throat. “I’d put my mouth right there.”
Only at this proximity could he make out the sprinkling of light freckles across the bridge of her nose. “And then?”
She moved her finger up, placed it against his lips.
Close enough now that he could see the rust-colored flecks in her irises, could feel her breath against his chin. The pressure of her finger was warm, insistent.
She lowered her hand. Shifted onto her tiptoes. Their foreheads touched.
“Mo-om!” A two-syllable bellow from across the condo. “I’m out of toothpaste!”
They drew apart, smiling as if they’d been caught at something. “Hang on, Black Hole of Need!” she shouted.
“And not the minty one that makes my tongue all bumpy! The bubble-gum-flavored one!”
“Be right there!” she called out. Then, apologetically to Evan, “I need to get him down.”
He said, “Of course.”
“Thank you again. For talking with him.”
She walked Evan to the door and leaned on it as he started out, letting her weight sway on the hinges. He stopped, looked back across the threshold. They both wanted to say something else, but he was all out of those kinds of words for the evening.
She cleared her throat. “To be continued?”
He looked at her.
She looked back as she closed the door.
38
Road Trip
At 6:59 A.M. Joey bounded down the steps of her apartment, visible through the glass front doors. Overnight bag slung across one shoulder, she scurried out to the curb and hopped into Evan’s truck.
“What are you doing?” he said. “I was just about to come up.”
“I know. Being Mr. Punctual-to-the-Second makes you predictable. Which is another improvement I’ll put in place when I take over as—dun-dun-dunnn—Orphana X.”
“I don’t think there’s a feminine form.”
“There is now.”
“And when you assume my role, you’ll save the day with tactical lateness?”
“I shall do precisely that.”
“Why are you in my passenger seat?”
“’Cuz you told me to handle everything. And I have. You said you needed to see Hargreave’s sensor operator, one Senior Airman Rafael Gomez, which means you have to get into Das Veterans Reintegration Ministry for Better Zociety und Citizenry.”
“Impressive German or Russian accent, I think.”
“Eet vas both.” She dropped the Eastern European guise. “As I said, security’s intense, so there’s no way you’re getting in alone. Too suspicious. I mean, look at you. Military-age man, beady eyes, overcompensatory truck—you just scream shady.”
“I do not have beady—”
“Whereas with your daughter, Almudena”—she hit the accent hard and in this case correctly—“who is also conveniently Rafael’s seventeen-year-old niece, you are a far less suspicious presence to visit the facility on—wait for it—Family Friday!” She threw jazz hands, mouth ajar, eyebrows hoisted.
“My daughter,” Evan said. “Have you seen us?”
“Yes. You married Consuelo née Gomez, Rafael’s older sister, in 1998. Congratulations. Wishing you a lifetime of love and happiness. Oh, by the way, your name is Harold Blasely.”
“Harold Blasely? Sounds like a traveling brush salesman.”
“A fine option for your imminent re-retirement.”
He gritted his teeth. He was due to meet his armorer en route to the Fresno veterans’ compound, but his inimitable and tenacious forger was over in Northridge. Bruising had come up overnight around his right eye, and his lower back ached from the confrontation in the impound lot. The last thing he was in the mood for was Joey and her three-hundred-mile-per-hour mouth.
“Joey,” he said, mustering as much forbearance as he could, “we don’t have ID to pull this off. You said so yourself.”
“I figured we don’t have time to see your badass Paper Dragon Lady—see what I did there?—to get the real deal, so I made us virtual ones, which is, like, way easier. I uploaded scans of doctored passports and licenses and stuff when I put us on the visitor’s log. They’re all in the system.”
“We’ll still have to show ID at the gate.”
“It’s a new preclearance process. They’ll just smile and wave.”
“And what’s Rafael gonna say if he’s expecting his niece and brother-in-law?”
“Oh, you’re right.” She shook her head with mock consternation. “That’s way too daunting a situation for you to socially engineer in your fragile sunset years. Want me to get you back to the home for pinochle?”
“If it gets me out of this conversation, yes.”
“Come on, X. It’s a Harry and Almu Blasely road trip!”
“You can’t come,” Evan said. “It’s too dangerous.”
“One: Then you won’t get in. Two: It’s not dangerous. It’s a military facility. The worst that’ll happen is you’ll get arrested and renditioned somewhere, and I’ll just cry and make sad-girl eyes, and they’ll feel sorry for me for being drawn under the spell of your bad influence—”
“My