Two things:

1. The inevitable return of her mother to her life
2. Retirement

To sell one of her paintings for a million or more.

“Him? He’s nothing but a loser.”

“YES!”

(choose your context; most of them work)

“Dude, the grill’s ready.”

“Aww, come on. Your wife won’t mind.”

If ShapeShifter had a fan club that was worth anything (which, at the time of Trevor’s Song, they don’t. Not really; it’s merely okay), they would love to host this kind of contest (conveniently timed, of course, to coincide with a heat wave):

Summer Splash!

Do your friends think it’s okay to pee in the pool? That a poolside barbecue means dogs and burgers? That the hot chick in the floating lounge chair is for dumping into the deep end?

Four lucky Shifter Club members will win the right to bring a friend and make their way to Riverview, where they will join Daniel, Trevor, Eric, and Mitchell for an afternoon of fun in the sun. We’ll bring in food from local favorite Big Buck’s Best Barbecue, complete with world-famous Bodacious Sauce (TM), while we have all the fun in the sun that you can handle. And then we’ll have more.

How to enter: Use the contest form on the Shifter’s Club website. One entry per member. Winners may bring a single guest and are responsible for getting to Riverview, but we’ll spring for two nights in a not-terribly roach-infested hotel and transportation to and from a private backyard pool that you are sure to love!

Anyone waiting half an hour between eating and swimming is guaranteed to be thrown in, head first. ShapeShifter is not responsible for any injuries that may occur from this practice, but if you’re worried, get yourself in the pool before we heave your ass in.

Mitchell watched from the couch, half-amused, as Amy pleaded her case on the other side of the family room. So far, she wasn’t doing so hot.

“Mom, it’s just a movie!”

“Not with a boy we haven’t met yet, Amy,” their mother said placidly. Mitchell watched her more than Amy, actually, fascinated by the way that she got calmer the more Amy yelled and whined. He wanted to shut Amy up somehow; she was getting as bad as Beth. Boys, boys, boys.

He shook his head and tossed his baseball into the air, catching it so easily, he didn’t even have to think about it. There was more to life than boys.

Baseball, for example.

And, he thought, trying not to grin too bright in case Ma or Amy saw it and flew off the handle, thinking he was smiling at them, girls.

“Well, if you drive me there, you can meet him then,” Amy tried.

“How’s he getting there?”

Amy looked down at the carpet and twisted her shoulders back and forth. Mitchell’s grin grew; this was going to be good. “He just said he’d meet me there, out front, and if he wasn’t there five minutes before, it wasn’t his fault and we’d try another time.”

Mitchell sat up and leaned forward, elbows on his knees as he kept playing with the baseball. Ma was going to hate that excuse. She didn’t go in for situations that involved if, unless they were science experiments.

Sure enough, Ma was frowning. “That doesn’t sound like a dependable young man,” she said. She gave Amy one of those long looks down her nose, the kind that made all of them squirm. Amy folded her arms behind her back and kept staring at the carpet, her shoulders still twisting as she fidgeted.

“Amy, are you sure this is the sort of boy you want to be with?” The question was gentle, which surprised Mitchell. He’d thought Ma was ready for some strong action. The fact that she wasn’t was almost a let-down.

Amy crossed her arms over her chest and scowled as she nodded. Mitchell tossed his baseball again and kept quiet. Things were about to get good. Getting kicked out now would not be smart.

“Why?” Ma asked and folded her hands over her knees, like she did when she really wanted to listen.

Amy shrugged. “‘Cause he’s neat. He’s different from the other boys. He’s not a loser like Pipsqueak.” She jerked her chin at him.

“Hey!” he said, his brain already in hyperdrive, thinking of ways to get back at her for what was sure to be his imminent eviction from the room.

“Leave your brother out of this,” Ma said in that same calm voice, but Mitchell could tell, as he shot her a grateful look, that she was losing patience. “I will not drive you to the movies to meet this young man who may or may not be there,” she said and stood up. What she said next was going to be the judge’s verdict. Mitchell bit back another smile, thinking that social studies had been good for something more than a place to sit and daydream.

“If you want to go, find your own way there,” Ma said.

