Phone in hand, I slip inside the kitchen and shut the door.
“Hang on,” I say, because this butthead can definitely wait.
I pop a K-cup of high-octane diesel into the Keurig and almost hit start. I blink. A mug would be useful.
Since most of them are currently growing science experiments in the sink, I open the cupboard and find exactly one.
The I My Jingle Bells mug Snooki got for me last Christmas.
I stare at it.
It’s a snowman with two shiny, strategically placed bells.
Connor and Ollie convinced Snook it was the perfect gift for me.
Inwardly, I laughed so hard I nearly cried.
Outwardly, I took their phones for a full day. Which, in kid years, is the equivalent of cutting off oxygen.
Desperate, I grab my mug. Caffeine is non-negotiable.
I jab the brew button and glance back at the phone. It’s not even four a.m. in Los Angeles.
Hmm. Same old Gabe. Freewheeling his way through life, one tequila shot at a time.
While he’s stretched out, enjoying the sunrise on Pacific sands, I’m facing the first week of December in New York, debating whether to warm up the snowplow or pretend it’ll melt later.
Sure, I could’ve lived in the city, but kids need a yard.
I clear my throat. “Sorry to keep you waiting,” I drawl. “Just wrapping up my last hundred push-ups.”
“Me, too. Did mine one-handed.”
“So, one hand did the push-ups and the other tossed back tequila? Or was it handling your usual morning dick-pic distribution?”
He chuckles. “It’s like there’s spyware on my phone.” A beat. “Listen, I need a favor.”
“A favor?” I pinch the bridge of my nose and stare at the ceiling like patience might magically fall from it. “I already granted your no-notice vacay.”
“It’s a small favor. Or two…”
“At LA.’s witching hour? Highly doubtful,” I mutter, putting the phone on speaker. I drop in a sugar cube to cut the taste of straight jet fuel. “Favors called in this early usually involve brawls, bail, or body disposal. And since I’m no longer active duty, bar fights and ditch digging are out. But a Venmo, I can absolutely do.”
“It’s a little more complicated than that.”
“Coming from Gabe Complicated Alvarez, consider me shocked.”
“You owe me,” he reminds me. “I saved your life.”
“I saved yours, too.”
“I saved yours more.”
“You counted?” I laugh, sipping.
“Yes. Just for occasions like this.”
“Considering I landed you that cushy gig as second-in-command of a global security conglomerate, I’m pretty sure if anyone owes anyone, you owe me.”
