Chapter 5 #2
I told Willow that I’m not a hothead who throws hands all the time, but it probably says something about my family that it’s an often-enough occurrence that we don’t so much as blink when it happens. Another day, another tussle, sometimes with each other, sometimes with someone else.
I cut my eyes his way, throwing daggers that should shut him up. Instead, he takes my glare as an answer about the imaginary jealous husband.
“Or not. Well, you didn’t get arrested, so it must not have been too bad. And you don’t have a scratch on you, other than the swollen knuckles, so the other guy must’ve been a pussy.”
He’s trying to throw me off. It won’t work.
“Unless you started it and took him out with one sucker punch?”
“I know better. I let him throw the first punch—weak, like the guy.” Fine, it worked. And now I’m amped up again, growling, “Asshole had the new bartender bouncing in his lap like a fucking Tilt-a-Whirl.”
Brutal grins, knowing he got me. To anyone else, his smile looks like a promise of death and dismemberment, but I’m not scared of him, even if he is a huge motherfucker who looks like he eats steel for breakfast and shits out bolts.
The men in our family aren’t known for being tall, dark, and handsome.
It’s more like tall, dark, and scary, each of us damn near replicas of our dad’s black hair, dark eyes, tanned skin, and broad build.
Brutal’s the scariest of us all until you get to know him, then you see that he’s the mushiest guy ever, wrapped around his wife and son’s fingers.
“I saw one of those carnival rides when I took Allyson and Cooper to the fair. They wouldn’t let me on, said I ‘exceeded the weight limit’ or some shit.
” He throws up dirt- and sap-covered fingers in air quotes, rolling his eyes.
When he sees the set of my jaw, he laughs.
“Not the point, got it. New bartender, asshole, Tilt-a-Whirl. I vote we talk about the new bartender because I didn’t think Hank would ever hire help. ”
Delight dances in his eyes. I’m the ‘last man standing’ in our motley crew of blended family.
All three Bennett brothers are married now, one of them to my younger sister Shayanne, and both of my older brothers are in relationships, Brutal married and Brody doing the no-marriage-but-committed thing with his woman, Rix.
All of which inconveniently leaves me as the only single.
My sisters-in-law have tried to remedy that, repeatedly attempting and failing to play matchmaker.
But my focus has only been on music.
At least until last night.
I’m not getting out of this. Brutal has his ways, one is easy and the other is hard, so I can spill my guts now or after he tackles me to the dirt and forces it out of me. Sounds barbaric, but it’s our way and done in brotherly love. Mostly.
Still, I try to keep to the bare bones. “Bartender’s name is Willow, and she’s Hank’s niece.”
“And?” he prompts threateningly.
“And nothing.”
He takes one giant step closer, and I’m on the edge of doing this the hard way. I consider it for a moment. Getting out some of this liquid uncertainty in my veins would be nice, but I’m already down my right hand and we’ve got shit to do. Words it is, I guess.
Hey, Universe! I notice a running theme of my last twenty-four hours. Try these words on for size . . . fuck off.
I sag, sighing heavily. “And nothing. She shot me down.”
Brutal freezes with his brows comically high on his forehead.
“She . . . shot . . . you . . . down?” His smile blooms as slowly as the heirloom tomatoes we grew last spring, then he damn near busts a gut laughing.
“Holy shit! Never thought I’d see the day that Pretty Boy Bobby would get turned down by anyone.
I like her already.” He’s bent in half, hands on his knees, eyes watering from laughing so hard that he’s speaking in short bursts of phrases before the next hee-haw of laughter.
I shove him and he stumbles, but only because he’s so off-kilter from laughing at me. The stutter in his steps and the angry scowl on my face only make him howl again.
More pissed than ever, I grab another plum from a low branch and toss it in the bucket, being too rough with the fragile fruit.
“Hey! Don’t damage the merchandise with your pissy attitude,” Brutal scolds, as if I’m a stupid kid or a newbie laborer he’s training.
I throw him a middle finger, making sure it pops up good and strong despite the twinge in my knuckle.
His shit-eating grin of victory is audible in his tone.
“I’ll let Mama Louise know you won’t be at dinner tonight, seeing as you’ll be eating at Hank’s for round two, loverboy. ”
And with that, he gets back to work too.
It’s his version of advice, basically telling me to quit moping, get my shit together, and try again. I grunt, the unofficial Tannen family language, saying thanks and that I appreciate it.
He’s right. I just need to figure out what I said wrong, figure out how to say it right, and try again. Just like a song.
Last night was just a first rough draft of our meeting. I hope.