-floored lobby flanked with gold mailbox fronts.

Luke whistles. “Shit.”

“Act like you’ve been somewhere before,” Hal jokes, and knocks his shoulder into Luke’s as they step on the elevator.

“This elevator smells expensive.”

“You smell like an airplane.”

“All the more reason to see what kind of fancy soap you keep in your shower.”

Another shoulder knock.

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