She left the room and Mitchell tossed the baseball again, fighting the temptation to torment Amy somehow. It’d be fun to throw the baseball at her and leave a bruise for this movie date that might not happen, but Ma would kill him for that. Not worth it. Besides, he’d feel bad every time he had to look at the bruise, and bruises took a couple of days to fade.

“Any ideas?” Amy asked him glumly.

He shrugged. “What do I know? I’m just a pipsqueak.”

She flounced out of the room and slammed her bedroom door behind her. Ma stuck her head out of the kitchen and frowned at the noise; Mitchell shrugged and sprawled on his back on the couch, still tossing the ball. It was sort of a bummer that Amy’s new dude wasn’t going to show up at the house. She’d been chasing around some pretty interesting guys lately.

That meant the sort that Dad and Ma hated.

Which meant that maybe Mitchell ought to be trying harder to get Golden Girl to that movie theater. Anything that got Amy in trouble was worth the effort, especially when he could conveniently get himself off the hook at the same time.

There wasn’t much a thirteen-year-old kid could do to help out, though, and before Mitchell could come up with even a bad plan, Beth was coming out of the girls’ bedroom and talking softly to Ma.

“I’ll be right there with her, Mom. Nothing will happen. I’ll… I’ll take Pipsqueak and we’ll sit in the back row and keep an eye on them.”

Mitchell covered his face with his baseball glove. The last thing he wanted to do was sit through some movie Amy was sure to have picked. She went for that sappy romantic shit.

“Maybe letting her get stood up by this boy isn’t such a bad idea,” Ma said thoughtfully. br /br /Mitchell tossed his baseball and wondered why.br /br /An hour later, he and Beth were standing near the popcorn counter, watching Amy talk to her guy. Mitchell recognized him, sort of. He was in Mitchell’s grade, but that didn’t mean much. So were five hundred other kids.

This kid stood out, though, because he wore a jean jacket all the time, and had long brown hair. Like… below his shoulders long. Mitchell, who’d recently convinced Dad to let him grow out the brush cut he hated, couldn’t see letting his own get like that. He wasn’t going to start skipping classes, either.

Beth leaned over to him. “Looks like Perfect Amy’s doing some rebelling,” she said.

Mitchell shrugged.

“This could be fun,” Beth continued in a taunting voice, like she was challenging Mitchell to something. He wasn’t sure what, though, and again, he shrugged. Ma always said it was rude to not answer at all and that even a gesture was enough, so Mitchell spent a lot of time shrugging and not a lot of time actually speaking. No one seemed to mind.

“Beth, Pi– Mitchell, this is Trevor,” Amy said, leading him inside.

The other kid stared at Mitchell. “I know you.” He nodded like it all made sense. “You saved my ass that one time at lunch.”

Mitchell shrugged. So he’d seen Asshole Jerry sticking his foot out, ready to trip Trevor and send him flying. It hadn’t been hard to ruin Asshole Jerry’s plans with a quick gesture at Trevor. After all, that had to be the oldest trick in the book, the one that everyone was on to. Mitchell couldn’t respect someone who took that route.

“Thanks for that,” Trevor said, giving Mitchell a companionable chuck to the shoulder. “I’d have probably gotten expelled again if he’d dumped me.”

Mitchell looked over his shoulder, frowning. The guy had touched him.

“That didn’t hurt, you wuss,” Amy said to him. She fidgeted some more, wringing her hands. Trevor made a point of separating them and holding onto one.

“Do you guys really have to watch the movie, too?” Amy asked, biting back a smile as she stared at her hand in Trevor’s.

“Well, here’s the thing,” Trevor said, a smile playing at his lips. “If you think I’m gonna sit through some lovey shit like I said I would, you’ve got another thing coming. No, babe, we’re gonna see the thriller. See if we can throw popcorn at the bad guys.” He nodded like it was all settled.

“But…” Amy said.

“But nothing,” Trevor said with a definitive nod. “We can make that sappy shit happen ourselves. But how often do you get to take on the bad guys and save the world?”

Mitchell nodded. He liked the way this guy thought. Well, other than being romantic with Amy. That thought made his skin crawl.

Beth was grinning. “So you mean,” she drawled and tossed her long whitish-blonde hair over her shoulder, “you’re teaching our little Amy that it’s okay to fib a bit to our parents?”

