Page 63 of The Lineman

Ihadexactlythreequestions before walking into this bar.

One: How drunk am I expected to get?

Two: How much of my personal life will be dissected?

And three, most importantly: How painful is this going to be?

I turned to Elliot, sitting in the driver’s seat of his truck, watching me with a suspiciously amused expression. “So,” I said, gripping the handle of my door but making no move to get out. “How bad is this gonna be?”

Elliot pretended to ponder.

Then, with the straightest face possible, he said, “Well, Omar will probably grill you about your job and make vague threats about what will happen if you hurt me. Sisi will flirt with you just to see if she can get a reaction. Guard your crotch—that’s where she wants the reaction.”

“And Matty?”

Elliot shrugged. “Matty will absolutely ask about your dick.”

I blinked. “I—my what?”

“Oh,” Elliot continued, deadpan. “And they will judgeeverythingyou say,everythingyou drink, andeveryanswer you give during trivia.”

“Wait—”

“Think of it asHunger Gamesfor first meetings. Only time will tell if you are Katniss or one of the dead kids.” He thought a moment, then added, “Oh, one more thing. They have a long-standing tradition where the newest person has to do a dramatic reading of the worst answer they submit. So, you know, prepare yourself.”

I stared at him.

He stared back, nary a hint of a smile or any other expression on his infuriatingly handsome, utterly blank face.

“You’re lying,” I accused.

He shrugged. “Only one way to find out.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Elliot.”

He opened his door. “Come on. Time to meet the pack.”

I groaned. I was going to die here.

The second we stepped inside, chaos ensued.

“There he is!” a brown-haired girl I assumed was Sisi called, lifting her beer, her eyes glinting with pure mischief. Standing and extending an open palm, she gestured and intoned, “Bring me the sacrifice.”

Omar took one glance at me, exhaled through his nose like a disappointed father, and went back to his drink.

Matty clapped his fingertips like some maniacal Disney villain who’d just spotted his evening meal. “Okay, first question—does he have a twin? Because if so, dibs.”

I blinked. “I—”

Elliot scoffed. “Matty, Jesus.”

Omar growled. “Wedding ring trumps dibs. There will be no coupling with Mike’s twin.”

Matty ignored him. “Fine, second question—dick size. Cut or uncut. Ridges like a Snickers bar or smooth?”

I choked on my own spit. They’d not even let me order a drink or sample a chicken wing before attacking.

Elliot groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Matty, no.”

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