Chapter 2 A Bitchin’ Barbecue
A Bitchin’ Barbecue
Brandt
“Reaper, give me a hand with this box of explosives.”
“Fuck,” I grumbled, “why don’t you give me a hand with this damn cooler? What the hell are we blowing up, anyway?” I managed to shoulder the entire cooler on my own.
“What aren’t we blowing up is the better question," West stressed. “It’s the Fourth of July. Did you think we were going to light sparklers and sing the national anthem?”
“I hoped?”
West laughed. “Come on, put that down and help me with these. I’ve got another box in the garage.”
Great, I fell in love with a pyromaniac. “We’ll be lucky if we get to light them, and aren’t entertaining SWAT, answering questions about why you bought the mother load of explosives.”
“Don’t exaggerate. This is gonna be fun as shit.” With his uneven gait, he struggled with the weight of the box, and I grabbed one end and helped him drag it outside to the deck.
“Maybe we shouldn’t put it right next to the grill,” West surmised, having a genius moment.
“Do you think? Put it over by the hot tub.”
West scratched his head. “Yeah, but if they splash, the explosives will get wet.”
“Maybe we could shove it up your ass?”
“Don’t be a dick. Are you sure Stiles said he’s bringing the meat?”
“That’s what he said.”
West disappeared inside and came out carrying a bag of ice and a twelve-pack of Ginger Ale. Lifting the lid on the cooler, he cursed. “What the fuck is this?”
“What?”
“There’s nothing but iced tea and water in here. Where’s all the beer?”
“The fuck, West? Nash, Brewer, and the guys from Serenity House are coming over. We can’t have beer.”
“Yeah, we can. They don’t have to drink it.”
Is he fucking kidding me? “Seriously?”
“What? What happened to all of that faith in your convictions, surrender, and let go and let God? If they’re tempted to drink my beer, they can pray about it.”
“All right, now you’re being a dick.”
He dumped the ginger ale and ice in the cooler and slammed the lid. On his way past me, he rubbed his hand over my ass, squeezing a handful of my cheek. “I’m not being a dick,” he chuckled. “I’m just fucking with you. Lighten up.”
Sighing, I scrubbed my face. “Sorry. I don’t know what’s gotten into me. I am being uptight, aren’t I?”
“Little bit.” He licked the shell of my ear, and I felt that shit in my dick.
“It’s only a big deal to you, Reaper. Nobody cares that you’re wearing a hearing aid today.”
“What?” I asked loudly, pretending I didn’t hear him.
“Fuck off,” he laughed, smacking my ass. “I’m gonna go grab the other box of explosives.”
“Do you need a hand?”
“No, they’re not as heavy as the last one.”
I waited until he was out of sight before my fingers brushed the plastic device hugging my ear.
It was just a little thing, but it was huge.
To me, it was everything. How could something so little scare the shit out of me so badly?
Maybe because unlike West, whose life changed on a dime, he was given his worst-case scenario all at once.
He’d lost his leg, and he had a traumatic brain injury with a specific set of side effects.
He knew what to expect on his bad days. But that wasn’t the case with me.
I thought I had gotten off relatively Scott-free—shrapnel scarring over most of my body and partial hearing loss.
I could live with that. But every month I lose a little more of my hearing, which to me equals a little more of my freedom.
In the military, I relied on my senses fully, even took for granted that I was healthy and strong, and now, I don’t know what my worst-case scenario will be. It keeps changing, keeps worsening.
That’s what scares the fuck out of me.
I can’t just accept it and move on because my loss is fluid. Every time I adjust, I have to readjust. It just doesn’t stop. It never fucking stops.
I heard the front door open and shut, thanks to my hearing aid, and made my way inside to find McCormick and Stiles.
“Who said they wanted my meat?” Stiles boomed.
“Fucking no one, ever,” West snickered.
“You’re wrong, Wardell, dead wrong. Plenty of people have said they want my meat.”
“Oh yeah, that’s right, McCormick probably said it last night,” West teased.
“Hilarious, fucking hilarious,” McCormick replied, ignoring Stiles’s laughter.
I relieved him of his bag of meat, giving him a one-armed hug. “Happy Fourth, man.”
“Same to you, Aguilar.”
I heard the door open and shut again, and I glanced up to see Riggs and Jax come in. “Pharo here yet?” Jax asked.
“Why, are your panties wet for him?” Stiles teased.
Jax smacked him in the chest. “Why don’t you reach your hand down there and feel for yourself?”
Shaking my head, I ditched all the bitchin’ Bitches and went out back, intending to light the grill, but as I passed the Jacuzzi, I did a double take.