Trevor looked her over for a long minute. Mitchell half-expected Beth to fidget like Amy was, but she didn’t. “Got a problem with that?” he asked, sticking his tongue into his cheek. Mitchell wondered if he was trying to challenge Beth — and if he had any idea how fast she’d put him in his place if he tried.

“Only that it took her this long to find you,” Beth said, her voice warming like she liked this guy. Mitchell knew he did; he wondered what it would take for Trevor to dump Amy and be his friend instead.

“Stick with me,” Trevor said, nodding firmly. “I’ve got lots to teach the three of you.”

Mitchell shrugged and hoped that he’d get to learn some of it.

If there were a ShapeShifter fan magazine, this might be printed in it:

Daniel’s top three obsessions (in order):
1. Music
2. Val
3. CNN

At first, Trevor thought it was HJ standing there, shadowing him. The kid was maybe taller than HJ, but had the same boringly long, straight, brown hair that never seemed to snag on the back of his denim jacket. He had the same hunched shoulders, making his face hard to see. And he had the same skinny legs and untied dirty white basketball shoes with an inch of padding around the ankles.

In a lot of ways, the kid looked like Trevor. Or, maybe more accurately, the way Trevor had looked — and the way almost every other male metal head looked. Back before he’d thought up the band and changed his image to match it. Back when Mitchell was still stupidly dreaming of being a baseball star and Daniel and Eric were doing whatever it was they did.

The kid was currently hanging around the backstage area, near Mitchell’s Bronco, like he was guarding it or something. Trevor lit up with a thought. None of them could really afford to have their gear stolen, not even Daniel. Maybe…

“Hey,” he said to the kid. “Whatcha doin’?”

The kid shrugged and turned away, like he was expecting to get hit on or yelled at.

“Like the show?” Trevor asked, deliberately walking past him close enough that his bass case swung a bit and touched the kid’s legs. Sure enough, the kid flinched.

“Yeah,” the kid said, his voice trembling. “You guys rock.”

Trevor shrugged. “I know. We make sure we do.”

The kid shook his head. Trevor recognized his disgust, the old envy that someone had it better. He wanted to tell the kid the truth.

Eric came up, a guitar in each hand. “Hey, Dans and I were talking about going to grab something to eat. Coming?”

Trevor shrugged. “Where’s Mitchell?” He usually didn’t do anything with those two without Mitchell, too. Daniel was okay to be around, but Eric could get awfully preachy.

“He found a girl.”

“A girl found him, you mean,” Trevor said. He thought for a minute. When Mitchell got done — which probably wouldn’t be too long, knowing him, he’d be hungry. And Trevor could put up with Eric until Mitchell got free.

“Hey, kid,” he said, jerking his chin at the kid, who had turned when Eric came over, as if transfixed by the guitar player. “You want to watch the truck till we get back?”

“You don’t think Mitchell will take it when he’s done?” Eric asked.

“If he does, he’ll bring you along.” Trevor spoke to the kid. It sure beat talking to the guitarist, and the kid would loosen up a bit with the attention. He dug in his pocket and pulled out a pick. “Give this to M and tell him I want it back. He’ll get what I mean.”

The kid took the pick and nodded. Trevor and Eric went back inside for the rest of their stuff, one eye on the dressing room. It called to Trevor, daring him to poke his head in and watch some of the fun. Yeah, Mitchell would try to beat him senseless for it later, but it’d be worth it. Free shows were always worth it.

In the hallway, Daniel was stacking drums on top of each other to make them easier to haul out to his car. He’d stuff everything into the trunk and back seat and be off, rattling happily down the road. “Hey, Val’s tired, so we’re gonna bail on Roach’s,” he said.

Trevor rolled his eyes. Of course Val was tired; she was always tired when they wanted to go out to eat after a show. And of course Daniel would take her home and miss the bonding experience with his own band. Really, the guy needed to get his priorities straight.

“Tell her to sleep well,” Eric said, handing Trevor some of the last of the gear. He picked up the rest and led the way outside, Trevor somehow feeling like a dog that Eric trusted to follow. It wasn’t a good feeling.

Again, temptation to pop into that dressing room teased him.

“Trev, that kid outside? You’ve noticed him at other shows, right?” Eric paused at the door to the loading dock.

