The chimes ring as she opens the door. “Bye.”
“See you tonight.”
3
Boone
I run the towel over my head as I enter the living area of the hotel suite. Holt looks up from his notepad.
“I got us a flight out of Chicago tomorrow morning,” he says.
“Of course, you fucking did.”
“I thought you were ready to go home?”
I toss the towel on the back of a chair. “I was—I am. But I got myself a date tonight with this hot little honey I met at the laundromat and now I’ll have to cut it short. Or, at least keep track of time.”
Holt smirks, setting the notepad down slowly. “Did you just say you’re dating a girl you met in a laundromat?”
“You met Blaire in an airport, so I don’t want to hear it.”
He gets to his feet, an amused look on his face. “I … Let’s back up. You really went to the laundromat, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” I say, lifting my chin. “I really did.”
He fights a laugh. “And did you wash your own clothes? Or did this hot little honey get conned into doing it for you?”
I gasp. It’s for effect because that’s something I’d totally do. But, being that I didn’t this time, I want to really drive that home.
“I can’t believe you’d even suggest such a thing,” I say, feigning exasperation.
“Oh, cut the shit, Boone.”
“I’m not lying. I put it all in the washer and added the little packet of soap stuff and turned it on. All by myself.” I grin. “I’ll accept your apology now.”
I don’t get one. Instead, my brother laughs. Loud.
“Is that why your shirt has blue streaks in the back? And looks like you wrestled a dog this afternoon?”
Glancing down, I pull at the fabric. It’s pretty wrinkled. There are faint blue shadows on the white parts that weren’t there when I wore this shirt yesterday.
“I think the washer was broken,” I say.
Holt slaps me on the back as he walks by. “I think you washed your shirt with your jeans, didn’t you?”
“You know what? I don’t like your tone.”
Holt laughs. He pulls open the fridge and takes out a beer.
“Besides,” I say, watching him take a long drink, “when is the last time you did your own laundry?”
“The day before we came here.”
“Liar.”
“I was raised a little differently than you,” he says, sitting the bottle down. “I’m the oldest. You’re the baby. There are three boys in between us. Let’s say Mom mellowed out somewhere in between.”
“Coy broke her,” I say in reference to our middle brother.