Young, not particularly concerned with proper procedure as long as the results were sound, briefly clenched his jaws in impatience. “The conclusion being?”
Butler smiled proudly. “We found a way to track it.”
THIRTEEN
RILEY was having a much better time than he’d anticipated. He still wasn’t entirely happy with the notion of playing host to an alien armor system with a crush on Bruce Willis, but the combination of good food, cold beer, and someone interesting to talk to went a long way in mellowing his attitude.
The two of them worked their way steadily through an order of nachos and a chicken enchilada, hot and spicy, apparently just the right thing to introduce an alien to Earth cuisine. McClane loved it. Riley had no idea how exactly his passenger was experiencing the food—he suspected something might be hooked into his taste buds—but it must’ve been spectacular, because the orgasmic moans and eager demands for more almost drowned out the sounds of the bar. Hell, they were enough to give Riley a hard-on, because, damn, the alien sure loved to eat. It was like listening to enthusiastic amateur porn.
“Man, stop it,” he muttered, blushing. “It’s food, not sex.”
Both good, McClane declared happily, apparently more than willing to dive headfirst into the human experience. Can we get more food? And more sex, later?
“You want me to explode or something?” Riley complained. “’Cause I gotta tell you, there are easier ways to kill a guy.” He wasn’t touching the offer for sex, no way, not with a ten-foot pole. One step at a time.
Food is energy, McClane argued, nudging him into taking that final bite. You need it, I need it. Don’t forget, you gotta eat for two now. Riley almost dropped his fork at that, but some instinct (yeah, right) made him tighten his grip just in time. Fuel the engine, McClane corrected himself quickly, scrambling to erase the specter of pregnancy he’d evoked. Neither of them was quite over the egg thing yet. Support your buddy. Stop thinking nasty thoughts!
That was the point when Riley shoved away the mostly empty plate and decided it was high time to move on to the boozing part of the evening.
McClane was all too happy to go with that plan, though he ended up dutifully filtering the alcohol from Riley’s system and neutralizing it. Riley caught on to it eventually (four shots with beer chasers should’ve left some kind of dent in his sobriety), and put a stop to McClane’s activities. After that, it was smooth sailing.
They ended up slouched comfortably in the corner of their booth, watching the roadhouse fill up and get loud, and slowly got nicely pickled.