He had been practically monosyllabic where words were written down; Maggie hadn't expected him to be chatty but the reality first thing in the morning - with a hard-on for a cup of coffee that wasn't going to happen - was unreal. The shades masked the quick study made of the man who had proclaimed himself king of the castle and who certainly had a couple in the clubhouse who agreed. He was younger than she'd expected. His sister had to be a couple years behind him, if she was with Neil but he had the same attitude she'd found in people who lived on the border between town and the desert, enough spit in them to piss over the line until urine sizzled in the sand. Ornery, the American word, piss-and-vinegar back home. His face gave little away. There wasn't a lot to read there, so she studied hands, shoulders, the filthy clothes.
"I meant the prison, chachi," the nonplussed, lack of reaction had less of the smoke and peat of her brothers but was gravel-low and rough with lack of sleep. "Don't know about Roarke. Maybe Gumby." The cement was solid, less dust kicked up by each step and more anticipatory of shade up-ahead. The heat had splayed across her back, the cotton uncomfortably warm.