Page 13 of Crowbar

“This him?” Killer Eyes asked.

“Deadeye.” Crowbar’s voice carried a warning that could’ve etched glass.

A name had never fit someone so perfectly. He needed a dozen orange stickers. And a cowbell so I knew when to run.

“What? I’m being friendly.” Deadeye held up his hands, still grinning. “Hey, kid. Welcome to the weekend.”

“Thanks. I brought cupcakes to my own ambush.” I held up the container. “Strawberry. If anyone’s allergic, now’s the time to speak up so I know who to target.”

Silence. Then a bark of laughter from somewhere to my left, and the tension broke like a rubber band snapping. A guy with broad shoulders and a dark beard stepped forward and took the container from me.

“Drift,” he said by way of introduction. “I’m taking these before Holler eats them all.”

“Hey!” A guy by the grill turned, looking genuinely wounded. “I have self-control.”

“You ate an entire pie last week,” Drift said without looking back. “It was Trent’s pie. Prez almost killed you.”

“It was cooling on the counter,” he argued. “That’s an invitation.”

I was losing track of names already. Deadeye. Drift. Holler. Crowbar had led me into an ecosystem with its own language and hierarchy, and I was standing in the middle of it in an accountant outfit, trying to act like my arm wasn’t screaming and my heart wasn’t hammering so loud I was sure every single one of them could hear it.

Noodles circled back and sat on my foot. I took a breath.

“So,” I said, looking up at Crowbar, “this is what, your family?”

Something shifted in his expression. “Brotherhood.”

“They’re terrifying.” I’d just admitted that out loud, but it was true.

“They grow on you.”

“So does mold. That stuff’ll kill you.”

Deadeye howled with laughter, and I felt the last of the tension in my shoulders loosen by a fraction. I could do this. Sarcasm was my native tongue, and if these men responded to it, I’d be fluent by dessert.

Crowbar steered me toward an empty chair near the fire pit with a hand on the small of my back. The touch was light, but I felt every point of contact through the thin fabric of my shirt. He set the muffins and banana bread on a table already overflowing with food then dropped into the chair beside mine, long legs stretched out, beer resting on his thigh.

Noodles scrambled into my lap, circled three times, and collapsed in a heap with a sigh like she’d had the longest day of anyone present.

“She missed you,” Crowbar said.

“She has excellent taste.” I scratched behind her ears, and her tail thumped against my leg. “Unlike her father, who names things like he’s filling out military paperwork.”

“Still on the name?”

“I will die on this hill. Noodles is a superior name, and history will vindicate me.”

The toothpick shifted. He was watching me with that look again, the one from the pet store, like he was memorizing details and filing them somewhere I couldn’t access. His eyes dropped to my left arm, which I’d tucked against my side without thinking, and lingered there for a beat too long.

“You want a beer?” he asked.

“I don’t drink.”

His eyebrow lifted, but he didn’t push. “Water? Soda?”

“Water would be great. If it’s not too much trouble.”

“Nothing about you is trouble.” He winked.