Hank grabbed it and flipped it open one-handed, not disturbing me, but his arm around my waist got tight.

“Yeah?” he said into the phone.

He listened.

I waited.

“Tel me you’re f**king joking,” he growled, his voice vibrating with anger.

Shit.

Bil y had gotten away.

I twisted my neck and pressed my forehead into his shoulder. My arm went around his waist and I held tight.

“Find him,” Hank said and flipped the phone shut.

“Whisky,” I whispered and even I could hear my voice held a tremor of fear.

“He’l get him,” Hank replied.

“Is Vance okay?” I asked.

“Flynn was gone when he got there. Trail’s hot though.

Vance is on it. Roxie, he’l get him.”

I swal owed.

He tossed the phone on the nightstand and both of his arms came around me.

“Relax, sweetheart. He’s not gonna hurt you,” Hank murmured.

I nodded and forced the tension from my body. I was able to do this mainly because I had help from Hank’s hand stroking my back.

After awhile, I fel asleep.

* * * * *

“He has no buttermilk.” My eyes slowly opened and I could see Hank’s throat in the dawn’s early light.

We were front-to-front, my thigh thrown over his hip, one of his arms resting lightly on my waist and mine was doing the same on his.

“Of course he doesn’t have buttermilk. Who has buttermilk?”

I blinked.

Mom and Dad were in the kitchen and I could hear them talking as if they were in the bedroom.

Hank’s house didn’t have thin wal s, it was just that my parents talked loudly.

“Wel , if he doesn’t have buttermilk, how’m I gonna make buttermilk pancakes?” Mom asked. “Sweet Jesus!” she cried. “He doesn’t have flour either!”

She said this as if it was a criminal offense.

“Of course he doesn’t have flour! Does he look like a man who bakes?” Dad said in a loud(er) voice.

I looked up Hank’s throat just as he tipped down his chin.

His eyes were open.

Damn.

He was awake.

I closed my eyes and shoved my face into his throat.

“No, he doesn’t look like a man who bakes, but Roxie’s been here and she bakes,” Mom said.

“Yeah, like Roxie’s been floatin’ around makin’ cookies while that sum a’ bitch has been after her. Jesus, Trish.” I heard slamming cupboards

“There’s nothing in this house. Eggs. Bread. Milk. Lots of coffee and beer. I don’t understand. He looks like a healthy boy. It’s like he exists on coffee and beer. That can’t be.

What am I going to do?”

Good God.

My mother just cal ed Hank a “healthy boy”.

I shoved up closer to Hank’s warm, solid body, mortification overtaking mine.

Hank’s arm tightened.

“Make some f**kin’ coffee,” Dad answered as if that answer was obvious.

“Don’t take that tone with me, Herbert Logan,” Mom snapped.

“Don’t tel me what tone to take, woman,” Dad returned.

Mom ignored Dad’s reply.

“Go get some buttermilk. And bacon. And maple syrup,” I heard a cupboard slam. “No, wait, I found some syrup,” Mom said.

“Go where and get buttermilk?” Dad asked, his voice now incredulous.

“The grocery store,” Mom answered like Dad was a dim bulb.

“Please, God, shut up,” I whispered against Hank’s throat.

Hank rol ed me to my back and came with me, settling with him partial y on top of me and partial y up on an elbow.

I opened my eyes and saw his were lazy and amused and his lips were twitching.

“What grocery store? We’re in Denver. I have no idea where a grocery store is,” Dad returned.

“Wel , drive around. Denver’s a big city. There have to be hundreds of grocery stores. You’l run into one eventual y,” Mom replied.

I took in a deep breath and bit my lip.

Hank’s eyes were smiling and his body started shaking.

I scowled at him and his lips spread into a grin.

“Let me get this straight,” Dad clipped. “You want me to get in the car and drive around a city I’ve never been to in my f**kin’ life to buy buttermilk?”

“Wel , yeah,” Mom said, as if that was a perfectly normal request.

“Fuck that. I’l find some f**kin’ place that sel s donuts,” Dad told her and I heard movement in the other room as if Dad was preparing to leave.

“Don’t you dare buy donuts!” Mom shrieked. “Hank’s a cop. He’l think you’re making some smart remark.” Hank’s forehead dropped to mine and his body started shaking harder.

“This isn’t funny,” I whispered.

“You’re wrong,” he replied quietly, his voice trembling with laughter.

“People other than cops eat donuts, you know,” we heard Dad return. “I’m not a cop and I eat donuts.”

“Buttermilk pancakes are Roxie’s favorite breakfast. I want to make Roxie’s favorite breakfast,” Mom said.

“I’l get what I get,” Dad responded, obviously not in the mood to discuss it anymore.

“You do that. I’l go get the dog. He’l probably want out and Hank and Roxie need to sleep in. They had a tough night.”

Both Hank and my bodies got tense.

“Don’t go near that damn room, Trish,” Dad warned.

“I’m just getting the dog. I won’t peek,” Mom returned Hank lifted his forehead from mine.

“Please tel me your mother’s not comin’ in here,” Hank said to me.

“Trish! Get back here!”

“Herb, relax.”

Mom sounded closer. A lot closer.

My mother was coming in.

“We can hear you!” I shouted, in hopes of waylaying her.

Silence.

Hank and I were both na**d and the sheet was around our waists. He pul ed the sheet up to my chest just as Mom opened the door.

Good God.

Hank’s head twisted to look over his shoulder, other than that, he didn’t move, likely trying to shield me further with his body. I put my hands to his biceps, lifted up and peered over his shoulder.

Mom was standing in the doorway in her robe, her hand over her eyes.

“Mornin’ kids. Don’t mind me. Come here Shamus, come on boy,” then she made kissy noises, the whole time she kept her hand over her eyes.