"Are you sure it's okay for me to drink?" Fox asked for at least the fourth time that evening.
Wolf held up a set of fingers. "No heavy weights," he ticked one digit down, "no sudden movement," another finger fell, "and no strong magnets." Wolf shrugged, "the doc said nothing about a little booze."
Fox took another large gulp of the local ale Wolf had recommended. The bitter taste made him smack his lips. He thought he might be drunk. It had been a while. A long while, actually. "I think I might be drunk," he announced. Damn, he had not meant to say that aloud. His glass was empty. How had that happened?
Wolf had been given a corner table that was respectfully dark and quiet. And, Fox admitted to himself, no one had yet recognized him. This was the best time he'd had in a bar in ages. Usually it was some guy begging for autographs or some girl asking for his number. Why hadn't he thought of this before?
"Because you're not exactly the sneaky type, 'Kell.'" Fox goggled at Wolf. How had Wolf known what he was thinking? Oh, crap, he must have been talking aloud again.
"Hey," Wolf leaned over the table until his face was inches from Fox's own. Fox stared at the edge of the scar that protruded below the eye patch. "This place is okay, but I wanna check out this new place I've heard about. You game, Kell?" It took Fox a second to remember that Kell was the name he was using.
"Oh, sure, of course." Fox pushed his way clumsily up and away from the table.