“What in the holy yellow rubber fuck?” I stuck in my head back inside the sliding glass door and yelled out, “All right, who fucking filled the Jacuzzi with rubber ducks?” I heard a booming laugh and snapped my head round.
Mandy and Nash, those fuckers. They were adding a bag full of rubber flamingos to the duck pond.
Brewer and Tex chose to come through the front door, instead of joining their counterparts in a sneak attack around the back of the house, and they poked their heads through the sliding glass door. “Need a hand?” Brewer asked me.
“I need you to come get your fuckhead boyfriend. He’s trashing my Jacuzzi.” Brewer laughed and shook his head. “Where’s Valor?” I asked, noticing the lack of a kitten slung around his or Nash's chests.
“Spending the day with Violet Gutierrez. Nash said it’s too much chaos for him.”
“You should have invited her," I insisted, thinking about how the widow was probably home alone.
“I tried," Nash insisted. “She said boys will be boys, whatever that means.”
“It means she wanted you to enjoy yourself with your friends and not have to play host to her.” Brewer explained. “We’ll pack her up a plate and bring it to her when we pick up Valor later.”
“Good idea. I’ll make sure Tweedledee and Tweedledumb don’t eat all the meat.”
Speaking of McCormick, he poked his head out the door. He’d chosen his patriotic prosthetic today, spray painted with an American flag. He wore it to group right after he got it, and had all his brothers sign it with a silver Sharpie.
“Hey, I brought dessert.”
Wow, sometimes he actually had good ideas. “Perfect. I think you’re the only one who did.”
“Hey Tex,” McCormick called, “where’s Nacho and Miles?”
The little Texan was dressed in extremely short cut-off denim shorts, and through the many ripped holes in them, I could tell he was wearing bright, red bikini underwear beneath. He paired it with an American flag crop-top and cowboy boots.
“Miles said he doesn’t celebrate the Fourth. I think he’s at the cemetery.” That grabbed my chest and squeezed tight. Fuck, I wasn’t sure what his story was, but it sounded painful. “Nacho said there was too much money on the table to walk away for a barbecue, so he’s running his food truck today.”
“No doubt,” I agreed, thinking of all the citywide fireworks and barbecues going on today. He would clean up. “We'll pack a plate for you to bring to Miles as well.”
“Sounds good,” Tex smiled, kicking up his boots on a lounger. “Can’t say I blame him though, I fucking hate this holiday.”
“The Fourth of July?” I asked. “How could anyone hate the Fourth of July?”
“Yep,” he drawled, popping the p. “Nothing but hyped-up Neanderthals with too many fireworks and firearms, acting like toddlers.”
“Tell me how you really feel.” Nash choked on his laugh, popping the tab on his Ginger ale.
Tex folded his arms behind his head. “Just reminds me of all those meatheads I served with. Fucking hypocrites, all of them.”
“Hypocrites?" I asked, scraping the grill clean with a wire brush.
“Yeah, hypocrites. The military is full of codependent guys who love to cuddle and ass grab. Yet, they claim they’re straight.” He snorted. “About as straight as my dick.”
I glanced over his shoulder, peering through the sliding glass door at McCormick and Stiles. They were doing their best to prove Tex’s point. Stiles had McCormick in a headlock, pretending to make him fuck his cock with his mouth.
Tex followed my line of sight. “Why don’t they just fuck already?” he asked, waving them off with his red-polished hand.
I was laughing when I answered, “I'm pretty sure they’re straight.”
Tex rolled his eyes. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
Music floated through the outdoor speakers, and I figured West must have put it on from the kitchen. I grabbed a Ginger ale from the cooler as I sang along to Proud to be an American. The gate swung open and Pharo climbed up the deck steps, stopping to smirk at the hot tub full of rubber birds.
“I've heard of a hot tub full of rubbers, but it wasn’t quite like this.”
I laughed, leaning in to give him the one-armed hug.
“Glad you made it, man.” His striking looks never went unnoticed.
Pharo was tall, like 6’4, maybe taller, and his body was jacked with muscle.
His skin was tanned dark, probably from his time in Egypt, and he had the most unique golden eyes.
He’d swept his highlighted waves into a man bun and was dressed in black cargo shorts and a matching black tank top.
Jax tapped Tex’s shoulder. “Wipe up your drool. He’s an asshole once you get to know him.”
I heard Tex respond, “Yeah, well, I’ve known a lot of pretty assholes, but that doesn’t mean I can’t look,” and I chuffed. The guy had a point.
Once the grill was hot enough, I headed inside to grab the meat, but Mandy called out, “Hey, could you maybe change the music?”
Born in the USA was playing now, and everyone seemed to bob their heads with the music. “You don’t like this?”
Mandy swallowed and glanced around at the guys before admitting, “It’s getting to me.”