Trevor glanced outside. The kid, hands tucked into the pockets of his denim jacket, paced alongside the Bronco, his shoulders hunched in an eerily familiar way. Fog was starting to roll across the four blocks between them and the river, and the air was growing damp. Trevor would be glad to get inside Roach’s, where it was always warm and greasy-smelling. Cozy, even.

“Never seen him before,” Trevor told Eric, who nodded.

“I have. He … reminds me a lot of you.”

Trevor narrowed his eyes. No wonder he hated the guy. Count on a preacher’s son to see the wounds in everyone.

“That’s how I know we can trust him,” Trevor said, his throat suddenly thick. He turned his back to Eric and hoped that for once, the guy would let it lie.

He almost didn’t see Eric knock on the dressing room door, and then he almost didn’t move fast enough to peek inside when Eric opened it just far enough to stick his head in and call to Mitchell, “We’ll be at Roach’s. Trev was good enough to ask a guy to watch the truck. Please bring him with you when you join us.”

Unfortunately, Eric had pulled his head out before Trevor could see anything but the door. He bit back a snarl and headed back outside so he could put the rest of the gear into Mitchell’s truck. Here he was, being Mitchell’s lackey, and what did he get for it? Not even a peek.

At Roach’s, he and Eric slid into opposite sides of the booth. “I’m glad you talked to that kid, Trev,” Eric said as they waited for June to bring miniscule glasses of water. She’d stop and ask how the show went, how many people were there, how it went over … all sorts of shit that only Mitchell’s mom usually thought to ask. Pretty much everyone else wanted to know how much money they’d made and how many girls they’d picked up.

“What was I supposed to do?” Trevor asked, not sure if it was better to have sat across from Eric or beside him. Either way, he wished Mitchell was there to buffer them.

“Talk to him. You did a good thing tonight.”

Trevor tried not to sneer.

Eric set his menu aside and leaned across the table. “Trev, it’s people like him that are the reason I got into metal. I mean, I love the music. Don’t get me wrong. I could neer play music I didn’t love. But i can’t love the ministry as much as Dad, so I make music. Yet it seems to me that if we can, as a group, reach wounded people like that guy tonight, we’re doing a greater good than just standing up on a pulpit and preaching to the already-converted. We’re giving comfort where it’s most needed, directly to the masses. And we get to have these great experiences, too. We get to make music, and that has got to be pleasing to God’s ears.”

Trevor fought the urge to throw up. But later that night, thinking about what Eric had said, he knew the guy was dead-on right. That as a band they could reach people and make lives less miserable, even if the misery lifted for only a little bit.

Headed to a party tonight where you think you might get picked on?

Keep this Trevorism in mind:

“I’d sooner stick my head in the john and flush it myself, thankyouverymuch.”

A one-liner that Trevor professes to live by:

Thinking too much is bad for your health.

I love this scene and this exchange, but it’s got to go, too.

For the back story, you’ll just have to wait for Trevor’s Song to get published and hit the shelves; it’s every bit as much fun as this snippet.

It was laughter that woke Trevor, come morning. Rusty’s laughter to be precise, coming through Mitchell’s open bedroom door. He started to stretch, but the laugh turned into a giggle, a low moan, and at last back to a laugh. He froze. “Not again,” he muttered. Did those two ever do anything but hump?

“M, I can’t believe you did it,” Rusty said, still laughing.

Clearly, they talked, too. Although if they were talking about humping, he’d rather they shut up and just do it. Some things were better left unsaid.

“Did what?” Mitchell asked, his voice thick, after-sex, and lazy.

“Pissed off the bar. And when Howard caught you… How’d you pull that off?”

“Remember the golden rule, babe: don’t do anything you can’t — or won’t — be cool about.”

“I know, but … how cool can you be when your dick’s just hanging out like that? Mitchell, I’ve seen plenty of dicks and let me tell you, there’s nothing more pathetic than when they’re dangling outside your clothes like that.”

“It’s all part of the job, Ker. Be glad you see it when it’s not so… What did you call it? Pathetic?”

“Yeah.”

“Woman, my dick is not pathetic.”

“If that was true, you’d have it immortalized in plaster.”

