Chapter 7: Burnt Steaks

"Where are you?" I asked.

"In the club's back booth. It's the only place nobody can freeze."

"Don't move."

"Renner, you don't have to..."

I'd already hung up.

I walked into the club twenty-five minutes later with two gas-station sandwiches.

He ate both without noticing.

Two nights later, Breck cooked.

He'd been building his own house in north Scottsdale for nine years, and it still had plywood stairs and no doors on the closets.

The kitchen was finished. It was the size of my whole casita.

"I'm a builder," Breck said, waving a pair of tongs at it. "Not a chef. The kitchen is aspirational."

He grilled four ribeyes on the patio until the smoke alarm went off inside.

Then he grilled them some more.

Rand stood at the island with a bottle of red, reading the label.

"Breck, this is a nine-dollar wine."

"It was on an end cap. End caps are curated."

"It tastes like a penny."

"Then drink the Coke, Counselor," I said, and Rand did, which made Breck howl.

Abram didn't talk much.

He'd driven over in Breck's old pickup, because his car was on a lease his wife had frozen.

He set the table without being asked. He moved my glass out of the way of Breck's elbow without looking.

The steaks came in black.

We ate them anyway, with a whole bottle of A.1. and a bowl of the best potato salad I'd ever had.

"Store-bought," Breck admitted. "I'm not a monster."

For one hour nobody said my mother's name.

I laughed so hard at Rand's impression of a Scottsdale judge that I got Coke up my nose.

Then Breck put his fork down.

"Okay. Sparky. Serious question."

"Uh oh."

"What do you want?" He leaned back until his chair creaked. "Not about her. Not about the club. You."

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