Doc glanced down at his tank top that used to be a T-shirt before he cut the arms off. “What’s wrong with my shirt?” he demanded with a furrowed brow.
“For starters, it has a picture of a chicken laying an egg and reads:Chickens, the pet that poops breakfasts.”
Doc, completely unoffended, laughed heartily. “That’s comic gold, right there.” Then he sobered. “Wait. You said for starters. Whatelsedo you think is wrong with it?”
“You Joe-Dirted it. Only hicks, honkies, and hillbillies Joe-Dirt their shirts.”
“I was raised on a ranch in the middle of Nowhere, Montana.” Doc grinned. “I think that pretty much qualifies me for all three.”
Romeo snorted before taking a gulp of coffee. Making a face of revulsion, he complained, “Damn! Did you guys let Uncle John make it again? You know he puts chicory in there.”
John Anderson was a New Orleans transplant who still believed coffee should contain chicory, that crawfish tasted better than shrimp, and that a shark was nothing when compared to a Louisiana yard dog, otherwise known as an alligator.
Doc took a rather large drink out of the mug sitting next to the stove. He grimaced and admitted, “It truly is awful, isn’t it?”
Both of them nodded their agreement. And then both of them continued to drink the swill. After a second, Doc flipped the grilled cheese over in the skillet.
Romeo wrinkled his nose. “That thing smells like a teenage boy’s gym socks. What kind of cheese are you using?”
“Three cheeses actually.” Doc’s chest puffed with pride. “Cheddar and muenster, but what you’re probably smelling is the Gruyere.”
“Something wrong with good ol’ American?” Romeo asked over his shoulder since he’d turned to hunt through the liquor cabinet.
The coffee was helping with his fatigue. Doc’s odorific monstrosity of a grilled cheese had killed his appetite. But he was going to need a little liquid spirit if he had any hopes of tempering his foul mood.
“Nothing at all,” Doc admitted. “But like I said, I’m trying to improve myself and—” He stopped midsentence when he saw Romeo pour a healthy slug of whiskey into his coffee mug. Lifting an eyebrow, he asked, “To what do we owe the pleasure of your day drinking, may I ask?”
“You may.” Romeo taste-tested the cocktail and added a splash more whiskey. “But that doesn’t mean I’ll answer.”
Doc frowned. “You are ornerier than a two-headed snake today. Did someone eat your bowl of sunshine this morning?”
“Anyone ever told you that you talk in country music lyrics?” Romeo asked.
“Mylifeis a country music lyric,” Doc countered with a shrug. “Grew up next to the railroad tracks. My first car was a pickup truck that was more rust than get up and go. And I own a pair of boots that are damn near old enough to drink.”
Despite himself, Romeo felt his lips twitching. When Doc put his mind to it, he could exude that aw-shucks, carefree cowboy charm that made a person want to pull up a chair and sit a spell.
“Come on,” Doc cajoled as he transferred the grilled cheese onto a plate. Meat watched the maneuver with laser-focused interest, and then licked his drooling chops in disappointment when nothing fell onto the floor. “Tell ol’ Doc what’s troubling you. You know your secret is safe with me since I’m not likely to care, which means I’ll probably forget in ten minutes. Consider this a judgment-free zone.”
Blowing out a windy breath, Romeo grabbed one of the ladderback chairs surrounding the old Formica table. “My instinct is to tell you that you’re in some serious need of your own business to mind, but I think you know that. So I’ll admit this much… I was put in an awkward position and I reacted poorly.”
After taking the seat opposite Romeo, Doc pulled off one corner of his grilled cheese and watched the gooey center string. “Vague,” he said, giving the morsel a couple of blows to cool it off before popping it in his mouth. “Very vague,” he added, working his jaw slowly, testing the quality of the product, and then giving a decisive dip of his chin.
Apparently the froufrou grilled cheese passed the muster.
“Which has me intrigued,” Doc finished, shooting Romeo an arch glance. “Does this have anything to do with the way Mia burst in earlier, stomping around like her hair was on fire even though she looked like a drowned rat?”
“Did she invite you to join her for a drink?” Romeo demanded, feeling an unwelcome stab of jealousy.
“No.” Doc’s chin jerked back. “Was she supposed to?”
The relief Romeo felt only pissed him off more. “She said she was going to.”
Doc broke off a piece of crust and tossed it to Meat. The bulldog caught it handily and swallowed without tasting it.
“I feel like we’re having two different conversations here.” Doc narrowed his eyes. “What does your being put in an awkward position and reacting poorly have to do with Mia inviting me to share a drink? Ornotinviting me to share a drink, as the case may be?”
Romeo sighed and admitted miserably, “I think she needed a drink because I said something that really offended her. I mean, I didn’tmeanto. I was trying to do the opposite. Tryingnotto let her get her feelings hurt, but—”
