The Rough Riders

Chapter Eight

"I am not going to wear that! Are you insane?!"

"Oh please, how is this any worse than what you wear every night? I'm pretty sure this covers more than two-thirds of your wardrobe!"

"Did you even see the color? That's awful! I don't wear that shade of green! I'd look like old cheese!"

"...have you been trying to read Gone with the Wind again? You're quoting Scarlett O'Hara."

On the couch, Valentine scowled. It was all Slate could do to avoid laughing outright at the disgusted expression on her face. Without a word, the little girl squirmed about under the weight of her book, snagged the noise-canceling headphones he'd found for her a year ago. Jamming them onto her head, Valentine cast another black look at the open living room door before she largely vanished behind her book.

Jack sat on the far side of the room, his own book open on his knee, but he, too, had been distracted by the sound of Kitty and Nathan bickering. "I told him she'd probably shove that dress up his ass."

Slate snorted, adjusting the belt buckle that had been one of Kitty's recent shopping acquisitions. "What'd he pick out? Somethin' green, I'm guessin', but she wears green now and then."

"It's a weird lime green. Or baby puke green, fuck if I know. It's green. He made me break into the go-" Jack paused, cleared his throat and avoided Slate's hard look. "He made me break into the damn store just to get it."

"What'd I tell y'all about pullin' stunts like that?" With a quick glance down the hallway, Slate stepped into the living room and kicked the side of Jack's chair. "Y'all know you're not supposed to go breakin' into whatever place you feel like!"

Valentine looked up blandly when Jack flailed to catch his book and fell out of the chair doing so, but the thump didn't even pause the squabbling that was rising in volume. Jack glared up at Slate, snatching his book from the carpeting, and got to his feet. "One, quit doing that. I like being in chairs, not being thrown out of them. Two, we've slacked off on that quite a bit over the last year or so. Cut us a break, okay?"

Although Slate grumbled wordlessly, he didn't lecture any further. Jack was right; they had improved in their behavior. It'd taken more than a few "lessons," usually ending with one or both of them going through a wall, but even Nathan had mentioned finding things more tolerable. They'd settled in rather well, all things considered.

He grunted when a shoe bounced off of his lower back, turning with a sigh to pick it up as Kitty stomped down the hallway. Slate looked up, blinked and hastily turned his back. "Damn it, kitten, put on some clothes!"

"All of mine are in the laundry room!"

"Then put on a damn robe!"

Nathan's grin was exceptionally broad as he trailed the blonde down the hall, openly admiring the view of Kitty in nothing but a pair of white lace panties. "Speak for yourself, Slate. Some of us don't mind at all." The high-heeled shoe struck Nathan squarely on the forehead and he squawked, rubbing the dent in his skin. "Hey, what the hell?!"

"Be decent, for once," Slate snapped, his eyes tightly closed, missing the admiring look Jack was giving him for having thrown the shoe so well without looking. "We're headin' out to a fancy shindig, at least make sure you're actin' like you maybe oughta be there."

"I think I know more about formal dress parties than either of you. Which is evident by how you're dressed. Really, Slate? You put on a belt and a belt buckle with a tuxedo?"

Without a word, Slate opened his eyes and walked past Nathan—perfectly groomed and in a peerless white-tie tuxedo—to the front hallway. Looking back at the other man, he picked up his black Stetson and set it squarely on his head.