“Put a thousand on Becky for me.” Sloan broke the tense silence in the room.
“What?!” Becky gasped, dropping the chicken she was washing as she turned to face Sloan. “Sloan!”
“Holy shit!” Steve finally shouted from across the room. “For that kind of money, Becky’s chicken better taste like it was blessed byColonel Sandershimself.”
“Who the fuck is that?” Damon asked with a grunt.
“Seriously, Damon?” Steve stared at Damon with wide eyes. “The Colonel?Kentucky Fried Chicken? The old grandpa-looking dude in the white suit with the creepy-looking goatee?”
Damon didn’t answer, just stared at Steve as if he were an idiot, but that didn’t stop Steve.
“You seriously need to get out more, man,” Steve said, shaking his head with deep disappointment. “To live as long as you have and not know whoColonel Sandersis? That’s tragic. That’s like… basic American history. The dude’s face is on buckets.”
“Sloan, don’t you dare bet a thousand dollars on me,” Becky warned, cutting Steve off without looking his way.
“Yeah, you’re definitely going to walk out a thousand short, boss,” Sid added with a cocky grin.
“Shut it, Sid,” Becky growled, still locked on Sloan.
“I’ve had your fried chicken and Sid’s.” Sloan winked at her. “Yours is far superior.”
“Yeah, and you have to say that,” Sid snorted, glancing back at Sloan before smirking at Becky. “We can call it off if you’re afraid of losing your man’s hard-earned money.”
Behind them, Steve muttered, “Man…Colonel Sanders. The white suit. The tiny string tie. He looked like a ghost accountant who moonlighted as a chicken pimp. How do you not know that guy?”
Blaze walked in, took one look at the room, and frowned. “What’s going on?”
“Sid and Becky are having a fried chicken cookoff,” Steve announced like a proud sports commentator. “Hey, you know whoColonel Sandersis, right?”
“The old chicken guy?” Blaze asked, brows climbing. “Yeah. Why?”
Steve pointed dramatically at Damon. “He doesn’t.”
Blaze stared… then shrugged. “So what?”
“So what?” Steve repeated, eyes going huge. “The man basically invented chicken fame. Buckets of chicken. Worldwide obsession. That white suit? Iconic. The string tie? Fashion statement. He turned eleven herbs and spices into a damn empire. The guy went from running a gas station to becoming the Elvis of poultry, dude. The. Elvis. Of. Poultry. He’s actually on my list of people I’d like to meet.”
“Steve… he’s dead.” Jared rolled his eyes.
“Ah, yeah, I know.” Steve waved a dismissive hand. “But legends never really die.”
Damon finally looked up, expression flat as stone. “If you’d like to meet him, I can arrange that.”
Steve’s eyes widened slightly, then he sighed. “Doesn’t it get old threatening my life all the time?”
“No,” They all said at the same time, even Sloan chimed in.
Steve finally shut up about the damn chicken guy as Sloan leaned back and watched Becky. Damn, she was beautiful, but Sloan noticed her pale skin. She had been sleeping a lot latelyand not as lively as usual. He knew something was going on, even questioned her multiple times, but she would tell him she was fine. Sloan even went so far as to try to get her to see Slade, but she refused, saying she had her own doctor, whom she followed up with regularly. Sloan had let it go... for now, but he had talked to Slade about his concern for Becky, and Slade said he would observe her. So far, nothing had come of it.
Charger walked in and headed straight for Sloan, purpose in every step. “You got a minute?”
Damn it. Sloan nodded and pushed to his feet, shooting one last look toward Becky, whose hands were moving confidently over the chicken, hair slipping from her clip, oblivious to how badly he just wanted five more minutes with her. Of course, the universe couldn’t give him that. It never did.
He followed Charger out of the kitchen. Once the door swung closed behind them, Charger turned.
“Kane contacted me,” he said without preamble.
“That was fast.” Sloan crossed his arms, though fast usually meant good. In their world, it could just as easily mean the opposite.