“We’re m-men, aren’t we?” Chris snickers and I laugh, while his mom glances over with a hint of amusement on her face.
“Why don’t you men take a load off,” she tosses back over her shoulder. “And I’ll bring out something to keep you until we have dinner. Dad should be down in a minute. Riley, why don’t you come help me with the cookies.” He flaps his arms like a bird and zooms into the kitchen. I can’t resist the smile that breaks out on my face. Riley was adopted as a baby four years ago after his fucked-up parents abandoned him to focus on their drug habit. To see him this happy and cared for is remarkable.
“It’s great what your mom and dad did for Riley.”
“Yeah, I m-mean, the adoption took a long time to finally go through and they practically had to jump through hoops. But it was totally worth it. Besides, since I was gone, my mom needed someone else to fawn over. And… I love that little guy.” He settles onto the couch and grabs a pillow, tucking it under his chin. “You’re really good with him, Vance. Someday you’ll be a great dad. Of course,” he chuckles, “you need to be having sex to make that happen.”
My lips form a snarl and I lob a pillow at his head. “You’re a real comedian today. And just for the record, smartass, I’m having plenty of sex.”
“With what, your hand?”
“What’s this about hands?” Chris’s dad walks over, extending his arm in my direction. As I stand, he pulls me in for a hug. “Good to see you, son.”
“You too, Mr. Raven.”
He releases me and takes a seat next to Chris, playfully punching him on the shoulder. “Happy Birthday, kiddo.” Slinging an arm over the back of the couch, he gestures toward Chris with his thumb. “I just saw this one the other day. Did he tell you I whipped his behind in chess?”
“Is that so?” I settle back against the sofa and glare at Chris. “It must have slipped his mind.”
“Remember all those chess competitions you two used to have when you were young? Such a great game to know how to play.” He taps the side of his head. “A real thinking game, keeps your mind going.” He opens his mouth, but then he frowns. “I’m sorry, Vance. I didn’t mean—”
“It’s okay.” I shoot him a genuine smile. “Don’t even think twice about it.” He sends me an empathetic nod before changing the subject.
“So what’s new with the consulting business?” He gives Chris’s knee a squeeze. “You monkeys still considering hiring someone?”
“Yeah, Dad. We’re d-definitely going to get someone else on board. We’ve recently gotten some new clients, and we’re really busy setting up networks, doing administration—”
“That reminds me,” I chime in. “I’m heading over near Rockefeller Center tomorrow to set up a cloud server for that new marketing company we met with last week. I’ll probably be there most of the day. Were you planning on coming with me?”
“Actually, I’ll—”
Chris’s words are cut off by a loud crack of thunder. Riley bolts into the room and jumps onto my lap. He burrows his head under my arm, his small body racked with tears.
“Hey, it’s okay, buddy.” I pat his back with my hand. “It’s just a little thunder,” I whisper, but his tears keep coming.
“It’s scawy… it makes me think a monstew is coming aftew me,” he muffles through a stuffy nose, something hard digging into my ribs.
I stroke the top of his head, my thoughts straying to Ember and her fear of thunderstorms. I wonder if a storm blankets the city now. And if someone is holding her, too. Ignoring the thickness in my throat, I focus on Riley. “You know what, little guy. Someone special once told me that when you hear thunder, it’s because the angels are bowling in the sky.”
His head lifts, eyes brimming with that childlike curiosity. “Weally?” Red, puffy cheeks fill up with air and he looks down at my lap as if he’s thinking hard. “You mean, they pway games up thewe?”
“They do.” I smile, tweaking his nose.
He rubs a tear from his cheek with his pudgy hand. “So it’s not some big monstew getting weal angwy?”
“Nope.”
“Okay.” He wriggles around and flings his arms around my neck. “Thanks Unca Vance.” I wrap him up in a hug as he sniffles, wiping his nose on my shirt. In less than a minute, his arms drop and he hops over my legs to leap off the couch. The culprit of my side pain, his plastic Superman, held tight in his hand as he climbs the stairs with purpose. “Come on, Supewman. We’re going bowwing.”
“I guess my work is done here,” I tease, prompting a chuckle from Chris and his dad.