This scene is fun, but it’s struck a lot of my road crew as being out of character, even though I’ve long known that Trevor has no issues with fighting, even though fights are better when he can start them and let Mitchell finish. Still, my readers couldn’t make peace with the idea of Trevor being noble where Kerri was concerned.

They have a very good point, so here it is for you now.

When he opened his eyes again, the first thing he could focus on was some guy standing below the bar, giving Rusty lewd looks. For some reason, the over-protective Mitchell wasn’t clued in. And Rusty, of course, was returning those looks with an uncomprehending stare that any horny idiot would take as an invitation.

“Can you tell him to pass her my way when he’s done?” the guy yelled up. He gave Rusty another ogle and winked at Trevor.

“She’s Mitchell’s.” He held his own girl more tightly to his side; there was no way that dick was going to get ideas about her next. Not until he’d spent at least one really hot night with her.

“So? Keep a girl like that for yourself and I’ll never buy another of your records again!”

Before he could think, Trevor had let go of his girl and launched himself at the dick. He landed square, forcing them both to the floor and scattering the crowd — not entirely gracefully. A few innocents went down, a girl screamed in horror at the filth on the floor, and before he’d had a chance to throw a punch, someone was pulling the dick out from under him. That, of course, forced him to his feet.

“What the fuck?” he yelled, determined to get out of this one. “What the fuck just happened here? One second, I’m on the bar with my girl and the next I’m on top of you? Asshole, I oughta–” he trailed off as Eric pulled him another step back.

People started congratulating him on a great fight, and he strained to hear sirens wailing over the noise of the club. If they weren’t on the way, he’d gotten away with one all right — but for what? Rusty’s honor?

That girl had none.

To push him even closer to puking, he’d promised the guys he’d stick to cigarettes until the obligatory after-show party. They said he played worse than ever when he took the stage stoned and while that was probably true, at least he had more fun through a nice buzz. To the others, sounding good was fun and besides, there were three of them and only one of him. Truthfully, Trevor didn’t think it was as big a sacrifice as he was making it into.

It’s been awhile since we had an outtake!

In the end, Trevor couldn’t complain. He was riding shotgun as usual in Mitchell’s truck and Rusty fit between them with just enough room for Trev to move aside to show his dislike of her — but she was still close enough that Trev could smell her. Strawberries. Very faint, as if that, like her, was nothing more than a tease.

“Can someone please explain to me just why it is that we’ve got to stop and pick up food if we’re on our way to dinner?” Trevor half-whined as Mitchell pulled the Bronco into the parking lot behind the grocery where the lovebirds had met.

“Ma needs us to pick up extra chicken,” Mitchell said. “Sounds like the guest list grew by my sister and her dork husband.” He grimaced as he parked and turned off the ignition. “Man, that’s a way to ruin a night. Making the three of us be nice to him.”

Trev glanced out the corner of his eye, half-expecting Rusty to tell Mitchell that it wouldn’t be so bad. “Amy’s at least fun to be with,” she said.

“For you two,” Mitchell grumped as he opened the door to the truck. “I’m the one who always gets the short end of whatever you guys cook up.”

“Us?” Rusty asked, fluttering her eyes in an innocent act that Trev didn’t buy but probably left Mitchell drooling.

“Are you two gonna do some sick sappy shit in front of the tomatoes?” Trev asked as he hopped out and looked to make sure Rusty had gotten out of Mitchell’s side. He gave the door a satisfied slam, half wishing she’d stuck something in his way. A hand, a foot; didn’t really matter. Just something so Mitchell would get all pissed and work him over good for being so fucking careless with the princess.

Like Rusty was some prize or something.

Like Trevor would have hurt her on purpose.

“We could get sappy,” Mitchell said. He winked at Rusty as he slipped an arm around her shoulders. “We could buy us some tomatoes, grill ’em up…”

She shook her head at him, all business now. “Your mother was quite specific that we not show up with anything but the chicken.”

Mitchell waved her off. “Yeah, like washing the dishes before we split won’t shut her up. Remember that, Ker. If you do the dishes, she forgives all.”

Even Trevor had to agree with that. Mama V was as devoted to mothering as a woman could get, but there was nothing she despised more than cleaning up after dinner. It had probably been the only chore Trevor had done on a regular basis, plastering a smile on his face and telling himself repeatedly that if he did a good job, she’d forgive whatever he’d done that day to piss her off.

