“I already know that answer. Me.” She took a step closer to him, pointing at his chest. “And remember, I don’t play fair.”
“Neither do I, Claire.” His smile reached his eyes. If she’d been any other woman, it might have made her pulse skitter. “This is going to be fun.”
From the smoldering look in his gaze, she knew he wasn’t talking about the kind of fun they’d had playing Twister when they were seven. Something in Claire’s gut coiled with heat.
Nothing a cold soda wouldn’t fix, she told herself, and walked away. Well, maybe two cold sodas.
Earsplitting buzzing, screaming bleats. In his ear. Loud, annoying, repetitive sound. Mark slapped at the nightstand, searching blindly for the source of the god-awful noise. He bumped against hard plastic and smacked it until his fingers hit the snooze button.
He cracked open an eye and glanced at the red numbers. Three in the morning. What insane person gets up that early?
He rolled back to the pillow and closed his eyes. When he did, the image of the RV flashed in his mind. He jerked upright. “I’m that insane person,” he grumbled.
The Survive and Drive contest started today. Only the first twenty got on the RV. If he didn’t haul his butt out of bed and get to the mall, he’d lose his shot.
He stumbled for the shower and didn’t bother to wait for hot water. He stripped off his boxers, stepped inside the stall and let the needles of cold water sting him awake. Two minutes of sudsing and rinsing and he was done. He rushed through the rest of his morning routine, choosing the faster electric razor over the more-precise disposable blade, skipping aftershave.
In his childhood bedroom, Mark flicked on the overhead light and got dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. Pennants from Indianapolis Colts and Pacers games hung on his walls, souvenirs of trips to the stadium with his dad. A selection of sports trophies collected cobwebs on a shelf on one wall, golden images of boys at play with footballs, hockey sticks and baseballs. A five-year-old picture of his family—Jack, Mark, Luke, Nate, Katie and their parents—sat on top of his dresser. Mark’s gaze swept over it all. He ignored one corner, though. On that wall hung a plaque etched with many words of praise for Mark Dole.
And not a single one of them was true.
He shoved enough clothes for a few days into a gym bag, tossed in some deodorant, shaving cream, a razor and his toothbrush. He added his laptop, a notebook and a few pencils, then zipped it shut, slipped into his sneakers without untying them, and headed over to Luke’s room.
His twin brother’s bedroom was in sharp contrast to his own. Luke, the more organized of the two, had already turned his space into one befitting a grown-up. The few pieces of furniture he’d moved with him from his California house seemed to bring all the remnants of what had once been a happy home into the small space. The hallway light cast a soft glow over the room, revealing a handmade quilt on the corner recliner and a series of photos on the rolltop desk Mary had given Luke on his last birthday. The photos were of happier times, before Death had made a special delivery to Luke’s door.
A sharp pang grabbed at Mark’s chest. He was twenty-nine. Too old to be playing the games of his youth. He’d outgrown the pennants, the cheers of the crowd, the adoring girls standing on the sidelines. When Mary’d died last year, Mark had seen and felt—in some special twin synergy—Luke’s grief and had suddenly known he was missing something very special. Coming home two weeks ago and being welcomed into his parents’ warm, bread-scented home told him just what that missing part was.
A home. Not an apartment empty of anything but the basic necessities of bachelorhood. Not a string of women, their names blurred into one—CherylJudyMelanie-Heather. For the first time in his life, Mark wanted a taste of what his brother had had. He was done with fast food. He wanted roast turkey with all the trimmings.
But having that meant settling down. Being responsible. Not letting Luke down and losing their business in one fell swoop. Mark wasn’t even sure he had it in him to be the kind of guy who could be counted on for a paycheck every two weeks and a retirement account.
Either way, before he thought about himself, he needed to restore Luke’s life to him—or at least the parts Mark was able to give back, which meant getting to the mall before nineteen other people did. He shook Luke awake.
“What? Go away. I’m asleep.”
“I need you to drop me off, or pick up my car later. I’m not leaving it in the mall lot. It could be there for days.”
Luke let out a string of expletives that said he’d forgotten his promise to drive. “It’s a Nova, Mark. Nobody’s going to steal a damned beater box from the seventies.”
“Hey, my car’s a classic.”
Luke rolled over and covered his head with the blankets. “Maybe it will be when disco comes back, but right now, it’s just an old car.” Luke let out a sigh. “I’ll pick it up later.”
“Thanks.”
Luke peeled back the blankets from his face and blinked several times. “You really going to try to win that thing?”
“Yep.”
“What the heck for?”
“I want to—” he stopped himself. “I want a portable house.” Not a very good lie, as lies went, but he couldn’t tell Luke the truth. Luke had been through enough this past year, more than anyone should have to endure. With any luck, Mark could fix some of that by being the last man standing in the RV.
And then, maybe he could embark on fixing his own life. First, he’d have to figure out where to start on himself, though.
Luke shrugged, pulled up the blankets again. “Wake me when it’s over.”
Mark dashed out the door, hopped into his Nova and headed across town. Mercy had been growing over the last year as people in Lawford opted to leave the city for land and quiet. The population had stretched by a couple thousand, prompting the opening of a mall, even though it only encompassed twelve stores. Still, it seemed to stay busy, especially with the summer tourists and antiquers.
When Mark arrived, he counted eighteen cars in the main parking lot, a couple in the mall employee area. Damn. How early did these people get up? Once inside, he saw a virtual campground had been set up on the cold white tile of the courtyard. Lounge chairs, beach towels, blankets, pillows. And people—nineteen of them. With the motor home beside them, the whole pristine, antiseptic scene looked like Walt Disney’s version of a campsite.
Mark settled onto the floor at the end of the line and rested his arms across his knees. On his left an elderly woman sat in one of those three-dollar folding lawn chairs. Beside her slept a nearly bald, wrinkled man. They both wore beret-style hats topped with a fat yarn pompom. The old woman was knitting, her needles clacking away in the quiet. Her husband had his head back, mouth open, loud, hock-hock-hock snores coming from his mouth.
“Why hello, sonny. I’m Millie Parsons. Are you here to win the motor home?” she asked, without missing a stitch.
“Yes, I am.”
She reached out a gnarled hand and patted his. “Good luck, dear.” She smiled nicely, then added, “but Lester and I are planning on winning it. We want to go to Florida, don’t you know.” She grinned until all her dentures showed. “And we don’t plan on losing.”
Mark smiled right back at her. “Neither do I.”
Her smile dropped away, she yanked her hand away and went back to her knitting. Click, clack, click, clack. Row after row of pink stitches. Probably making a noose for anyone who tried to outlast her and Lester.
A very unladylike curse sounded from behind him. Mark turned and saw Claire. “I’m twenty-one,” she said.
“Honey, you couldn’t pass for it,” Mark quipped. But in reality, she could. Her straight