Page 20 of Rev

“You take up the whole hallway,” I say. “So if you want me to sit, you gotta move your big butt out of the way.”

He grunts again, conceding the point, and strides toward the empty table. Sits. Chance sits opposite him, the bench groaning. I hesitate, and then sit next to Rev, but a couple feet away.

Chance slides one of the mugs toward me. “Who’re you?”

“My name is Myka Donovan. Rev, um, sort of saved me. From Oscar, and then from my own over-intoxication.” I blush, duck my head, wrapping my hands around the mug. “I sorta passed out, I think.”

Rev lifts a palm, as if to concede my explanation as sufficient. “What she said.”

“She shouldn’t be here,” Chance says, his voice the gravelly rumble of a diesel engine, like one of those dump trucks with tires taller than an adult male.

“Oscar had her in his filthy fuckin’ hands, wasn’t letting go,” Rev says.

“I know, I was there. That was why I got you.” Chance follows this with a sip of coffee.

Rev slurps at his, even though I know from my own tentative sip that it’s burn-your-tongue hot. “Got her away, meant to bring her up to Sin, but she passed out. Said she came with people she just met. Her ID has her address in North Carolina, and her room key was a key, not a card with a hotel name. What was I supposed to do? Put her in a taxi to fuckin’ nowhere?”

I frown. “You went through my purse?”

He glances at me. “Yes.” That’s it. Just yes.

“You gotta get her gone,” Chance says.

“Where in the rules does it say no women?” Rev asks. “Far as I know, that ain’t one of the rules.”

“She ain’t one of us, and this ain’t a hostel,” Chance returns. “Get her gone.”

“And you ain’t in charge,” Rev shoots back. “I’ll see her gone soon as I feel like it.” He takes another long slurp of coffee and looks at me. “You feelin’ sick to your stomach?”

I nod. “Nauseated like crazy.”

“Need greasy-as-fuck food.” He swings off the bench, taking his coffee with him. “Drink the coffee, drink the water, and sit tight.” He tosses more over his shoulder on the way to the cooking area. “Chance, talk to her.”

I blink. “He’s bossy.” This gets me no response; I sip coffee and make a face. “You could strip paint with this stuff.”

Chance lifts a huge shoulder an inch or two. “All of us are military. We drink it strong. Cowboy coffee.”

I take another sip. “Reminds me of my grandpa.”

He arches an eyebrow. “Mmmm?” As far as conversational gambits go, it’s not much but it’s something.

“He owns a horse ranch in North Carolina. About a thousand acres. My siblings and I spent our summers there, and as soon as he decided we were old enough, we’d go on overnight trips to the grazing pastures on the far side. He’d make coffee in one of those old percolators over the campfire, you know?”

Chance just nods, sipping his coffee far more quietly than Rev did.

“He made his coffee a lot like this.” I lift the mug and snort a laugh. “His had grounds in it, though, so this is arguably better.”

I hear rattling and watch over Chance’s shoulder as he scrambles eggs in a pan. I smell bacon and hear it sizzling, and I can see toast on the griddle. Next to Rev, Kane has finished his preparations, and is swaggering our way with a plate piled nearly a foot high with eggs, four pieces of toast, slices of melon, a stack of bacon strips. Kane goes back to the fridge and returns with a container of Greek yogurt, a bowl, and a spoon. Then to the coffee maker for a mug of coffee. He sits beside Chance with his breakfast, which is enough for four people, and digs into the eggs. He holds his fork in his fist, hunched over the plate, shoveling it in. When he’s gotten a mouthful, he straightens, chewing, fork gripped loosely in his fist, and washes it down with a slug of coffee.

“What kinda horses your gramps raise?” he asks—his voice is higher than his appearance would indicate, smooth and even and polished, with a slight twang to it.

“He breeds Rocky Mountains and Tennessee Walkers,” I respond.

He shoves more food into his mouth, repeating the shovel-chew-coffee pattern. “Montana,” he murmurs. “Appaloosas. Cutters, mainly.”

“Grandpa’s favorite cutter is an Appaloosa he got from a breeder in Montana,” I say. “The L-Bar-A.”

Kane nods. “That’s us.” He shrugs. “Ain’t been back in years. Miss it. Weeks on the range, nothin’ but sky and grass and horses, fire at night and coffee so thick you can chew it.”