The door to Liam's house creaked open slowly.
Dickson hobbled inside like a war veteran returning from the frontlines, both hands clutching his ass as though he were holding in the last bit of his dignity. His once-pristine suit was a mess—grass stains all over, the flower crumpled in his chest pocket, his hair sticking out in odd directions.
Liam, standing by the door, had to bite the inside of his cheek hard to keep from bursting into laughter. He held the door open with exaggerated politeness.
Dickson shuffled in with a grunt, glaring daggers at Liam. "I swear," he growled, "if you laugh, I'll bury you six feet under, you fucking asshole."
Liam raised both hands in surrender. "Hey, hey—I'm not laughing," he said, his lips twitching like they were fighting a war of their own. "Scout's honor."
