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She gave him a mock death stare.

“For your information, it’s been hell, Quentin. Sheer hell. Endless hikes in the desert. Some freak offering me free drinks, chile verde, enchiladas, guacamole, chimichangas, and fish tacos with homemade tortillas every time I turn around.Nightlysoaks in the jacuzzi with frozen margaritas and chilled beer. Naps in the sun while reading my book. Swimming! Facials! Swedish massages!Foot rubs!My god… the foot rubs. It’s been constant, unending torture, Quentin. Don’t think I’ll forget it.”

Black grunted, waving off her nonsense.

“Don’t wave me off like you don’t care.Cowboyagrees with me.”

“Leave me out o’ this, dahrlin’,” another familiar voice said humorously from by the door. “You two can just work out this ridiculousness on yer own.”

When I glanced over at my friend’s husband, he winked at me, arms crossed where he leaned against the doorjamb.

“Just get yer friend out of bed so I can get back to that napping business on the plane,” Cowboy added. He yawned as he refolded lean, heavily-tattooed and very tanned arms. “Not all of us are as fond of hospitals as y’all seem to be. And we did leave mighty early to pick y’all up and cart you back to the festivities.”

That was enough for me.

Pushing Black aside and untangling myself from his arms and legs, I managed to sort through the IV and other tubes and wires well enough to find the nurse station call button. Glancing around at all of them, I motioned down at the button, just before I pressed it with my thumb.

“Time to fake normality again, friends and family,” I told them.

Black grunted.

Angel grunted louder.

Cowboy smiled.

Sliding to the edge of the bed, I paused just long enough to nudge Black, shoving at one of his legs with my hand.

“Time to blow this hotdog stand,” I informed him. “Get up, husband. Find us a doctor who can sign my papers saying I’m safe to go out in the world.”

Black, still lying on his side in the hospital bed, looked nothing but relieved.

3

HOUSE

“And they wanted us to move the trigger plate into the smaller target area upstairs. Did that get done? According to the new specifications?”

When the carpenter nodded emphatically, the contractor stared up at the correct area of the ceiling, using the penlight to inspect the relevant area under the ceiling. He carried the penlight in a breast pocket of his vest at all times.

“You checked it upstairs too, right? It needs to line up exactly. Really, he wants itinsidethe target area. Partly so it’s less easy to see.”

“We did it exactly how he said, boss,” the carpenter said tonelessly. “Exactly how he said. Damned thing’s near invisible.”

The contractor nodded, still staring up at the ceiling.

He looked for seams, any imperfections the client might notice and bitch about.

But it was perfect this time.

It was damned near perfect. He couldn’t see a fucking thing.

“That’s some fine work, friends,” he said, still staring up at the ceiling.

“It damned well should be,” one of the carpenters muttered. “How many times did he have us redo that fucking thing?”

A number of the others on the crew chuckled. There was a definite, audible ruefulness to that chuckle, like they all knewexactlywhat and who Kyle was talking about, and it was only funny because it was true. Well, and really, it was only funny because it was over.

The job was finished. Now they could laugh about it.