Mitchell stopped at the top of the steps and sniffed, then inhaled as deeply — and as quietly — as he could. “Something smells,” he said, wrinkling his nose and pretending the reek was bad. He even waved his hand in front of his face as he leaned forward so he could see Amy and Beth on the family room couch — and so they could see him.

“That’s why you’re supposed to say excuse me when you fart, Pipsqueak!”

“Oh. Sorry,” Mitchell said and shut his bedroom door behind him. He didn’t have to hear Amy’s laugh to know it was following him. She thought she was so funny.

“When’s the cookie raid?” Trevor asked.

“Give it an hour,” Mitchell said and reached for his guitar. “Don’t want to strike too soon or they’ll just eat what’s left of the dough again and we won’t get shit.”

“We’ll get to lick the bowl.”

“Not last time, we didn’t. Trust me, Trev. We lay low, we get the goods.”

Trevor stood up and was out of the room before Mitchell could stop him.

“Bring me three!” Mitchell called after him, chuckling. He’d gotten them all that time.

I don’t know how many of you guys read Edittorrent and their neat blog. All you writers, you should be.

But anyway, someone other than me offered up the first three lines of a manuscript for their comments and a discussion ensued. A question arose: how can you create heat visually? Short of just posting a picture of Mitchell, this is what I wound up with. While it doesn’t fully answer the question, I like it. Hope you do, too.

Mitchell slid his sunglasses into place and waited for Charlie’s nod. The first car had left without him and Daniel when Charlie had decided to play Papa Tour Manager and order them back upstairs to change into shorts. Now, they were stuck waiting for a lift.

The same car pulled up, easily recognizable by its sun-faded red, and Mitchell went outside first, understanding immediately why Daniel kept dawdling. It was like walking into a wall of heat, a studded one that attacked every pore on his face so that they constricted, more parched than the worst hangover. He was suddenly all too aware of every single last eyebrow hair — including the ones the makeup people had waxed off three weeks ago for that damn photo shoot. And he swore the cleft in his chin got deeper as it, too, sought the shade of his sunglasses.

His arms were instantly slick with sweat that didn’t cool, the small of his back turned into a puddle, and his legs tried doing the same shrinking thing as his face. His lips felt like dried-out glue: fragile, brittle, and broken.

All in the two steps it took to get into the car’s front seat.

“Holy fuck,” he said, leaning toward the vent and adjusting it so it blew directly on his face. He gasped at its nominal coolness, alerted to the fact that he hadn’t been able to breathe at all while out there. “You live here?” he asked the driver, lifting his sunglasses so they’d stop sliding away. Fuckers just might dangle from his ears if he wasn’t careful.

Daniel and Charlie slid into the back seat. Daniel pulled a ponytail holder out of his pocket and peeled his curls away from his face.

“M, want one?”

Mitchell slid his hand underneath his hair and encountered a swamp. It wasn’t a bad idea, but who knew who’d see him? No one had ever seen him with his hair off his face. Maybe Kerri, but if she did, she was the one who’d shoved it away.

“I think I want to be in Europe already,” Mitchell said, leaning away from the air and angling it more toward the back seat. “We are idiots for touring the States in the summer.”

“We’ll be there in two weeks.”

“If we don’t fucking melt first.”

“Is it supposed to cool off by showtime?” Daniel asked.

Mitchell reached for his lip balm and looked over his shoulder at Charlie. Who was squirming.

It was going to be a brutal show, Mitchell thought. One of those nights where he took the stage in shoes, shorts, and guitar and spent most of the two hours wishing he could take even more off. At least he’d be slick with sweat and his skin wouldn’t try to shrivel up again. That had sucked.

And they still had to get out of the car and into the backstage area.

Talk about things that sucked.

Another one inspired by the Weekend Wordsmith prompt, and posted in time for the Poetry Train. As always, if you’re new here and need some background about who is who, click on the names the first time they appear and you’ll be magically transported to a bio page. Just don’t forget to come back!

Mitchell was whistling when he got home after his guitar lesson; whistling was better than dancing, even though that’s more what he felt like. Since he’d graduated from lessons with Randy, things had been a million times better. Now when he and Trevor hung out down by the river and dreamed of making it big, he believed they’d get there, all right.

He stopped in the kitchen, snagged the bag of potato chips sitting on the kitchen table, kissed Ma on the cheek, and headed upstairs.

Ma called after him, “Get your homework done!”

“That’s where I’m going!” He put his back to the door, tenderly put the bag of potato chips under his arm, and shoved against the broken latch.

He turned around, stopped whistling, and dropped both his guitar and the potato chips.

Trevor was sitting at Mitchell’s desk. Well, it was supposed to be their desk now that they shared the room, but Trevor refused to use it. Something about being too cool for desks and homework and if the jackasses at school didn’t agree, they could throw him out already and save them all the daily hassle of chasing him out of the john when he needed a smoke.

“What’d Ma bribe you with?” Mitchell asked, lunging for his guitar. It didn’t matter that he had it in a hard case, it still might have been damaged.

“Nothing,” Trevor said and held up Mitchell’s civics notebook. The page was covered in what looked like chicken scratch.

Mitchell set the guitar gently down on his bed and went for a closer look at Trevor’s masterpiece. It looked even more like chicken scratch. He told Trevor so.

“Good.”

“Good?” Mitchell handed the notebook back and turned to his guitar, determined he’d actually look it over this time. No more distractions.

“Yes, good,” Trevor said with that sniff Mitchell knew all too well. “Have you seen one single rock star with an autograph you can make out?”

Mitchell didn’t bother to answer. No more distractions, he reminded himself.

“Of course you haven’t,” Trevor half-yelled, jumping to his feet and tipping the chair over backwards. “There aren’t any! And I’ll be damned if I’ll be the first.”

“Why not? After all,” Mitchell added with a sniff that mocked the ones Trevor handed out so freely, “you’re Trevor Fucking Wolff. You can’t be like everyone else.”

“Well, this time, I can be.” Trevor hugged the notebook to his chest. “Do you know how long it took me to write this messy? Fucking hours.”

Mitchell looked up from the guitar. “Shoulda spent that on your bass. You might actually get good.”

Trevor sneered and fixed the chair. “Here, golden boy,” he said. “Maybe I’ll go work on that.” He stalked out of the room, trying to slam it shut as he went. Between the broken latch and the fix Mitchell’s dad had put on it, the door just bounced back open.

