“I asked if you’re okay?” Her big, brown eyes were filled with sweet concern. Kind eyes. Sweet eyes. Wonderful eyes that I could drown in, wallow in forever. Jesus!
“No. Before that,” he said, avoiding the question. The truth was, he wasn’t sure he was okay, but he sure as shit didn’t want to tell her as much and then have to explain why that should be. Since he’d never lied to Penni, not once, and since he didn’t plan to start now, he figured escape and evasion were the best options.
“Oh, I asked if Becky was talking about hot dogs.”
Okay. Good. A banal topic. He could work with that one.
“Roger that,” he told her, leading her past the long row of closed doors that led to the Knights’ offices on their left. To their right was the huge, open space that housed the big conference table and Ozzie’s myriad computers. The place usually looked like NORAD. Satellite feeds, speakers squawking with positions and updates since inevitably one of the Knights was checking in from some mission or other. And ’80s hair bands booming in the background because Ozzie had wretched taste in music.
Today, however, it looked like little more than what Ozzie and Becky and Boss were hoping to portray: a high-tech custom motorcycle company. Designs for various bikes showed on every computer screen. Schematics for upgraded engines and wiring systems littered the long computer desk. A rebuilt V-twin engine sat on newspaper in the middle of the conference table. Lying beside it were hand tools and a pile of greasy rags.
“Wow,” Penni said, looking around. “This place looks…”
“Different,” Dan finished for her, tugging her toward the conference table where Peanut, BKI’s notch-eared, overweight, sorry-excuse-for-a-mouser sat, crooked tail twitching as he eyed the white cardboard box with the slogan Good Eats, Chicago-Style Treats!
“Hello,” Penni said, scratching Peanut’s ears. At first contact, the cat started his engine, rumbling louder than Heartbreaker, Dan’s custom-made Harley chopper. Peanut closed his yellow eyes in pure feline pleasure. The old tom was like Ozzie in that he adored all women equally and without prejudice. “And who are you, big boy? We didn’t meet when I was here last.”
“That’s Peanut,” Dan told her. “And he’s as useless as he is fat.”
Penni frowned and tsked at him. Turning to Peanut, she used that voice all women whipped out when they were talking to babies or animals. “He didn’t mean it,” she assured the cat. “You’re not fat. You’re just fluffy.”
Dan scoffed before grabbing the box. He looked expectantly at Penni. “Are you ready to experience real heaven?” he asked, making sure his expression was serious enough for the solemn occasion. Three months was a hell of a long time to go without a Downtown Dog.
She blinked at him, her lashes ridiculously long and sooty. He couldn’t wait to see them fanned out against her cheek when she threw her head back and closed her eyes in ecstasy. But first…sustenance. He was going to need his strength in the next few hours. And he did mean hours. Because that’s how long it would take to do all the things to her that he’d been dreaming about. His stomach growled in hungry anticipation of the hot dogs at the same time the moron behind his zipper throbbed in hungry anticipation of finally, finally getting Penni exactly where he wanted her. Beneath him. Beside him. On top of him. Every which way…
“We are still talking about hot dogs, right?” She eyed him askance, her expression teasing.
“Yes and no,” he admitted. “Because these are not just any dogs. These are hot dogs with a capital H. The preeminent hot dogs. The king daddies of hot dogs. The one, the only, Chicago-style hot dogs.”
“Which means…what exactly?” Penni said, still scratching Peanut’s head.
“It means that after you’ve had one of these babies”—he opened the box with a flourish and Penni had to wrap an arm around Peanut’s substantial girth to stop the cat from leaping at the hot dogs—“your sickly little New York dogs will never taste the same.”
Penni peeked into the box, her chin jerking back. “Those aren’t hot dogs. Those are…” She shook her head. “I don’t know what, but they’re not hot dogs.”
“Au contraire,” Rock said, emerging from one of the offices and closing the door behind him. “They are the best hot dogs on the planet. An all-beef frankfurter on a sesame seed bun with a dill pickle spear, a slice of tomato, a squirt of yellow mustard, onions, and relish with just a dash of celery salt.” He brought his fingers to his mouth, kissing them. “C’est magnifique.”
“Or as we say ’round Detroit,” Dan added, chuckling, “they’re damn good eatin’.”