"Joel Rosenberg - Hidden Ways 1" - читать интересную книгу автора (Rosenberg Joel C)

"Give me a break," Torrie said, not that he really expected Ian to stop.

He was pleased to be wrong. "Peace," Ian said. "No offense intended."

Torrie looked into the rearview mirror, to see Ian holding up a hand. "But I tell you," Ian said, "you're all the same way. You, too,
Maggie. You live your own life at school, but the moment you point your car—"

"I don't have a car," Maggie said.

"—the moment you point your nose homeward, you turn into Buck and Martha's baby girl—"

"My parents are Albert and Rachel."

"—Albert and Rachel's baby girl again. You stand up straight, you make a special effort to wash around the neck ..." Ian scratched
at where his sketchy beard met his collar. "Hell, I bet you even make your bed."

Maggie arched an eyebrow. "You don't?"

No, he didn't. The times that Maggie stayed over in Torrie's room, and Ian was kicked out to sleep on the St. Rock brothers' floor,
Torrie had made Ian's bed. It looked nicer and somehow a bit less calculated that way.

Ian shrugged. "Well, to tell the truth, no—the way I figure it, if I'm going to be back in bed in sixteen hours, what's the point?"

"Well?"

"What is the point, Maryanne?"

"None," she said coldly, frowning. For some reason, Maggie hated her real name, and didn't like any of the reasonable shortened
versions of it. Whenever Ian was irritated with her, he would seem to forget that. Which would only anger her.

None of that bothered Torrie, particularly. Things between him and Maggie were tentative these days; he didn't need Ian
interfering. Not that Ian would interfere deliberately, probably. A steady girlfriend would be too much of a distraction from work
and school, and while Torrie doubted that Ian really cared about school a whole lot, he went at it with even more energy and drive
than he spent on the fencing strips.

Ian finally got around to apologizing. "Sorry, I meant to say, 'What's the point, Maggie?"—that better?"

"Sure." The frown melted into a real smile. "I still meant to say none. No point at all. None beyond, oh, a smidgen of neatness, a
desire to make things look nice. So I still make my bed."

Giving a scornful toss of her head that flicked her short coal black hair from side to side, she folded her arms across her beige
pullover sweater and leaned back against the pillow she had propped up against the door. She was into her short cycle these days,
and would likely stay that way until the summer—Maggie didn't mind tying her hair back in a ponytail when fencing, but said she
despised wearing a headband.

Torrie couldn't decide whether he liked her better in short hair or long. He had always preferred long hair, but something about
Maggie's present almost boyish cut set off her button nose and stubborn chin particularly well.
Not that it would matter what Torrie wanted. Maggie might deign to share a bed every now and then, but she was hardly about to
ask his permission before cutting her hair or picking out her clothes.