In the hallway, Trevor kicked the wall. Ma yelled at him for it.

Whatever, Mitchell figured, so long as he had the desk back so he could get his homework done — once he was sure the guitar was okay. Trevor might not get any better on bass, so it was up to him to carry them both.

Maybe later, Trevor would show him ways to change his own autograph. Make it cooler. Which meant harder to read.

Chicken scratch, the handwriting of the rock star.

Mitchell grinned. That had a good ring to it.

Eeek. This is major rough draft. But it’s an outtake and that’s the idea. One day, I’ll clean these puppies up and let you take them home and sleep with them. Just don’t call them George.

Trevor barely waited for the garage door to finish going down before he was in Susan’s chair, swirling four fingers over the touchpad.

Mitchell stuck his head in Susan’s office. “Trev, the fuck you doing?”

“Having fun.” Trevor nodded firmly. “When the cat’s away and all that.”

“Trev,” Mitchell said slowly, “if you fuck up Susan’s blog, she’ll rewrite the end of the book so you wind up dead. Hear me? Dead. D. E. Fucking A. D. Dead.”

Trevor glanced at Mitchell, then at the screen. “She would, wouldn’t she?”

“Yep.”

With a heavy, exaggerated sigh, Trevor turned off Susan’s monitor. “You people are no fun. Hear me? No fucking fun at all.”

Mitchell shrugged. “I hear Susan’s already come up with two new outtake ideas. Sounds to me like we’ll have plenty of fun when she gets back.”

“And between now and then?”

Mitchell grinned. “We make music.”

What? You thought I could leave town and not say a proper goodbye? Keep an eye on me here. And have a safe, healthy and happy New Year! I’ll be back around the fifth or so; don’t forget about me while I’m gone. Mitchell’s right; there’ll be plenty of fun when I get back.

“R,” Trevor said.

Mitchell looked up from his guitar. “The fuck?”

“R.”

Mitchell growled.

Trevor gave an exaggerated sigh. “The prompt this week at that Writer’s Island place Susan likes to hang out on. It’s,” he took a deep breath and waved his fingers near his face. “The Letter,” he said in a voice that was supposed to be spooky.

“Oh,” Mitchell said. He looked down again, then gave Trevor one of those looks that would have been through his bangs if the guy was dumb enough to have any. “I like G,” he said, and strummed the chord.

Trevor considered. Gs were good. G marked the spot. G wasn’t a grade. Yeah, there was lots to like about G. And it wasn’t like he was attached to R in any way, shape, form, or sound. In fact, R was usually Mitchell’s sound. The one he made when he growled.

“Yeah,” he said at last. “G’s good.”

Mitchell smirked and Trevor realized what he’d said. Good. It fucking started with … G. So did almost every other phrase Trevor could think of. Go figure. Goddamn. Geez. Girl. Give me. Guitars.

Trevor turned his back on Mitchell and reached for a cigarette. Count on the asshole there to come up with a better letter than he could. Maybe that’s what made them such a … successful team. M took Trevor’s ideas and ran with them.

Trevor tried to tell himself that meant his ideas didn’t suck.

Gigantically.

Yep, a bonus excerpt this week! What can I say, I was inspired. In fact, I wrote a few more outtakes over the weekend and now my file of stuff for this here blog is about to burst. Stay tuned for all of it…

Kerri set down the dishtowel she was using to dry Val’s good china with, handed the last plate over, and walked into the family room. Daniel and Mitchell were being awfully quiet for two men who’d been all hyped about the big game.

She walked down the two steps into the sunken room and took in the scene.

The boys lay head-to-head on the L-shaped sectional. Mitchell had one leg thrown over the back of the couch; Daniel had one foot on the floor. Both men had extended their other leg, Daniel’s foot dangling off the edge of the beige leather couch.

Kerri chuckled as she noticed that they both hadn’t just unbuttoned their pants after that feast; they’d undone their flies, too.

“Hey, Val?” she drawled.

Mitchell’s head shot up and he slitted his eyes as if shooting poison at her. She smiled; he knew her tone of voice all too well.

“Yeah?” Val asked, wiping her hands on her hot pink dishtowel and crossing the kitchen to join Kerri. She stopped on the stair behind Kerri, one knee bent, the same hip jutted out in a classic model’s pose.

“Where’d you find the beached whales?”

“Wholesale district. Imported from Japan; they were cheap.”

Daniel burped. Mitchell smirked and put his head back down.

Kerri shook her head. “Waste of good veal, if you ask me. Whale stuffing ought to be cheap.”

“Actually, I think it’s the highest praise a chef can get,” Val said, tossing the dishtowel over her shoulder and pulling her hip back in line with the other. “When you can turn two grown men into beached whales, you know your cooking’s good.”

“Or that food on the road is that bad,” Daniel said. “Really, Val, come out and be our caterer.”

She winked at Kerri. As if there was any way to pry Val out of her house. “If I do,” she said, “will you change the name of the band to Beached Whales?”

“We may have to,” Mitchell said and, at last, burped.

The curtains fluttered, and Val and Kerri exchanged amused smiles as they went back to putting the plates away.

Want more? Click on the cast of character tab above. And don’t forget to take a ride on Rhian’s Poetry Train!

A bit of scene-setting here: This outtake takes place during the early chapters of Trevor’s Song. It’s not essential to the story, so you won’t find a hint of it there. This is strictly backstory. Yet when you finally get to close the back cover (and scream in frustration at me over the ending), and you come back to this outtake, it’ll all click. I promise.

It was stupid, she knew, but when Mitchell reached for her hands, Kerri pulled them away and tried to stuff them somewhere he couldn’t find them. Unfortunately, other than her pockets and behind her back, any place her hands went, the rest of her had to follow.

“C’mon,” he said and tried again. “They’re supposed to be paint-covered, Ker. It’s what you do.”

Reluctantly, she let him take her hands, both of them, in his. Palm up, he started to raise the left to his mouth.

He stopped an inch away.

“I know,” Kerri sighed. “Turpentine, paint… It’s not the world’s biggest turn-on.”

Mitchell stroked her palm with his nose.

“A woman’s hands are supposed to be soft,” she said. “Pampered. Or else calloused from all the hard, honest work she does to keep her family afloat. Not…”

“Not?” he asked, his lips barely touching that same palm.

She turned her face up toward the ceiling and let herself drown in the sensation.