Inside the grocery, he beelined for the tomatoes as the other two trailed behind, probably absorbed in some lovers’ babytalk that needed to be stopped. Two of the biggest and freshest tomatoes got stuffed up his charcoal grey t-shirt. “So this is what was really going on when you invaded my life, huh? Tomatoes are round like tits — especially yours, Rusty. You thought M here was all about the fruit, but really, he was thinking how much it looked like your nice round boobies.” He leaned toward her, leering.

Before she could do anything but look a bit shocked, Mitchell cuffed the back of his head, making him bobble one of the tomatoes. He breathed out hard as he settled it.

Rusty just laughed, the way you do when you’re looking at something pathetic.

Trevor looked down and then gave her a death glare, wishing it really worked. One hand was still at tit-height, the other down by the waist of his jeans. He wasn’t coming off as a clown, just a fool. A pathetic fool. No wonder she looked like that.

He put the tomatoes back, trusting that if Rusty wouldn’t conveniently forget he’d done this, Mitchell would shut her up. M was good like that, always looking out for Trev’s pride. As if it was too precious to be abused.

Trevor wished it was that simple. It was more that his pride had been the first to get beaten away but like a loyal, stupid puppy, it kept coming back. And back. And back.

Maybe it was a good thing it had, Trev thought as they tromped through the rest of the grocery, toward the meat case in back. If it hadn’t been for pride — okay, and fear for Eliza, too — he never would have gotten the balls to get his hands on that gun. He’d probably be dead now instead of being the most constant viewer of the Mitchell and Rusty show.

“Hey,” he said, “why don’t we go out and hear some bands after dinner’s over?”

“If anyone good’s playing, sure,” Mitchell said. “Ker?”

“You guys can go,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “Remember I told you I wanted to swing by that opening tonight?”

“We can do both,” Mitchell said.

Trevor wanted to smack him for sounding so fucking desperate.

“We need some chicken,” Rusty told the guy behind the meat case. “How much again, M?”

“Whaddya need?” the guy asked.

“Umm… five double breasts,” Mitchell said. “Wait. No. Make it four. Four singles, so I guess that’s two doubles…”

“Breasts?” the meat guy asked.

Trevor leaned close. “No,” he drawled. “Tits. We need chicken tits; that’s what’s on the menu tonight.”

Rusty covered her face with her hands.

“Aww, come on, Rusty,” he laughed. “Like that’s not what you fancy artists call ’em.”

“No, Trev, we don’t. We call them chicken breasts. Save the tits for the women, okay?”

He gave her a wolfish grin. “You know that’s the best part of you girls.”

Mitchell leaned over and whispered to him, “Only because you haven’t met a woman like Kerri.”

Trevor fought the impulse to spit, puke, and shudder. “Who the fuck wants a woman like her? Oh, yeah. You/, you big loser.”

Mitchell rewarded him with another cuff to the back of his head, hard enough to make his ears ring.

“Just take the bird tits and let’s get out of here,” he said, licking his lips and savoring the hit Mitchell had given him. On days like these, when Mitchell handed it out just right, life was good.

This is the sort of thing that might appear in ShapeShifter’s fan club magazine, if they had one.

Trevor’s Favorite Foods (by Trevor himself)
1. Cigarettes. Gives everything you eat a nice, smoky flavor.
2. Grease. Keeps ya running smooth.
3. Anything Eric hates. ‘Cause Eric’s a dork.

If there were an actual ShapeShifter fan club magazine, this might be printed in it:

1. Mitchell would be perfectly happy to reside in a nudist colony

2. Mitchell loves being outdoors.

3. The last thing Mitchell does before leaving his bedroom every day around noon is to open the heavy curtains covering the floor-to-ceiling windows.

And because this is one I hate to cut, maybe it will find its way back into a book somewhere, sometime. Polished up, of course — just a reminder that everything I post here is in rough state.

Anyway, here’s the excerpt:

Sleeping with sketch pads in the bed was about as common as the boys sleeping with their favorite stuffed dinosaurs; Mitchell had once offered to buy her a stuffed animal of her own, but she’d countered by telling him that unless he was going to stuff himself, she didn’t want another animal in her bed.

