Page 26 of Crowbar

“Better?” he asked.

I pulled the cut tighter around myself and nodded, not trusting my voice. The leather was heavy on my shoulders, and under its cover, my heart was beating like crazy.

We kept walking. Noodles found a stick and carried it like a trophy. Crowbar told me about a ’69 Mustang he was restoring in the third bay, the one with the rusted quarter panels. The way he talked about it—patient, detailed, almost tender—made me think he approached broken things the same way. With steady hands and no expectation that they explain how they got that way.

I added one more star to the sling. Silver this time. My hand had stopped shaking.

Behind us, I didn’t look back to see if Ken was still there. I already knew.

Chapter Eight

Crowbar

We ended up at Spencer’s apartment with the Chinese takeout I’d picked up on our way here. I kicked the door shut behind me with my boot and watched Spencer’s shoulders drop half an inch. The tension he’d been carrying seemed to loosen now that he was home.

A groan came from the dog. Gunner was exhausted, flopping down as soon as we cleared the doorway. Hardwood, not carpet. Spencer’s apartment didn’t mess around with comfort. Another ten seconds and Gunner rolled onto her back, four paws up with zero shame.

Spencer was hovering near the kitchen, glancing around as if seeing the place through my lens. I surveyed the space. A studio apartment. The kitchenette flowed into the living room area that flowed into a corner with a platform bed. The mismatched pillows were piled high, and under them was a blue blanket.

The living area took up most of the square footage. Every inch pulled double duty. A small scuffed-up couch with a side table that was actually a milk crate. Against one wall stood a bookshelf overloaded with battered paperbacks, cookbooks, and a line of Star Wars action figures posed on the top shelf like they were security.

It wasn’t fancy but felt lived-in, cozy even.

“You can set the food on the counter,” he said, already moving toward the kitchen. “I’ll grab plates.”

“Styrofoam works.”

“Styrofoam is for heathens who don’t respect the meal.” He was pulling plates down from the cabinet with his good arm, the sling pinned against his side. “We’re eating like civilized people.”

I set the bags on the counter and leaned against it, watching him navigate his kitchen one-handed. Despite the injury, my mate moved around the kitchen with ease. He reached for forks without looking then grabbed napkins from a drawer that stuck until he hip-checked it open.

The apartment smelled like vanilla and something that had probably come out of the oven in the last day or two. A cooling rack sat on the stove with crumbs underneath the wire and, beside it, a mixing bowl that had traces of batter crusted around the rim.

“You baked recently,” I commented.

He glanced at the stove. “I can’t stop. Send help or more flour.”

Stress. That was what Spencer had said. Stress baking. That didn’t sit well with me. My mate shouldn’t have to turn his kitchen into a bakery just to cope.

Spencer brought the plates over and started unpacking containers. Lo mein, orange chicken, fried rice, egg rolls. Enough food for four people, which meant leftovers for him later. I’d ordered extra on purpose.

“We’re eating on the couch,” he announced. “The table’s covered in fabric samples for a project I’ve been trying to finish for months.”

Grabbing my plate, I followed him to the couch and dropped onto the cushion beside him. Gunner lifted her head from the floor, assessed whether food was worth the effort, and decided it wasn’t. She went back to sleep with a sigh that sounded almost human.

Spencer tucked one leg under himself and balanced his plate on his knee, stabbing a piece of chicken with his fork. The first bite made him close his eyes and make a sound that went straight to my cock.

“Good?” I asked.

“It’s perfect. I’m in love with this chicken. We’re getting married. You’re invited, and Noodles is the maid of honor.”

“She’d eat the groom.”

“She’d earn it.” He took another bite, chewing slowly, and some of the tension in his jaw finally released. The food was helping. Or the apartment. Or maybe it was me, though I wasn’t arrogant enough to assume.

I ate my food and watched him steal a piece from my plate when he thought I wasn’t looking. He was quick about it, fork darting in like a bird going for crumbs, but I’d clocked the movement before his fork left my plate.

“You’ve got your own food.” A much smaller portion than mine. But I was a big guy with an even bigger appetite.