He didn’t linger long. “You know,” he said, slowly easing her hand, still in his, back to her side. Every bit as slowly, he pulled both hands from hers.

She shivered, feeling suddenly alone. Cold.

“Mine aren’t much better.” He picked up her right hand and tapped the back of it with the fingertips of his left. “A guy’s not supposed to be like this.” He turned his hand over, claw-like, fingertips exposed. “Shit, Ker, I’ve got fucking string marks in ’em. On top of callouses a mile deep.”

She smiled, not needing to see them. “What a pair we are.” Taking his right hand, she massaged it gently at the third knuckle.

He closed his eyes, his breath coming hard. “Ker…”

“No,” she said, not sure why or what it meant.

His free hand caught hers. As she massaged, he nibbled her fingertips.

And she knew he’d meant it. He loved her, paint and all.

Did you get to visit with Trevor over the weekend? Scroll down if you missed him! And remember, clicking on the link in the characters’ names will take you to their bio pages — and a list of links to more outtakes featuring them. Have fun!

Warning: today’s outtake was brought to us by the letter B and involves abuse of clothing. And ShapeShifter’s Mitchell Voss — but that’s not new..

It wasn’t unusual for the bus to pull up to the hotel, for Charlie to go inside and get everyone’s room keys, and then wake the band up and send them to their rooms to finish their night’s rest. Usually, it was hard to get to sleep in a bed that wasn’t rolling down some freeway. After all, they’d spent how many hours in a bed that’d been doing exactly that?

Trevor liked to break up the time between bus and bed with a third — better — word that started with the letter B: breakfast. Especially now that they were staying in places that would lay out these huge buffets and clear the plates while he went fucking nuts and crammed as much down his gullet as he could. Sleeping on a gut full of free food was paradise. Even your dreams were better when your belly was stuffed. And Trevor Wolff had good dreams in the first place.

Sure enough, this place had the free breakfast thing going. “One hour left,” Charlie told him in that solemn, Charlie way.

Problem was, he didn’t want to go alone. Eating by yourself was … stupid. So Trevor stretched, lit a cigarette, and waited for the daily soap opera that was better known as Waking Mitchell.

At last, the big idiot came out from the bunks, yawning, stretching, and scratching his chest. He wasn’t fully awake yet, which was a good thing, as far as Trevor was concerned. Conversation would be kept to a minimum, which meant they’d be able to eat more food in less time. Time which was ticking away; less than an hour before the free buffet ended.

“Gimme the room key,” Mitchell mumbled, holding out a hand, his eyes barely open.

Charlie grabbed his hand and shoved it aside. “Put some clothes on.”

Trevor snickered. It’d have been more fun if Charlie hadn’t interfered, but then again, he liked Charlie well enough. Letting Mitchell wander into a hotel in nothing but those gross boxer-things Rusty made him wear would probably mean a new tour manager for ShapeShifter. Not in Trevor’s best interests.

Mitchell shuffled back to the bunks, presumably for some jeans. Maybe even shoes, Trevor thought with a giggle he could barely keep in.

When Mitchell came back, his shirt was slung over his shoulder, his eyes were a little more open, and his jeans were buttoned and zipped, but his shoes weren’t tied. And he had Rusty with him, too.

That was almost enough to make Trevor lose his appetite.

“Hungry?” he asked the lovebirds as innocently as he could.

Mitchell nodded, zombie-like. Rusty just stood there, looking confused, like she usually did. She probably thought he was up to something but really, all he wanted was breakfast. Bagels, bacon, maybe even a banana.

He led the way into the hotel lobby, ignoring the stares. He was used to them: a bunch of long-hairs trekking through a pretty okay joint. It scared the respectable folk. Made them think the world was going bad, that they had to scramble to a hotel higher up the snob rating in order to be safe. Little did they know that ShapeShifter was planning on being right there with them.

Either Charlie had scared the fans away or else the band had shown up at the hotel before they were expected, because while the guests curled their upper lips at them, no one rushed over for an autograph or to just say hello. Sadly, there weren’t any girls who could convince Trevor to skip breakfast. Or better yet, come along as his guest and then help him get properly good and sleepy afterward.

Mitchell didn’t seem to care. “Which way?” he asked, squinting at the signs. Trevor sighed. Next thing you knew, the big idiot would show up with glasses, and how un-rock-and-roll was that?

“Over here,” he said with a sigh, wondering why Rusty didn’t take charge. She usually could be counted on to do that sort of crap. Maybe she was still expecting a prank.

It was almost a shame to disappoint.

Count on Mitchell to come through, though. As they walked into the hotel restaurant, the fine odor of bacon reaching Trevor’s twitching nose, the hostess stopped them. “Umm, sir?” she said, looking up at Mitchell like she knew he could morph into a dragon at any second.

“Problem?” he asked, puffing up his chest and slipping into Rock Star mode.

“When we say that shirts are required in the dining room, we generally mean that they need to be worn, not tossed over your shoulder.”

“Huh?” Mitchell asked as Trevor dissolved into laughter, losing it all the more when he realized that Rusty had been waiting for exactly this. Shit, she was good at setting M up. Better than he was, sad to say.

Rusty was the one who picked up Mitchell’s shirt and held it out. “Don’t gross out the guests before lunch, okay?”

“Why didn’t someone say something?” Mitchell asked. Trevor stared in fascination as the idiot actually blushed. So bad, it spread to his chest.

No wonder people wanted those parts covered, Trevor thought.

“Why didn’t you just get dressed?” Trevor asked him. “You put everything else on.”

“No, not everything,” Rusty said and pulled at the leg of Mitchell’s jeans.

Sure enough, the big idiot had skipped the socks.

Want more of Trevor and Mitchell?
Brotherly Love

Buying Chicken
Flags

And if you’re not entirely certain who’s who after all that, click on their names in any of the entries to read their bios. That should bring you up to speed.

Mitchell was packing up the last of the gear when Lyric approached the edge of the stage. “Got plans, or can you come be a practice dummy again?”

He perked up, trying to hide his grin. He loved being Lyric’s practice dummy; it was the easiest thing he’d ever had to do, and she didn’t care if he talked or not. Which of course meant that silence reigned.

“What’s the body part of the week?”

“One you’ll love,” she purred, sounding scarily like her porn-queen mom.

“You are so not getting near my dick,” he said, giving her a grin over his shoulder. He turned back fast so he could finish packing up. The others were already gone; they’d packed up and split while he’d been talking to some girls, trying to convince them to buy ShapeShifter t-shirts.

