Coop squinted, unaccountably spooked by the unmoving silhouette. He forced his hands to loosen at his sides.
“Who is that?” His old throat injury kept him from yelling, but the guy, who was only a few yards away, had to hear him.
“Bradley Sampson,” the man finally responded, sliding in and moving to push the door closed.
“Don’t shut it. Headed out.”
The pause was shorter this time. And maybe, just maybe, that could be explained by the awkwardness of getting caught together in the dark or even by the lingering hostility between them, since he’d never made a secret of the way he felt about this new operations manager.
“Everything good?” There was something careful about the way Sampson spoke. It was as off-key as Coop’s singing voice.
“Yep.” Coop didn’t bother faking a smile. The man would see right through that, if he could see at all in here. “Just trying to find a friend.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yep.”
Did he imagine the shift in Sampson’s shoulders? “Maybe I can help. Who’re you—”
“Coop!” another voice sounded from farther off, cutting through the tension like hot metal through ice.
Relief shot through him.
“Hey, Sampson. You see Coop in there?” Alex, part of the meteorite search team, came into view and Sampson subtly shifted away from the entrance, letting in more light.
“I’m here.” Muscles tense, Coop immediately moved the last few feet to the door, and then outside. “What’s up?”
“Coop, bro. Been lookin’ all over for you.”
“Just got in.”
“Your presence is being requested.”
“Hm?”
“Everybody’s waiting for you at the Nest, man.”
“Why?” Coop stopped, flummoxed. He never went to the base’s bar. Or at least he’d stopped going since Angel Smith had started showing up there. The last thing he needed was one more opportunity to stutter like a fool in front of her.
“Jameson’s got his eight-thousand-year-old bottle of scotch out. To celebrate the summer people leaving, he says.”
Oh, right. Jesus. He didn’t have time for this. “I’ll pass.” He shifted subtly toward Sampson.
“Yeah, well, he’s not opening it unless you show up. Says you promised.” Alex shook his head. “Things were getting so tense I came to find you.”
Coop couldn’t help giving a dry huff of humor. Jameson playing games, as usual. He knew damn well that Coop would feel obliged to go. Or maybe he figured that he wouldn’t go, in which case Jameson could hold on to his precious bottle for one more season.
He glanced at Sampson, who looked smaller than he had moments before, his stance casual. Had Coop imagined the threat he’d seen in the man’s silhouette? “Cortez at the Nest?” he asked, keeping Sampson in his peripheral vision.
“Yeah. I think so, man.”
“All right then.”
They set off, side by side, just three buddies headed to the bar for a drink. Alex showed no sign of sensing the strain beneath the surface, but Coop felt it, as present as the thump of music in the air.
The last of the quiet blew away the moment Sampson swung open the door to the Nest.
Within seconds, Coop was swallowed up by the crowd. Sweaty arms landed on his shoulders, pulling him deeper in, yanking off his coat, and helping with his gloves.
