An Ounce of Hope (A Pound of Flesh #2)(80)

“You, too,” Tate replied, slowly lifting a suspicious eyebrow. “You look well and . . .” He cocked his head. “Decidedly pleased with yourself.”

Riley gasped, not missing a beat. “You got laid?”

Max laughed at the two apparently telepathic brothers standing there like peas in a damn pod with their hugeness and wide, smiling faces. If Riley didn’t have his beard and Tate’s hair was longer, they’d easily pass for twins.

“Sweet Jesus,” Max grumbled, pushing past them. “Can we eat before we start this kind of talk? I’m starved.”

“Ha!” Riley exclaimed, following Max through the door. “See, that right there, Tate, is your customary O’Hare blow-off. He’s hiding something.”

“Or someone,” Tate added at his side. Max turned to his sponsor to see him surveying the customers already seated with their drinks and food. “Where’s Running Girl?”

“Who’s Running Girl?” Riley asked with a grin.

“Her name is Grace, as I recall.”

“Nice. She hot?”

“Smokin’ hot,” Tate answered, biting his lip. He waved toward Max. “These two are ‘running partners,’ apparently.”

Riley scoffed. “Yeah. I’ve had lots of those.”

“I met her when she was trussed up in her gear,” Tate continued.

Riley made an obscene noise. “Tight running pants?”

“The tightest.”

“Nice ass?”

“Epic. Shapely, you know, tiny waist, wide hips, and these lips that just—”

“Okay!” Max yelled as loud as was appropriate in a coffee shop on a Saturday afternoon. He waved his hands in a large T shape. “Time-out!” The brothers smiled at him in satisfaction, arms crossed over their chests. Max dropped his hands to his sides already exhausted. “Fuck. Are you always like this when you’re together?”

“You wanna be around when it’s the four of us,” Riley snorted before adding reverently, “It’s beautiful.”

“Four Moore brothers,” Max retorted, pulling his shades off. “Christ, your poor mother. I’m amazed she hasn’t been committed.”

“There’s time yet,” Tate said, nonchalantly patting Max on the shoulder. “So, come on, what’s the deal?”

Max shook his head stubbornly. He ordered his coffee and his sandwich and, once he’d paid, he sat down with his tray at his usual spot, allowing himself a quiet moment to think about Grace and what she was doing in DC. She’d been gone a couple of days and, even with a few texts sent between them and Max keeping himself busy working with his uncle and painting, her absence was still noticeable. He wasn’t sure he liked it all that much.

Tate and Riley sat down across from him with their food, drinks, and questioning expressions, looking like the damned Gestapo. “So spill, dude, come on,” Riley said, punching his straw into a carton of orange juice. “Since when do we not share?”

Max frowned. “Like, ever. We never share because you couldn’t keep a secret if it promised you hourly blow jobs.”

Tate barked a laugh around his bagel, garnering a hurt glance from Riley.

“That’s not true,” Riley grumbled toward his plate of waffles and pancakes.

“It is f*cking true,” Max replied.

“It’s okay, Riley,” Tate said nonchalantly. “It’s obvious that Max and Grace are more than just running partners now.” He sipped his coffee. “It’s written all over him.”

Max dropped back in his seat casually, mouth full of sandwich. “Yeah. Okay. I f*cked her. So what?”

“How many times?” Riley asked quickly, leaning forward.

Max frowned. “What?”

“O’Hare.”

“Twice, why?”

“Ha!” Riley boomed, shoving Tate’s shoulder with his own. “Pay up.”

Tate grumbled under his breath while he pulled out his wallet and handed Riley a twenty. Max stared at the two of them in disbelief. “How— What did? You made a f*cking bet?” His eyes flew back to the sandwich counter, where he’d left them both for mere moments.

Riley laughed unashamedly. “Of course, man, don’t you know me at all?”

Max’s attention snapped to Tate. “And you let him?”

Tate shrugged and tucked back into his bagel. “He promised to buy me a muffin and I’m a sugar whore.”

Max dragged a hand down his face. “You amaze me.”

“Not the first time I’ve been told that,” Riley commented before slurping his juice hard enough to make the carton crumple in his hand. “So you two, like, a couple now?”

Max shook his head. “No. Not at all.”

“So friends with benefits?” Tate asked, his eyes still on his food.

Max nodded, staring at Tate’s red T-shirt, which read “Genius, Billionaire, Playboy, Philanthropist” in large yellow lettering.

“No,” Riley uttered, following Max’s line of sight. “I don’t get it, either.”

“Thank God,” Max replied.

“Yeah,” Riley continued. “I mean, why the f*ck would you like Marvel when DC’s where it’s at?” He lifted his gray T-shirt to show the black long-sleeved top underneath emblazoned with a Batman symbol.