He’d pretended to be offended, telling her his skills in her bed elevated him far above animal status. She’d countered by telling him she hadn’t known he was smart enough to know words like elevated.

He’d promptly shown her what else he knew. Which, of course, had been her plan all along.

Kerri and Mitchell are characters who form the backbone of my Trevolution series. Check out the books page to learn more about the Trevolution series!

Mitchell wasn’t having much luck reading his guitar magazine. He knew it was stupid to sit at the kitchen table and try to read in the first place, but Kerri wasn’t helping matters any.

She was pacing around the cooking area, stopping to open the pantry, the refrigerator, the cabinets. She’d move things around, dig a bit in the freezer for something near the back, close everything up again, and move on to the next spot.

Over and over.

She was on her twelfth circuit when he’d had enough.

“Woman, what the fuck are you doing?”

“I need chocolate. I can’t believe we don’t have any chocolate. Why is there no chocolate in this house?” she asked as she took every single thing off one of the pantry shelves.

Mitchell got up to take a look at the things she was putting on the floor. Pancake mix, syrup, cans of tuna, corn starch — that was the sort of stuff he was expecting to see. And he supposed he remembered picking up that bottle of Big Buck’s Bodacious Sauce the last time he’d been at a Big Buck’s for some ribs.

But when it came to things like a dry scone mix, a paper cup of corn chowder that needed to have water added before it was anything but powder, and six varieties of balsamic vinegar, all he could do was scratch his head. Some of it he could blame on Val, who loved to force her gourmet finds on them. Some of it might have come from Nancy, and some of it… who knew? Maybe one of Amy’s jokes again?

“Ker,” he asked softly as she growled and started putting things back, “where’d some of this come from?”

She looked at the can of baby bay shrimp in her hand. “You know,” she said slowly, “I have no clue. And you know what else?” she asked, fixing him with a stare that was so bright, it made him wince. “I don’t care. It’s not chocolate and that is what this is about. Where the fuck is the chocolate?”

He thought fast. The boys were still with Nancy; he had time before she’d want to leave for the day. He could pull this off — if he moved now.

Mitchell grabbed Kerri by the shoulders and turned her toward the door leading to the garage. “Come with me,” he said.

“Where?”

She tried to resist, so he bent and slung her over his shoulder.

“I’m taking you out and we’re buying out every single peanut butter cup the store’s got. What doesn’t make you puke in an hour’s going into the freezer.”

“Stop!”

When she struggled, he set her down as gently as he could, worried that the way she was moving, she’d hurt herself. Or, worse, he’d hurt her.

“I don’t want peanut butter cups. I want…” She licked her lips, her eyes roaming the ceiling. “I want brownies.”

“I think I saw a box on the floor.”

Kerri looked at him, her hazel eyes twinkling. “Race ya to ’em.”

“Nah, you go. Call me when they’re done.” He started to stroll off, but she tackled him. Thankfully, not hard enough to bring him down, but hard enough to knock some of his wind out. He gave her a scornful look over his shoulder.

“You’re eating?” she asked. “Then you’re helping bake.”

“Only if I get to smear batter on you and lick it off.”

“Nope,” she said calmly, picking the box of mix up off the floor.

“You do it to me?” he asked hopefully. “Would that be chocolate enough for ya?”

She pressed up against him and gave him one of those infuriating closed-lipped kisses. “Try it and see. But… after we bake these puppies and I’ve had a few.”

Mitchell frowned as she tore into the box. She peered inside, looking so cute he wanted to melt, then with a sheepish smile read the back for the cooking directions.

“You know,” he drawled, ready to break and run before she could throw something at him, “in two days, you’ll be telling me to take what’s left over to the studio because you don’t want to gain three pounds just by breathing in their scent.”

“You know,” she answered, cocking her head slightly, “you could forget about that smearing batter thing, get out of my sight, and let me enjoy my brownies in peace, motherfucker.”

Mitchell decided that even Trevor wasn’t enough of a fool to hang around after that charming invite. He grabbed his guitar magazine and headed out onto the back porch. Anything to avoid the evil brownie fumes; Kerri would find a way to curse him so he gained three pounds, he was sure of it.

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