Chapter 57

So…so many regrets. Scooter’s stomach clenched and all the blood in his body made a mad dash for his dick, which stirred with interest. Down, boy. “What’d you used to want to do when you grew up?”

Andy stiffened, just a little, the way he did anytime someone mentioned the past, but he shook it off. “When I was really little, I wanted to be Batman,” he offered, laughing. “But I took apart my dad’s very expensive espresso machine when I was about six, and put it together again so it worked a little better—tamped down the beans harder, for a better caffeine hit—so it’s pretty much been mechanics for me since day one.”

Shit. Scooter restrained a grimace and dipped one of the knots into butter and then shook cheese all over it. Much as Andy wanted to act like he’d popped fully formed into existence on Atlantic Avenue, Scooter wanted to get to know the man, what made him tick. What dreams he had, what interests. A dark, ugly, moody part of him wanted to know what the fuck he was running from, but Scooter didn’t dare push on that front, not yet. Maybe, maybe someday Andy would trust him enough to talk about it. Not like there weren’t things in Scooter’s past that he wanted to avoid talking about, too.

“Yeah, I can see that,” Scooter said, trying to picture a child-sized Andy. Which kept showing up in his imagination with Andy’s little fringe of a goatee, which was, in fact, hilarious. “Having trouble…imagining you as a kid. Bet you were a hellion.” He liked that picture; Andy as a spirited munchkin, constantly one hand in the cookie jar.

Andy pasted on an expression of outraged indignation. “I’ll have you know I was a perfect angel,” he insisted. “For whole hours at a time.”

“Suppose you had to sleep,” Scooter pointed out reasonably. He leaned back as the waitress dropped a pedestal in front of them and slammed a piping hot pizza tray on it. Trick was already pawing, gently, gingerly, at Andy’s knee, tail wagging hopefully.

Andy touched his nose and winked at Scooter, then brushed Trick’s paw off carefully. “Wait your turn,” he said. He eyed the pizza nearly as hopefully as the dog, though, carefully sliding one huge slice off the tray and folding it in half before biting off the tip. “Nnngg,” he said, then swallowed. “It’s not Famous Ray’s, but holy crap, that’s good.”

Scooter nodded in satisfaction. It was one of the things he liked about Andy: he wasn’t stuck up. Scooter had met a few New Yorkers before who were convinced that nothing could compare to the Big Apple. Not that Scooter probably wouldn’t feel hick as hell and slow and stupid and southern, if he’d ever manage to get up north. That he’d bitch and complain, just so he had some sense of balance. Maybe Yankees had the same problems way down here, were out of place enough to be nervous. Hah. Probably not.

The second best thing about Cogan’s, aside from how good the pizza was, was how damn cheap it was. If Norfolk wasn’t so far to drive, Scooter would eat here all the time. Scooter sprinkled red pepper and cheese all over his slice and then committed the indecency of dipping it into the white sauce before stuffing his mouth.

Andy all but inhaled his slice, and ate a good half the crust before Trick whined softly and jolted Andy out of some kind of pizza-induced trance. “Oh, sorry, boy.” He held out the crust and let Trick snatch it from his fingers before reaching for another. “God, I don’t even remember the last time I had good pizza.”

Scooter slid his hand across the table, taking Andy’s fingers, not minding how oily both of them were. “Good, glad you like it. I keep wanting to show you everything an’ show you off. Look, local bad boy, Scooter Stahl, scores hot northern fella.”

Andy sputtered into his pizza. “Yeah, ‘restaurant owner’ is definitely right at the top of the list of bad-boy traits.”

“Yeah, well,” Scooter said, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Wasn’t always an owner/operator. Used to get up to some shit, wild oats and all that. Chris wasn’t my worst mistake, but it’s been a while. Had to settle down a bit, after Ma passed on.”

Andy eyed him, obviously debating whether to ask, then sighed and fed the last third of his pizza to Trick. “Well, we all make mistakes,” he said, so nonchalant that it made Scooter’s teeth ache. “You can tell me, if you want. Or not. I won’t judge.”

Nope. Scooter was not going to spoil a nice day by talking about Brad Ripton. He floundered around and landed on…”Oh, well, the court records are sealed, but Jase and I once boosted a car and went cruisin’ down Atlantic Avenue. Real smart, that. There’s a law about passing the same spot on the Avenue more than three times in an hour—not that that’s even possible with the traffic the way it is…Jason was tryin’ to show off for this girl we knew, Maggie. Wonder whatever happened to her.”

Andy snorted, unimpressed. “Joyriding, really? Clearly, I have fallen in amongst hooligans and reprobates. I may faint…” He draped a limp hand over his forehead. “Someone bring me some smelling salts.”

Of course, they’d still gotten arrested, and then the next time Scooter had been in front of a judge, it had been the same damn one, who’d remembered him. Yeah, it had been stupid, but he’d had no idea, none at all, what was in store for him. Scooter shoved it out of his head, then leaned over the table and kissed that smart mouth, tasting garlic and butter and the tang of pepperoni on Andy’s mouth.