Free Some Like It Hot by Susan Andersen

except for a few cans of Coke, fewer bottles of Bud, a lonely, nearly gone quart of milk that might or might not still be drinkable and an assortment of condiments that ran heavily on the mustard and pepper sauce side.
    He could always throw on a shirt and some flip-flops and go to the Sunset Café to get himself a big plate of the Fisherman’s special, he supposed. And in truth, bacon and eggs and hash browns, with a side of toast and jam sounded awfully damn good right about now.
    But if he scrounged something up here, he could get an earlier start on the home improvement project he’d been planning for his next day off.
    Which was today.
    “Screw it.” He reached for the milk carton, inverted the fold to the pour position and sniffed. What the hell. It didn’t smell sour, exactly, so he kicked the fridge door shut and grabbed a bowl, a spoon and a box of Froot Loops from the cupboard. He carried everything over to the table, where he shoved aside a stack of unopened mail with the bottom of the milk carton, then unloaded the rest of his haul onto the tabletop. He turned back to give the coffeemaker, sitting cold and silent on the counter, a considering look. Then with a shrug, he returned to the fridge to grab himself a can of Coke. “Breakfast of champions.”
    He popped the tab on his way back to the table. As he took a long gulp, he hooked a bare foot beneath the stretcher separating the chair’s back legs to tow it away from the table. Taking his seat, he poured cereal in the bowl, topped it off with milk, then picked up his spoon and dug in.
    He ate fast, and as soon as he scraped up a lone Froot Loop and the last of the milk from his bowl, he climbed to his feet again. Taking everything back to the kitchen, he poured the little bit of milk still left in the carton down the drain and dumped the empty container, along with his bowl, spoon and can, into the sink to deal with later. Then he located an old pair of beat-up running shoes, shoved his feet into them and went out to the garage to gather his ladder and tools. He didn’t want to spend his entire day off working, so the sooner he got started, the sooner he could get in a little beach time.
    He worked steadily and had just finished applying a peroxide-based cleaner to the last of the cedar shakes on the north side of his house and was up on the ladder scraping mildew out of the grooves of the affected shingles when he heard car tires crunching up the drive. Curious, he tossed the scraper onto the ladder’s shelf, jumped to the ground and strode toward the corner nearest the driveway. He didn’t get much in the way of company.
    Or, okay, any as a rule.
    Rounding the corner, he was in time to see his half brother climbing out of his fancy-ass Benz BlueTEC. Pleasure splintered through him, a recent sensation that caught him by surprise every time he saw Jake.
    He gave himself a shake. It was hardly an oddity that he was not yet accustomed to the new direction their relationship had taken. God knew they’d spent a helluva lot more time being enemies than friends.
    “Hey,” he said. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”
    “I figured the only way I’d ever get to see your place was to invite myself.” Pulling his sunglasses down his nose, Jake gave him an unhurried once-over. “You’ve sure as shit never issued one.”
    “Yeah.” Max rolled his shoulders guiltily. “Sorry about that. Most of the group I used to run with were either gone or on the wrong side of the law when I got back to town, so I guess I’m out of the habit of inviting people to drop by.”
    “Jesus, dude, don’t you have any friends?”
    “I have friends,” he said defensively. “Most of them are marines, though, so we’re scattered all over the place. But I have a couple of guys I shoot pool with at The Anchor or share an occasional beer with around town.” But, okay, didn’t really see otherwise.
    Then he went on the offensive, since everyone knew that was the best