The’d finally decided to blow their cash on some weed and smoke it with Eric and Trevor. And him if he wanted, but given the choices, he’d rather go with Lyric.

“Not your dick, stupid,” she said with a laugh. “Your ass. Trust me.” She planted a foot on the stage and stepped up beside him. Not that it was a high stage unless you were short. It was the way she did it, like she belonged up there. That’s how Lyric was. Everything she did was cool.

Even though he was ready for it, he still jumped when she touched the waistband of his jeans.

“We start here,” she said, pressing a bit harder, then ran her hands lightly down his ass and the backs of his legs, stopping before his knees. It should have been erotic. It wasn’t. “And end here,” she said. “All of this.”

“What about my shoulders?”

“Throw in a t-shirt and you’ve got it.” She bent over and picked up the last three cords that he’d left on the stage. “I don’t need to pratice shoulders,” she said.

He rolled his. “Yeah, but maybe mine need it anyway.”

She laughed. “That is a different thing altogether. Best news of all for last,” she added, handing the cords over. Mitchell packed them up as he listened. “Mom’s out on a date and Harm’s at a sleepover. The house is ours. Well, except for Allegra.”

Mitchell grinned. This was setting up to be too perfect. Those two other girls could smoke weed all night for all he cared at the moment. He was going to be a practice dummy.

He fastened the case he’d just finished packing. “Let’s load this into the truck and head out.” He glanced around, trying to see if he’d forgotten anything.

“I need my shirt.”

“It’s in the truck.”

She nodded. “You’re driving, then?”

He eyed her. “You’re not?”

“Allegra left me here when I told her I wanted to see if you were up for some practice.”

Mitchell grinned. “She’s jealous?” A jealous twin was one of Trevor’s favorite things, no matter that in this case, there wasn’t much to be jealous of. Lyric needed to practice. He liked getting free service from her. It was that simple.

“She thinks we’re fucking,” Lyric said with a tilt of her head, like if it was anything, it was confusing.

“Lyr, no offense, but I wouldn’t do you.”

She clapped him on the shoulder and handed him the case. “It’s mutual, hot stuff.”

Mitchell didn’t ask the obvious question. Whatever this thing with Lyric was, they both understood it somehow. They’d never spoken about it, but they also didn’t need to. She’d made it clear when she’d proposed this deal what she wanted him for: a warm body to massage. All he had to do was put her on a permanent guest list.

He definitely got the better end of the deal.

Reminders: check out Rhian’s place for the rest of the Monday Poetry Train — and join on in! Also, the Summer’s Hidden Treasures contest is now in full swing. Are you reading and reviewing yet? Help spread the word… great prizes and great discoveries of new authors await you.

Trevor took a deep drag on his cigarette and motioned at Mitchell with it. “C’mon. Quit being a wuss.” It was more a command than a request, but of course, Mitchell wouldn’t see it that way. You could command the idiot to eat an entire chocolate cake and he’d quit after two bites and say he was saving it for later.

“I’m not being a wuss, dickhead. I don’t want an earring.”

“How can you be a respectable rock star without a pierced ear? Name me one single fucking star out there who doesn’t have at least one hole in his ear.”

Trevor could tell from Mitchell’s face that the guy didn’t even realize most stars had ears, let alone shit dangling from them. Too, he could tell that the idiot didn’t think that image meant a single fucking thing.

Waiting Mitchell out was useless, so Trevor filled the space with his cigarette. When it was all but gone, Trevor sighed. Smoke that hadn’t escaped his lungs chose right then to come out his nose; he decided he understood how dragons felt.

“Look,” he told Mitchell, “it’s no big deal.”

“Tell that to Ma. She’ll kill me if I let you do this. And then she’ll kill you for doing it!”

“No, she won’t. Not if you’re serious about this band thing.”

“I am, Trev, and you know it. You fucking know I am!” Mitchell crossed his arms over his chest and pouted. “But I gotta draw the line somewhere, and I’m drawing it at earrings!”

“No one’s gonna think your ass is gay,” Trevor drawled. “Despite what Amy did over the end-of-day announcements that one time. No one bought it then and no one’ll buy it now.” He ground out his cigarette in the ashtray Mitchell’s mother had given then when she’d given up the battle to keep her precious baby boy from smoking.

“That’s not the problem.”

“Yeah, and I’m already a fucking rock star.” Trevor eyed Mitchell, convinced he knew what the guy was about to whine: it’ll hurt, Trev.

“Dad,” Mitchell said instead. “He meant it when he said he’d kick me out of the house if I do it.”

Trevor sighed as loudly as he could. How stupid was Mitchell? “That’s why you grew your hair out, asshole.”

“I thought it was to get girls.”

“Well, since it didn’t work for you, let this be the reason you did it.”

“Amy’ll tell.”

“I’ll handle Amy,” he said easily, knowing it was true. His usual methods may not have worked with the wanna-be doc, but Trevor Wolff did not have only one way to get through to a girl. Besides, he had plenty on Amy if it got that far. Which it wouldn’t.

Mitchell chewed on his thumbnail, eyeing Trevor, who wanted to jump up and down with glee. The guy was teetering on the edge. All he needed now was one little push and he’d do most of the jumping himself.

“It’s a chick magnet.”

“Just one,” Mitchell said. “One hole, one ear.”

Giggling, Trevor ran for an ice cube. When he got back, Mitchell was sitting on the edge of his bed, hair pushed back behind his left ear, hands braced on his knees. “Make it fast.”

“The ice’s gotta have time to work. You don’t want to feel it, do you?”

Mitchell swallowed hard and Trevor handed him the ice. “Hold it on your ear until you think your ear’ll fall off.” He pulled out his lighter and produced a pin from a pocket.

“You sure you know what you’re doing?”

“I did Jeremy and Eliza’s after HJ did mine,” he said. “Wait. I gotta find the… Put the ice back on!”

It was in his denim jacket pocket. The earring they’d leave in while the hole healed. The same one he’d used, the same one he’d let Jeremy borrow, and the same one he’d stolen right out of Jeremy’s head when the dumbshit wasn’t looking.

Trevor held its post and the needle in the lighter’s flame. Mitchell turned paler than he normally was.

“Okay,” Trev said when the ice had melted away and Mitchell was swearing about how his hand felt. The wuss had been impressive in the way he’d held onto that frozen water; if it was a test of manlihood like HJ had insisted, the blonde idiot in front of him had passed with flying colors. “Can you feel this?” he asked, poking at the air beside Mitchell’s head.

