“Okay.”
I down the rest of my mineral water, catching a bit of tension in his jaw as I go to stand.
“Are you sure there isn’t anything else, Dr. Barlowe?”
He traces his finger around the lip of his pint glass, contemplating. “Like I said, this won’t be the traditional Shabbat dinner, but it is considered respectful to prepare for the meal by bathing and wearing nice clothes that are freshly laundered. Wear shoes you can slip out of and socks to keep your feet clean and warm.”
His understated order is the perfect combination of wine and muscle relaxers, making me wonder if this conversation would be considered a break in sobriety.
“Yes, Dr. Barlowe,” I breathe out, my cock thickening as I slide off the stool.
“Good—” He stops himself. Clearing his throat, he holds out his hand. “Give me your cell phone so I may text you about the menu.”
I tap my lips with my pointer finger, considering him with a teasing grin.
“Ignacio, your telephone. Now.”
My chest rises, and I dig into my pocket, producing the phone. Unlocking it, I hand it to him, our fingers brushing, more electrical burns shorting out my system. Though it’s a toss-up as to whether the contact or his order is increasing my heart rate.
“I’m adding in my information now,” he says, texting himself. “By the way, I’m putting myself in as Dr. Barlowe, but you may address me as Bram at dinner.”
Locking eye contact, I respond, “And you should probably address me as Nacho.”
“Yes. Of course.”
We’re both a little breathless as we stare into each other’s eyes. For a moment, the world around us freezes, and it’s just the two of us, unable to look away from each other. Then the moment passes and the bar around us seems to start up again and go forward in real-time while we’re still shaking off the aftereffects of pausing our orbit around each other.
Taking my phone from his sure grip, I tuck it back into my pocket and send him a wave of acknowledgment as I head toward the door. Despite being stone-cold sober, I'm unsteady on my feet by the time I reach my truck, looking forward to next Friday a little more than I should.
6
BRAM
“We’d love to help you with a search-and-rescue mission, Charlie,” Levy says in a high, mocking tone. “You’ll see. We can bevaluable to the mission.”
We’re standing in hip waders, enduring unseasonably warm weather and air so thick with humidity I feel like I’m about to choke. Also, I’m pretty sure I just saw an alligator slither past.
Honestly, I’m glad for the distraction. Aside from the Ignacio—Nacho—thing, which I can’t bring myself to consider, Katrina will be gone by the time we get back, and I’m feeling a little sadder than I anticipated.
I mean, Katrina is going to school in Indianapolis and staying with a family who comes from Cameroon, just like her. These are good things. Very good things that also made me shed tears when Katrina gave me an enormous hug before we left. She even promised to FaceTime Biyu with the translator app.
Pull yourself together, Abraham.
“We volunteered for this,” I remind my brother. “If Charlie or Erik catches us complaining, you can kiss any hope of more-involved missions goodbye.”
“I know. It’s just I’ve got swamp water in my boots and sweat in my ass crack,” Levy moans as we reach the edge of our grid. Having followed the grid in a north-to-south direction, we start back, now moving east to west. We landed about eight hours ago, and local law enforcement assigned Charlie as the leader of a group of volunteers.
Erik and Moose, his droopy bloodhound with the sunny disposition, coordinated with a few other bloodhound handlers, so we each had a search grid with a dog.
Imani Brown’s mother and father joined the meeting this morning. They couldn’t stand the idea of just waiting around, but when Charlie delicately explained what to do if she is found dead versus alive, Mrs. Brown ran from the room, wailing. Levy and I acted quickly to soothe her and her husband. We convinced them to go home, and one of the community members asked if she could help with any chores they had. She left with them to go put up some new drapes while they wait for news.
Unfortunately, after hours and hours of grid searches, there’s still no sign of Imani.
Just as I’m beginning to lose my hold on a positive attitude, there’s barking from one of the other search grids, and our private comms crackle to life.
“Guys, we found her,” Erik says, giving Moose the order to stand down.
“Dead or alive?” I ask.
