“Looking good.” Pax practically gave himself whiplash looking at the crowded barroom and the swirl of coeds on a dance floor covered in the stickiness of stale hops.
“You’re too old for them,” Nick said gruffly. “They’re just kids.”
“You tell me I’m a kid every day,” Pax reminded him gleefully. “I’m the youngest on the team.”
Frost slung a heavily muscled arm over each man’s shoulder. “You do remind him of both facts every day. What are you going to do the next time we hire?”
Nick tensed and turned his head away from the others. The last three new employees to the S.A.N.T.A. do-gooder had been after the team had lost members. “Pretty casual for someone who spent the last month in the hospital.”
“Sorry, man.” He gave an awkward pat that was more like a shove and headed for the bar. “First round’s on me.”
Nick gave a sharp nod and wedged his wiry body in at the bar, using pointed elbows for leverage as he negotiated with the bartender.
Pax leaned against a pillar and craned his head backwards.
“First, stop drooling, kid.” Frost reached over Pax’s head and snagged the proffered stouts, passing one to the demolitions expert. “Second, you already know the rule. Aim small, miss small.”
Beer foamed as Pax choked. “This isn’t an op, dude. You want me to what?”
Frost smacked his arm. “It’s a metaphor. Stop being dazzled by all the pretty girls and pick one.”
“Oh.” He narrowed his eyes with renewed interest.
***
This week’s MOTE prompt was from Cedar Sanderson: Aim small, miss small. It felt like a great opportunity for the SANTA crew.
My prompt went to Becky Jones: The virus made her a living prison.