“Nope.”

“Good,” Trev said and jammed the pin through Mitchell’s ear.

Mitchell swallowed a scream that still managed to get halfway out — and then passed out. Trevor caught him and laid him gently on his right side, left ear facing out.

“Easier this way,” he said to no one in particular since he doubted Mitchell was up for listening and engaging in conversation.

The first hole went so easily that Trevor dug two more starter earrings out of his jacket and gave Mitchell a grand total of three.

He crossed his arms and nodded, satisfied with his work. So what if Patterson and Sonya didn’t like it? They’d never throw their precious baby out of their house. Not them. No way, no how.

This is part of Rhian‘s Poetry Train; jump on aboard. As you can see, you don’t have to post poetry. (Wink to Karen)

Also, I hope you’re looking for some Hidden Treasures to spend the summer with. The contest begins whenever you want to read; remember to post your reviews online starting July 15. Scroll down for more info; sticky post or something similar coming soon.

You guys are really into this bean dip… Hope what follows doesn’t disappoint, as the bean dip is mostly absent. Mostly.

If you’re a bit lost, this is the earlier post, setting up this lovely scene.

Erica knew how to stock a backstage dressing room, that was for sure. Daniel asked Mitchell to remember to include some of the things she thought of — ice cream sandwiches for after the show, and gummy candies beforehand — whenever ShapeShifter got big enough to have a catering rider.

“Shit, I’ll ask for the ice cream from now on,” Mitchell laughed. It had been a stroke of genius on Erica’s part; nice and cool after the hot set. They’d all gotten headaches and nasty head rushes, but fuck if it hadn’t been worth it.

Back at Erica’s flat, Mitchell got friendly with a six-pack and crashed. The other three stayed up with their hostess, met her boyfriend — a hulking biker type, apparently — and talked the night away. Mitchell had trouble believing they’d stayed up and talked without getting drunk or stoned; it took awhile in the morning before anyone would admit to both.

They were in pretty good moods as Mitchell pulled the Bronco out of the narrow city street that Erica lived on and followed her directions to the Northbound freeway. After its brief cleaning, the truck smelled better, the weather was good for driving — not raining, not too bright; just perfect — and so Daniel and Mitchell fell into a discussion of how many t-shirts they had left and how many more copies of their small-label release they’d need to have shipped out when it started.

Eric farted.

Not to be outdone, Trevor burped. Then farted.

“Oh, shit, here we go,” Daniel muttered.

Mitchell tried not to smile. “She did feed us Mexican food last night.”

“Knowing fully well we’d be stuck together in a small space when it kicked in,” Daniel pointed out.

Eric groaned with pleasure as he farted again.

Mitchell could practically feel Trevor’s brain working, trying to find another way to top him.

“Trev,” he said in his most serious voice, “give me your lighter.”

“Ooh!” Mitchell envisioned Trevor’s eyes lighting up as he understood what Mitchell was trying to prevent. “Nope, I think I need a smoke.”

“Four guys who smoke, stuck in a truck the morning after a midnight Mexican feast,” Daniel said, then farted noisily. “This is not going to be pretty.”

“Let’s get the windows open,” Eric said, waving a hand in front of his face. “It’s already nasty back here.”

“So open the fucking windows,” Mitchell snarled, reaching for the map.

“Don’t do it, man,” Daniel said softly. “Going back without a plan’s never a good idea.”

Mitchell glared at him. The tooting in the back continued, accompanied by a burping contest.

“We’ll get our revenge on her,” Daniel said with a definitive nod.

“How?”

“Beats the shit out of me, but I’m sure we can find something. We’re ShapeShifter. No one fucks with us like this.”

Mitchell had to sigh as he opened his window and let go of the tight hold he’d had on himself. “I think, Dans, that she did.”

And because the voting’s not closed yet…
And if you’ve missed it somehow, Just a reminder… go vote for me!

Yes, I’m totally going to torture you with this until the voting closes on May 22. So go vote, will ya? If you’ve already voted, why not register under another e-mail address? You’ll get to vote again that way!

Some fiction again this week for Rhian‘s Poetry Train. I don’t think you need any run-up to this; it’s the early days, the fledgling band‘s put together a small tour on a shoestring budget. On these tours, you rely on the goodness of locals — or you sleep in your truck.

By the way, you can blame this — and its conclusion, which I’ll run tomorrow — on Erica at Writing Aspirations. It’s all her fault.

“Hey, M,” Trevor said, coming up behind Mitchell, who was half-in, half-out of the Bronco, trying to clean it out a bit. He wasn’t sure, but he thought it was starting to smell. Four guys on the road would do that, he knew. But damn, it had happened fast.

“Whatcha-doin’?” Trev sing-songed.

Mitchell bombed an empty can of Mountain Dew at him.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

“Why the fuck not? It’s fun.” Mitchell tossed another one, again without looking. Who cared where it landed, so long as it was out of the truck.

Trevor smacked his lips. A bag rustled; Mitchell guessed he had talked someone into coughing up some chips. Until they got paid for this show, they had about five cents between the four of them. Unless, of course, Trevor was hoarding cash again and had used that to buy the stupid chips.

“Because I’m not alone,” Trevor sing-songed.

Mitchell groaned and buried his head in the seat of the Bronco. He should have known.

“You want to come meet Erica.”

Before he raised his head, Mitchell let himself growl. Getting it out would be the only way he could smile at this girl. He didn’t want to be social; he wanted to clean the damn truck out before he had to think about the show. He had about ten minutes, tops.

What he saw when he turned around surprised him. First of all, this girl was holding a can of bean dip, and she and Trevor had almost abandoned the chips for it. Mitchell half-expected Trevor to pick the can out of her hand and lick it clean.

The last time he’d done that, he’d turned it into foreplay.

“Who’re you?” Mitchell asked. She was tall for a girl, almost taller than Trevor, and she wore ratty denim shorts over fishnet hose and fourteen-eye black Doc Martens. A push-up bra and a ripped black Soulbender t-shirt; she looked more goth than metal except her hair wasn’t dyed black and she didn’t have makeup on. In the absence of those, Mitchell decided she was … normal.

“Erica,” she said and stuck her finger in the can of bean dip. She licked it off before saying, “The Sleeve wanted me to connect with you guys. I’ll be doing your dressing room tonight, so if you want anything special in there, holler. Also, if you need a place to crash tonight, I’ve got room.”

