Dream Maker (Dream Team 1)

We all looked to her.

I suspected we all also expected jubilation that we were alive and breathing. Congratulations we’d kept our shit together through another kidnapping. And news about what was going down.

We all had forgotten she’d lived through the Rock Chicks.

So we did not get any of that.

She asked, bizarrely, “Have all you all seen the movie 300?”

“Greatest…movie…ever,” Pepper decreed breathily.

“Right, I’ll get the popcorn,” Shirleen declared. “Be right back.”

And then she was gone.“Tex! Don’t thump on it! It’s already broken! It doesn’t need to be wrecked beyond repair!” Indy shouted over Tex assaulting the cash register.

“I can’t work under these conditions!” Tex boomed back, jabbing an irate finger at the till. “I’m on strike until that fucking thing is fucking fixed!”

“I’m sorry, I think I calculated that wrong. Hang on. Let me go again,” Jet said to a customer, then she bent back over the calculator she was using.

“Fucking fuck! See! It’s taking years just to get a goddamned order!” Tex bellowed.

“For the last time!” Indy screeched. “Stop saying fuck in front of the customers.”

I was sitting on the couch in front of the window at Fortnum’s, my fingers curled around the dregs of a Textual, my eyes aimed unseeing at the coffee table in front of me, listening to pandemonium at a used bookstore and coffee emporium.

Here’s the catch-up:

I’d now met Vance Crowe and again witnessed all that was Luke Stark.

The latter had opened the door to the room right when King Leonidas bit into the apple.

We were all lying about the bed, piled on top of each other (though Shirleen was in the recliner), waiting for word (okay, maybe desperate for word), so we all jumped when the door opened.

And although I thought I might have heard Hattie sigh at the sight of the big, built, dark-haired man in the doorway, I just wanted to know how Mag was.

“It’s all cool,” Luke Stark announced. “Boys are at the cop shop, givin’ a report. Time for coffee.”

That was it.

He did not go into detail.

And he did not look like a dude you pressed for details.

Therefore, none of us pressed him for details.

Vance Crowe seemed slightly more approachable, but totally more impatient.

“One of his boys has the flu, he’s hankerin’ to get home,” Shirleen told me.

“How many boys does he have?” I asked.

“A thousand,” she answered.

That would require a large harem, and by the looks of that guy, he could not only amass that, he could also service it.

That said, I didn’t think Jules would be down.

Without further ado, Stark and Crowe took us to Fortnum’s.

When we arrived, a gaggle of the Rock Chicks were there. Shirleen had come with us. Gert was waiting fretfully for our return, then she got ornery when we showed and threatened to legally adopt me. Smithie was also there and declared after our latest scenario (even if it wasn’t any of the guys’ fault) he wasn’t a big fan of any of his girls hooking up with a commando, so his vote was no across the board to all the matches. And Lottie was sitting with him, but she just ignored him and went to the coffee counter to get us Textuals.

And last, the cash register was broken so Tex was in a state.

“So…what? The bad guy has a crush on Evie?” Roxie, perched on the arm of a chair, was asking.

“Not surprised about that,” Gert said.

Man, even if Cisco/Brett being into me still gave me the willies, I loved Gert.

“He’s creepy, but at least it made him drop us off rather than keep us captive,” Pepper remarked.

“I was kinda in the mood for a donut,” Ryn put in.

“Then that’s what we should do,” Gert decreed. “Go get donuts. It’s loud in here.”

“We’re not allowed to leave,” Hattie whispered to Gert. “Luke Stark said we had to stay here until the guys got here.”

“You don’t have to say Luke Stark’s full name every time you talk about him, Hatz,” Pepper told her.

“That man is too much man for one name. Two syllables barely cover him,” Hattie replied.

I had to admit, she was right about that.

“Okay,” Jet was saying, “I know the latte is four dollars and fifty-seven cents, with tax, and the cookie is a buck fifty. But no one just buys a cookie, so I’m just gonna have to guess on tax for that. So let’s say six twenty-five and if you give me—”

Enough!

I couldn’t hack it.

“Sales tax is eight point three one percent, which makes the cookie a dollar and sixty-two cents,” I called, getting up and heading toward the barista counter. “Add the latte, it’s six dollars and nineteen cents. She’s giving you a twenty, that’s thirteen dollars and eighty-one cents change.”

Everyone had stopped talking (and shouting) and was staring at me.

I moved behind the counter and shoved through Indy and Tex, edged out Jet and stared at the cash register.