Page 32 of Hold the Pickle
“I don’t, but I think my cousin Max does.”
“If you see him, you tell him Valerie Corellli thinks he’s great.”
I bite back a smile. “Will do.”
The light turns green and we dart forward.
“That’s where he used to train,” Valerie says, pointing at the darkened windows of a place called Buster’s Gym. “They used to have this big ol’ banner over it with his picture. I loved those days.”
“My cousin works out there.”
“Who’s your cousin?”
“Max Pickle.”
“Oh, I know him! He’s not a fighter. He does those muscle competitions. Now he’s a looker. He single? I’m single.”
“He and his wife Cam are having a baby soon.”
“Well, rats. The good ones are always taken.” She signals and pulls over to the curb. There are two metal doors in the long brick wall, no windows. “This is the bar. Make sure they’re here before you go in there. I don’t want to drop you off alone.”
I text Max.You here? I just pulled up.
After a moment, Max steps out of one of the doors and waves a hand.
“Oh, you weren’t lying! That’s him!” Valerie practically lies forward on the front seat to peer out the passenger-side window.
“Thank you for the ride.” I close the app and open the door.
Max rushes forward to help me out.
“Hi, Max Pickle!” Valerie calls. “Tell your friend Colt McClure that he’s the greatest!”
Max leans down. “Who should I say thinks he’s so great?”
Now that he’s staring right at her, Valerie looks like she might faint. She opens her mouth but no words come out.
“She’s Valerie Corelli,” I say.
Valerie points at me and nods. She still doesn’t seem able to speak.
“I’ll pass it on.” Max stands and closes the door. “Shall we?”
I take his arm. “You know, she knew you, too. Is it hard being famous?”
He leads us into the dimly lit bar. “My fame is limited to bodybuilding and pickles.”
I spot Cam sitting on a stool, surrounded by enough tricked-out muscle to fill a beefcake wall calendar. “These are all your friends?”
“The boys who work out at Buster’s, mainly.”
“But not Colt McClure.”
He laughs. “No, he’s scarce these days. Parker’s here, though. Those two are tight.”
He points out a short-haired man in a tight, pale-blue polo, his arm wrapped around a petite woman. There’s a whole cluster of people clumped next to the bar, half of them sitting on tall stools with their backs against the counter.
“Max!” Another man, who is somehow taller than my cousin, approaches, smacking Max on the shoulder. “Who’s this?”