Trevor moved a step closer to her and started examining her mouth. “I want something special,” he said.

“Forget it,” she told him coolly. “I’m taken.”

“M here can fix that for you,” Trevor said, giving Mitchell a wide smile like he was asking for a punch.

“Not gonna happen,” Mitchell said before Erica could react. She was cool enough, she worked for Steve the Sleeve, and if she was offering them a place to crash, he was all over it. Anything to keep from driving most of the night. He’d pull over for an hour or two when he had to, but sleeping in the truck was old. If he never had to do it again, he’d be happy.

Trevor turned and started rummaging through the back seat of the Bronco.

“Think you want that place to crash?” Erica asked, peering past Trevor into the truck.

“If it’s no big deal,” Mitchell said, wondering how many other times she’d made this same offer. She didn’t have that over-eager bunny attitude; this was old hat for her.

Trevor emerged with a crumpled pack of cigarettes. “One left,” he said, pulling it out. It wasn’t very straight.

It didn’t seem to matter how banged up the cigarette was because suddenly, Mitchell wanted it for himself.

“I’ll make dinner for you after we get back to my place after the show,” Erica offered. “I make a mean Mexican spread.”

Mitchell narrowed his eyes and looked her over. This was bordering on ritual. “You’re Steve the Sleeve’s girl?” he asked, his opinion of the local promoter plummeting. Everyone knew you didn’t use your girl for dressing room detail.

Erica snorted. “I wouldn’t do that sleazeball if you gave me a million bucks and underwrote my own promotions biz. But he pays me good,” she shrugged. “So what if I have to kick him in the balls every now and then to keep his hands off me? It’s nothing compared to how hard he’ll get it when I spin out and start doing my own shows.”

“You’re on for that place to crash tonight,” Mitchell told her. There was something honest about her, something he could relate to. He wasn’t so sure about the Mexican food, but he’d deal with that when he had to. The last time they’d had Mexican food, they’d all gotten sicker than dogs and had to stop at every single rest stop along the drive.

Maybe the homemade effect would make the difference.

And because the voting’s not closed yet…
And if you’ve missed it somehow, Just a reminder… go vote for me!

Yes, I’m totally going to torture you with this until the voting closes on May 22. So go vote, will ya? If you’ve already voted, why not register under another e-mail address? You’ll get to vote again that way!

Mom alert: Some grown-up words in this one, and if you didn’t guess, some nudity, too. It’s fiction; it’s all good.

It wasn’t turning into a good afternoon. Mitchell had been over at the Owenses’ house, trying to mow their lawn. Trying; they’d left Sarge, their German Shepard, outside, and he’d either stick himself between Mitchell’s legs or else he’d laid down in the mower’s path, tongue lolling as if he was laughing. Because, of course, Mitchell couldn’t mow over the dog, much as he wanted to.

He got home hot and crabby, disgusted to hear that Amy had her friend Valerie over again. They were in Amy’s room, the door was open, and Mitchell could hear them giggling and laughing. Just like usual. They’d never learn.

He shucked off his sweaty t-shirt and shorts; the socks and shoes had gone even before he’d entered the house. The underwear absolutely had to follow; there was nothing worse than sweaty underwear. It chafed.

The towel he’d left in his room had, of course, been stolen by Trevor. That meant he had to…

Mitchell grinned. Amy’s door was wide open. Amy’s door was between Mitchell’s room and the bathroom. And nothing or no one could go past Amy’s room without her looking out. This was going to be beautiful. Better than usual.

Sure enough, as he strolled past, the girls shrieked, then Amy wailed, “Mom! Mitchell’s naked in front of Valerie again!”

He stopped, of course, and came back to stand just within view. “You left the door open,” he told them.

“So? That doesn’t give you the right to go parading around the house naked.”

“I’m not parading anywhere, you fucking princess–”

“Mom!”

“I’m going to take a shower,” Mitchell continued, ignoring her latest screech. Ma wasn’t going to get in the middle of this one, and if she did, it’d be to tell Amy to keep her bedroom door shut already.

“Why can’t you shower at normal times, you loser?”

Mitchell took a step closer, all too aware that Valerie was checking him out. So far as he knew, Valerie didn’t have any brothers. This was probably good stuff for her. “If someone in this house wouldn’t hog the bathroom for a good half-hour every morning, maybe I could get in there before school.”

Amy shut her mouth, cutting off whatever she’d been about to say.

“And if that same someone,” he continued, taking another step forward, “would shut her fucking flap every time I try to take a shower before bed, I’d do it then.”

“Going to bed with wet hair–” Amy started, but Mitchell held a hand up.

Amy recoiled.

“Got a whiff, huh?” Mitchell asked, lifting his entire arm. “While you were in here, giggling over guys in magazines and proving I’m right that you don’t have a brain in there,” he said, tapping Amy in the forehead, “I was out, working my butt off and trying not to mow Sarge. While you two were in here, dreaming about your stupid weddings, I was out there, working to make my dreams come true. You don’t like the results, shut your fucking door.”

He surprised even himself when he pushed Amy back into her room and leaned in to grab the door and shut it himself. In the back of his mind, he could hear Trevor nodding with approval, but he felt like an idiot. Ma would kill him for touching Amy like that.

She flung her door open before he could close the door to the bathroom. “Oh, yeah?” she yelled, stalking down the hall toward him.

He ignored the impulse to shut the door in her face. Whatever she was about to say might be good.

“You think you’re hot shit, strutting around all naked like this, huh?”

He sighed. “Aim, what the fuck do you want?”

“I want… I want…” Her eyes darted back and forth as she tried to think on her
feet. Fortunately for Mitchell, she wasn’t very good at it. “I want you to leave me and Valerie alone!”

“I walked past your door, you egotistical bitch!”

“Mom!”

Mitchell pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Calling for Mom like that’s only going to get you in trouble,” Trevor said from the other end of the hall. “And quit being jealous that your brother’s got all the family jewels and you’ve just got those teeny titties already, will you? Let the idiot go shower before I go and get naked on you. ‘Cause let me tell you, girls, if I go and do that, I’m not staying in this hallway, youknowwhatImean?”

Chuckling as the girls shrieked some more, Mitchell finally closed the bathroom door. That almost made up for that stupid dog laying down in front of the lawnmower. Even if it had taken Trevor to make it good.

