The Hollow Men (Book 1): Crave by Jonathan Teague Page A

sick about insulting his friend. He shook his head ruefully, upset at himself for acting that way. “I’m sorry, mate. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Today was too much. I just…” He trailed off, waiting for his friend to signal either anger or forgiveness.
    “So, you aren’t superhuman after all. I promise not to tell your wife,” Scott said, the edge in his tone softened. Still, he looked at his friend with his eyes narrowed and prompted, “What now?”
    “OK. First, you are right. It would be stupid to go off half-cocked in the morning. We’ll take the time we need to plan an operation. While we figure it out, let’s get the grills out. This might be the last time we get to eat meat that comes from an animal larger than a squirrel. What do you think? I can give you one more shot at the title.”
    Every year, Scott and Tom competed fiercely to see who was the best outdoor chef. Their challenges ran the gamut: grill the best porterhouse, create the best original rub, build the juiciest burger, bake the most delicious Dutch oven dessert. They shared a passion for all things cooked on flame: fish, steak, pork, burgers, chicken—they even roasted a vegetable or two after not-so-subtle prodding from their wives. From early spring to late summer, they matched grill against grill. The crowned winner had bragging rights for the winter. The other suffered an ignominious defeat. Scott had been banished to the circle of shame for the last three winters.
    Memories of hundreds of such cook offs restored a level of camaraderie. “Sounds good. The last few summers were just a hustle. I’ve been holding back the haymaker that’s going to end your streak,” Scott said.
    Tension cleared, Tom stepped off the porch. He welcomed the darkness when the black night swallowed him up. At his own doorstep, he turned around, still puzzled over the way he’d treated his oldest friend. “I’m a bit crook,” he said, slipping into Aussie slang, “but there’s no excuse for what I said. I mean it. I’m sorry.”
    Scott waved it off. “Don’t worry about it. Get some sleep. You’re going to need it.” He looked weary as he opened the door and walked inside his house.
    Tom sat outside for ten more minutes, reflecting on the night’s events and trying to be impartial in weighing Scott’s plans against his own. He found himself getting angry again. Scott was plain wrong. Living in the mountains with kids, scrounging for worms to eat with pine needle soup. He snorted at the foolishness of it. Tom almost walked back to his friend’s house to rekindle the argument.
    He shook himself out of his irrationality. What’s wrong with me? He forced himself to calm. Talking about it tonight wasn’t going to solve anything. The pressing darkness and the wet heat disconcerted him. For the second time that night, he felt afraid, a feeling that he’d seldom experienced in his life. He needed rest, badly. He didn’t even take off his clothes before collapsing into bed. Sleep took him quickly.

CHAPTER 18
    N IGHT’S D ARK S HADE
    S cott dreamt of meat.
    A glorious five-pound pork butt glistened in front of him on a large white tray. The carefully selected cut of meat shook like jelly every time he touched it. It had a glorious wedge of tantalizing fat marbling the middle. He imagined the low, slow heat of his smoker working its magic, melting the thick lard into the meat, giving it a mouthwatering, buttery flavor.
    Using a dry cloth, he patted it dry before applying a light coating of olive oil. With a steady rolling of his wrist, he generously blanketed the pork in a balanced mixture of black pepper, cayenne pepper, paprika, salt, garlic, brown sugar, and Colman’s dry mustard—only Colman’s was worthy.
    Scott’s nostrils inhaled the peppery dust. It tickled, then burned his sinus cavities, making his eyes water. He worked the rub into the meat with a technique that could rival the skills of an expert masseuse in any upscale