“That was rough,” Michael said. “But… oh, wait. They’re sort of wandering around the airstrip.”
“That was most odd.” Lucius still sounded alarmed. “I’ve flown with both Hunter and Chuck, and they’re usually smooth as silk.”
“I’m just glad they’re back,” Michael said, practically wiggling in excitement as the roar of the engine dissipated and the jet circled to taxi back to the hangar.
Lucius, who had seemed interested and had been asking questions the whole time, particularly about the sage grouse and their endangered status, gave him a dry look.
“Anyone in particular you’re excited about?”
“Oh, not Chuck,” Michael reassured. “No, you’re too nice a guy. I wouldn’t crush on your fella.”
Lucius kept his head cocked, his eyes sideways on Michael’s as the plane eventually slowed its wandering and started a purposeful coast toward their hangar.
“And not Hunter,” Michael added. “I don’t know him well, but, uhm, his boyfriend scares me a little.” Grace was unpredictable at best, and smarter than Michael in his sleep.
Lucius kept his head tilted. Michael realized that there were only three people on the plane, as far as they knew.
“So that leaves…?” Lucius began for him.
“Someone out of my league,” Michael told him with dignity. “But he’s real tall.” And safe. And kind. “And a little older than I am.” Michael had turned twenty-seven right before he’d gotten out of jail.
“Then that’s a riddle I shall keep to myself,” Lucius said, obviously keeping his amusement to himself as well. “Here, it looks like they’ve stopped. Let’s go greet them, shall we?”
The jet came to a halt just outside the hangar, and Michael was surprised to see Carl and Hunter behind the controls.
Carl appeared to be yelling at Hunter at the top of his lungs.
After a moment the stairs dropped and Chuck came down them, carry-on in tow, laughing so hard he tripped on the last stair and almost stumbled.
“What in the—”
“Oh my God!” Chuck hooted. “That was the best ride I’ve had in a while. And I swear if Carl had a switch, Hunter wouldn’t be able to sit for a week!”
“What was Hunter playing at?” Lucius demanded. “You all could have been killed!”
“Oh, Hunter wasn’t playing at anything,” Chuck told him between blasts of laughter. “Hunter asked Carl if he wanted to learn to land, and Carl said yes. So Hunter set the jet on its course and went to the bathroom. That was all Carl!”
“But Carl doesn’t know how to fly a plane!” Michael protested. He’d told Michael that himself three days ago.
“He does now!” Chuck howled. At that moment, Hunter came down the steps, walking sideways so he could hold his carry-on as a shield. Carl was attempting to beat him to death with his briefcase while towing his own luggage behind him.
“You colossal asshole!” Carl was shouting. “You went to the bathroom? You left me in charge of the jet controls while you went and got rid of something you ate in Brussels? Are you high? Do you have a death wish? What in the name of holy hell is wrong with you?”
“You said you wanted to learn!” Hunter protested. “How do you think I learned?”
“I assumed somebody taught you in the military! They didn’t throw you in a cockpit and say, ‘Hey, don’t fucking die’!”
Hunter had gotten to the tarmac by now, and he turned and grabbed Carl’s briefcase. “Nobody taught me,” he said indignantly. “They needed somebody to land the plane, so I landed the goddamned plane! I thought you’d want the same courtesy!”
“I wanted to not crap my pants!” Carl retorted. “Jesus, Hunter. Didn’t anybody tell you to choose life?”
Hunter turned to glare at Chuck, as though he was looking for backup, but Chuck was shaking his head and holding his hands out in front of him.
“No, no. Don’t look at me. I’ve got my own shorts to clean, muscleman. I thought we were giving him a couple of lessons, not courting death by private jet.”
Hunter scowled at him and then gave sort of a conspiratorial smile. “It was a good ride in, right?”
“It was the best,” Chuck agreed. He looked at Carl and nodded. “I’m telling you, I haven’t had that much fun since—”
“Since you wrecked two Bentleys in two days,” Lucius said dryly. “I think you two should apologize to Carl and maybe promise not to leave him in the lurch the next time you’re teaching him to fly.” He shook his head in disgust. “Seriously, aren’t you afraid somebody saw that? They could take away your licenses.”
Hunter and Chuck stared at him.
“Licenses?” Chuck said blankly.
“That would be a trick,” Hunter said, shaking his head. “All we ever told Felix, Danny, and Julia was that we knew how to fly.”
“Well, I had one in the military,” Chuck conceded, “but what I’ve got now is mostly forged.”
“Augh!”
Carl yanked his briefcase out of Hunter’s hands and got in a good wallop on the back of Hunter’s head before Michael got between them and broke it up.
FIFTEEN MINUTES later, Hunter had taken off in the SUV he’d driven in, Lucius had left in his preferred Bentley, Chuck at the wheel, and Carl sat on the couch in Michael’s hangar, washing down two ibuprofen with a bottle of cold water and some crackers.
“You’re lucky he just got in that little slap to calm you down,” Michael said soberly. “That guy looks like he could kill you with one hand tied behind his back.”
“He could probably kill me with his thumb,” Carl said miserably. “But he patted my back as you pulled me away. No, I think we’re good. In fact if I had to guess, I think I was the victim of some kind of a macho bonding ritual reserved for someone who has passed a test of sorts.”
“Yeah?” Michael sat down right next to him on the battered corduroy couch. “What makes you think that?”
Carl turned his head and smiled directly into Michael’s eyes, and Michael had to remember to breathe. “Our trip went well, as far as we know, and I did more than sign papers. I think the land-the-plane thing was his way of saying ‘well done.’”
Michael grimaced. “That’s twisted. But you know, it’s something one of my brothers would have done, but not as mean. Hunter, I’m talking about. He isn’t as mean as my brothers. If I had to guess, I’d say someone was waiting in the wings to save your ass if it looked like you were really going to crash.”
The sound Carl made wasn’t quite a grunt, but it wasn’t quite a laugh either. “You’re probably right,” he said, leaning his head against the back of the couch and closing his eyes. “I guess I should be grateful. I’m never anybody’s favorite guy. I guess this really was better than a polite round of drinks in an overpriced restaurant and a ‘Good show, chap. I really must run.’” He did the snooty accent too.
“Is that what you usually get?” Michael asked, curious.