Just a reminder… go vote for me!

Way back on Thursday, I promised you guys an outtake based on my Thursday Thirteen. Here it is and don’t forget about the BAFAB contest I’m throwing!

Mitchell joined Amy in the doorway to the room that used to be Wayne’s private space, back when the farmhouse had been Wayne’s. Mitchell looked things over; it was shaping up into an office all right. His office. Like Kerri’s studio in what had been an attic was hers, this was his.

“M,” Amy said, drawing the sound out as if she was eating something good.

He grunted, immediately on guard. This wasn’t going to be pretty.

“What’s that big wooden thing in the middle of the room?”

“A desk, Aim,” he said, playing along. Privately, he was disappointed that she couldn’t do any better. After all, he’d practically been voted Least Likely to Need a Desk in high school. Rock stars didn’t need desks, unless they got caught up in the drama of sweeping everything off them so that a girl could be laid down there. It was better when you left the stains for someone else to clean up.

“You.” Amy said. It was a declaration. “You have a desk.”

“A whole office-like space,” he agreed, nodding. “I’ve got a band to run, remember?”

“You didn’t need a desk in your apartment.”

“Not so long as I was happy eating off my lap,” Mitchell said. “What did you think the table turned into?”

She played with her lower lip, thinking. “That really is a desk,” she finally said.

“Scares the shit outta me, too,” he lied. The truth was it felt good. Powerful. Like he knew exactly who was in control of ShapeShifter, and he was the one who had that control.

Okay, he admitted. That part scared the shit out of him. But it wasn’t like Trevor could have run the band. Eric refused to do anything more than hear the final decisions and Daniel wasn’t willing to handle it alone. That left it up to Mitchell.

Amy nodded, like she’d agreed with something he’d been thinking. She clapped him on the shoulder. “The band’s in good hands,” she said, and left the room, heading down the small hallway to the breezeway that led to the new addition.

Mitchell stayed in his office for a minute, letting Amy’s words sink in. Had she really just praised him?

“Aim!” He tore down the hall after her.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, her hand on the doorknob of one of the new guest rooms.

“You just… you were nice. You feel okay?”

“Every now and then, Pipsqueak, you earn it.” Her smile, that sisterly one he hated, broadened. “Must be Kerri’s influence ’cause we both know you couldn’t do it alone.”

He put his arm around her shoulders. “That’s better.”

“It is a cool desk, Mitchell.”

He snorted. “The whole fucking house is cool, Aim.”

“Yeah, well, I’m still mad it’s yours and not mine. Don’t push your luck.”

While I’ve been busy putting together some Buy a Friend a Book Week fun for next week, I realized that I can’t find the surface of my desk. It’s actually been this way for some time now and I swear, everything there can’t find another home somewhere else.

That made me think. What sorts of things do other people keep on their desks?

Here’s one take on it, with an outtake to finish up the desk fun over the weekend. Stay tuned for that, and for the BAFAB contest.

Thirteen Things on the desk of Mitchell Voss, rock star: 1. Guitar picks 2. remote control to the sound system, empty CD cases, and some newish, trendy stuff that keeps getting overlooked in favor of the old favorites. 3. papers JR‘s been waiting on for weeks 4. papers Daniel‘s been waiting on for weeks 5. love drawings, instead of love notes, from Kerri and a sketch of hers that he stole and framed. Conveniently, she’s never noticed it. 6. scraps of paper with random, so-far unused song lyrics scribbled on them 7. the first guitar string he broke onstage 8. bulk quantities of black Sharpies 9. three desk lamps to act as spotlights on strategic piles of papers 10. new lightbulbs for the lamps 11. two years’ worth of music industry trade magazines he intends to read — next time he gets the chance 12. a hairbrush that hasn’t been cleaned since it arrived on the desk even though it gets semi-frequent use 13. an origami dragon folded by one of the crew during ShapeShifter‘s last tour Anything interesting on your desk? Links to other Thursday Thirteens!

Despite his weed-induced mellow and years of personal experience, Trevor was still proud of the destruction they’d just wreaked on the dressing room. Beer bottles on every surface. Foil wrappers wherever they’d been tossed. Towels draped over the beer bottles, under the bottles, in one case even wrapped around the base of a bottle, anchoring it upright. Potato chip crumbs — among other things — ground into the carpet. Food everywhere. The couch washed down with shaken-up soda and beer, and people still dumb enough to try to sit on it. Garbage cans overturned; at one point, Mitchell had been wearing it instead of a lampshade, the wanker.

One rather enthused and satisfied girl had taken the squeeze mustard and written ShapeShifter on the wall behind the disaster that the catering table had become. All the food had either been knocked over, pushed aside, rescued by a frantic local roadie or two — Trevor hadn’t bothered to watch — or relocated; it didn’t matter. It wasn’t the lovely little display of tempting usualness it’d been when they’d arrived.

Two girls had decided to see if sliced salami would stick to the wall if they threw it just right. Intriguingly, a couple actually had. A bunch had made contact but then slid down the wall, leaving a lovely grease trail in their wake. The rest made a path — like stepping stones, Trev thought with a snicker — across the room. One or two had been trampled on; a brunette had slipped and fallen on her ass, then limped out. She’d looked more in pain than upset that her party with ShapeShifter had ended so soon.

Trevor didn’t doubt that he’d been the only one who’d noticed her leaving. He also didn’t doubt that he’d laughed the hardest at her fall. Her arms had flailed, her eyes had gone huge, but she’d let out this kittenish, barely audible scream. It hadn’t fit the picture. Pretty fucking cool.

“Come on,” Charlie, their tour manager said, tugging on Trevor’s arm as if he was the one who’d be able to get everyone to leave. “Party’s over. We need to get out of here.”

Trevor pulled his arm free. The guy wasn’t entirely sober, himself. Settlement must not have taken long — although who the hell knew what would happen once the disaster of the dressing room was noticed.

Charlie burped a beery-reeking gasball, giving Trev the feeling that he was the only sober one in the room. For a change. If it weren’t for weed this good, he’d have hated the fact that he was afraid to drink.

“The party’s not over,” he told Charlie.

“The party’s not over?”

Trevor gave him a blessedly stoned, placid look. He stopped himself from folding his hands over his belly. “The party can’t be over until the fat lady sings and if you look around, all the fatties showed sense and left already. No fat girl sings, no party ends.” He nodded. It really was pretty simple.

