Hugo pushes off his car, walking up to my truck in the short driveway. I'm surprised he didn't immediately turn around and buff out any fingerprints he may have left behind on his precious car.
"Hey, asshole," I greet him, missile-launching the paper-wrapped Monte Cristo at Hugo's chest. He catches it like a football, which is funny because it's Ambrose, Hugo's other best friend, who's in the NFL. Never in a million years would I tell Hugo this, but I brag about him every chance I get. Not many people can say their longtime best friend earned a gold medal fencing in the Olympics. He's retired now, but he'll take on brand deals he feels are right for him. For the most part, he spends his time running Summerhill.
I open my tailgate and prop my ass on the end, one foot planted on the ground and the other dangling. "Thanks for giving me a heads-up that Daisy is marrying the equivalent of a wet paper towel."
"Nice to see you, too," Hugo grumbles, hopping up beside me.
It's been three months since Hugo came to San Diego for my mom's funeral, and less than one month since I got the harebrained idea to come back here and deal with the house in person.
Hugo removes the sandwich from the wrapper and takes a large bite. "If I told you she was marrying Duke, you never would've come back here."
"Correct, because torture isn't on the list of hobbies I enjoy."
Hugo munches thoughtfully. "Please explain the wet paper towel comment."
I stare up at my old house. Memories, both good and bad, burst from the peeling wooden windowsills. "A wet paper towel is an item that cannot fulfill its intended purpose."
Hugo nods slowly. "And Duke's intended purpose is..."
I chew angrily, my back teeth mashing together. "It sure as hell isn't marrying Daisy St. James."
Hugo wipes grease from his hands with a napkin. "I'm guessing"—his hands lift in the air near his chest, one palm facing out and the other still grasping a napkin—"and this might be a long shot, that you still have a thing for Daisy."
Absolutely not. I may have loved Daisy with an insane, beyond reason fire when I was a kid, but that was when I didn't know shit about shit. Before I grew up, became a man, survived hell week, boarded an aircraft carrier and flew in a helicopter over a totally different desert than the one I grew up in. "Hugo, not wanting Daisy to marry shit-for-brains Duke Hampton is about basic human decency. It has nothing to do with whether or not I have a thing for her. Which I don't."
He delivers a nice, long, level gaze, then finally says, "Sure."
"Let me put it this way. Somebody's pant leg gets stuck on a railroad tie, and there's a train not far off. The rules of basic human decency state that you help them."
He blinks hard, once. "In this analogy, Duke is the train and Daisy is the innocent civilian stuck to the tracks?"
"Precisely."
"She should take off her pants."
My gaze sharpens. "What?"
"You said her pants were stuck. If she took them off, she wouldn't be in them anymore, therefore she wouldn't be stuck to the tracks. Problem solved."
Using the pad of my thumb, I wipe sauce from the corner of my mouth. "Say another word about Daisy without pants on, and I will take that pretty face of yours and give you a scar that matches mine."
Hugo grins, eyeing the jagged scar that cuts down the left side of my face. "Yeah, you definitely don't have a thing for Daisy. Not at all."
I point at his sandwich. "You're lucky I gave that to you. I contemplated throwing it out the window on my drive here."
"You would never." He drinks from his iced tea until there's nothing left, and then he continues so it makes obnoxious sucking sounds. My frown deepens, and he smiles around his straw. He is enjoying my foul mood a little too much. "I'm the only free help you have."
"Dick," I mutter, but he's right.
"Asshole," he corrects cheerfully, delivering a half-gentle smack to my chest. "Get it right."
His joke, at long last, coaxes a smile from me. My first since I saw Daisy last night.
"Anybody recognize you?" Hugo asks, pointing down at the last bite of his sandwich to let me know he's asking about my stop for our lunch.
"Margaret is perceptive, but even she can't see into the future." I look nothing like the boy I was the day I scurried from this town, my head hung down in shame.Scrawnywas an accurate description for my body at the time, with all four limbs being a little too long for the rest of me. My clothing never fit, but that was from lack of money, not lack of choice. My mother gave me haircuts in the kitchen until she decided to stop participating in what it took to be a mother, and I began to use clippers on myself. The haircuts were bad at first, but I developed my skill, and eventually I didn't look too terrible.
Hugo studies my face, and the uneven flesh, a bit too close for comfort. "The scar isn't that bad anymore."