“We’ve got to clear out,” the tour manager whined.

Trevor curled his lip at the guy. “So clear the fuck out. But in the meantime, we have a party to finish up.” He nodded at the rest of the band. “They’re still standing. There’s still a few girls here. Party’s not over.”

“Move it back to the hotel,” Charlie called, raising his voice to be heard over the drunken slurring that passed for chatter. Even if most of it was directions about what felt good and the slurping of deep kisses.

When no one gave any sign of hearing, he turned the radio off. “Move it back to the hotel,” Charlie repeated.

The guys looked around their girls at each other and shrugged. One spot was as good as another. So long as there was beer, they’d be happy. Besides, there were beds in hotels. That meant less complaints about sore knees and backs and other body parts.

Maybe.

Trevor wondered if there’d be any fat chicks at the hotel they could pick up. And if there were, what would it take to get them to sing?

So far, it had all lived up to its promise: the island was beautiful, the house and beach secluded, the staff discreet, and the bed big and comfortable. So big and comfortable that despite its white sheets, it had been a shame to leave it.

But Mitchell had wanted to go snorkeling, and that meant Kerri’d had to go into town to buy a bathing suit, something she hadn’t owned in years. Mitchell had warned her to choose a basic suit instead of a sexy one; when the band was touring, hotel pools were his favorite place to spend down time. A sexy suit would interfere with swimming.

While she’d been out shopping, she’d stopped and picked up a few sundresses, another thing she hadn’t owned in who-knew-how-long. They were coming in handy, though, because when Mitchell’s manager had given them use of the house for a two-week honeymoon, he’d added the condition that they visit his favorite restaurants. If she had to wear clothes at all on this dream vacation, Kerri thought, she was going to wear something skimpy and beautiful.

She and Mitchell were seated on a patio along the beach at one of the restaurants on the list, their dinner orders just placed, when Mitchell got up, left his Vans by the patio’s edge, and wandered down the beach. Kerri cocked her head as she watched him, not sure what he was doing and itching for a sketch book. There seemed to always be a light wind near the shore and it blew his silvery-white hair across the shoulders of his loose black tank in a tantalizing way. Add in his camoflage cargo shorts and he was a hell of a vision as he bent to play in the sand near the surf. Nothing at all like a powerful rock star; just a regular guy.

She sat there, savoring, still wishing she had the means to draw him, until he turned and waved at her. It was, she could tell, an invitation to come see what he’d done, so she kicked off her sandals beside his black slip-ons and followed.

“What did you do?” she laughed as she got close enough to see.

“What’s it look like?” he laughed, holding his arms out to show off his masterpieces.

“It looks like a bunch of hearts.”

“Well, then,” he said with a definitive nod. “Guess this is what happens when there’s no guitar handy and I hear music.”

“Looks to me like you hear hearts.” she said, smiling as he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close. He brushed her hair away from her forehead and kissed her temple.

“It’s your damn fault, woman,” he breathed into her ear, making her shiver.

“I think I’ll take it.”

check out more stories of love at Scribbit‘s cool site. Click here for the contest itself. And for more, visit Write Stuff around the 17th.

This is for Erica, who’s home sick with the flu. But while I have you here, let me point out that author Conor Corderoy stopped by to leave a comment here. If you haven’t picked a book to read yet for the Debut a Debut contest, why not his Dark Rain? A dystopia AND murder mystery; how can you refuse?I can’t!

And now… the outtake, just for Erica!

Daniel and Mitchell had gathered around Eric, who stared up at them from Trevor’s couch on the tour bus, his eyes glassy.

“Freaky,” Mitchell said with a nod. He pulled a potato chip out of the bag he’d bought at the rest stop half an hour ago.

“I think it’s a hangover,” Daniel insisted, holding out his hand for a chip.

Mitchell ignored him. “We weren’t drinking that much last night. And you don’t blow your nose as much as he’s been doing when you’re hungover. It makes your brain pound too hard.”

“Good point,” Daniel said. He tried to take the bag of chips, but Mitchell pulled it out of danger and tossed it toward the bus’ kitchen area.

Daniel took a wary step back, but Mitchell was fast and pinned the drummer to the couch opposite Eric. “You can fucking share,” the drummer snarled.

“No I can’t,” Mitchell growled back. “And let’s hope Eric doesn’t. He’s got the flu, you dumb fuck. All of us can get it.”

“We have a show tomorrow,” Eric moaned. “We can’t cancel.”

“True. ShapeShifter doesn’t cancel.”

“What do we do?” Eric’s moan turned sniveling. “I can’t fucking move. Do you know I spent the entire stop trying to get out of my bunk and up here?”

“Well, I wish you’d gotten here sooner,” Mitchell told him, diving for the potato chips before Daniel could grab them again. “’cause if we’d known, we could have picked up supplies.”

“Supplies?” Daniel asked, sucking on the thumb that Mitchell had bent backwards in his rush for the chips.

“Yeah,” Mitchell said, popping another chip into his mouth. “Soup, Jell-o.” He grinned. “We could have some real fun with the Jell-o that sick boy there doesn’t eat.”

“What girl’s gonna want to get on a bus that’s got a guy with the flu on it?” Daniel asked.

Mitchell winked. “Who said we’d tell them before we’re rolling?”

“Show tomorrow,” Eric said and pulled another tissue out of the box he’d propped on his chest. “Me. Gotta play,” he said and blew his nose. Hard.

Mitchell shuddered. Charlie, the band’s tour manager, jumped for the used tissue and put it into a plastic bag.

“What do we do since we don’t have any soup?” Daniel asked.

Mitchell shook his head uselessly and eyed his potato chips. There was something unappetizing about eating after listening to the goop that had come pouring out of Eric’s nose. He crumpled the top of the bag closed and offered it to Daniel, who winkled his nose and shook his head.

“You fuck heads,” Trevor said, getting up from his usual spot on the couch, at Eric’s feet. “There’s only one cure for the flu.” He pushed past Mitchell, who gave him a quick slap to the back of the head, and opened the fridge. He pulled out a beer and grabbed the opener. “You get him so drunk, he forgets he’s sick.”

“We might pickle him before that happens,” Mitchell said with a frown. He opened the potato chips and, without looking, fished one out of the bag and ate it.

“Pickle me!” Eric begged. “Just … make me better.”

Trevor handed over the beer. Daniel helped himself to a potato chip and shrugged at Mitchell.

It was worth a try.