Bro Doll (Kinky ABC #4)

Chapter 1

The first thing I notice, when I wake up at five in the afternoon on a Friday with no alarm and no reason to set one, is the quiet.

No shitty music from Derek’s Bluetooth speaker.

No one slamming the bathroom door because Derek takes forty-minute showers.

No Derek shrieking into his headset about some guy on the other team who’s camping, who’s hacking, who’s a fucking loser, bro, I swear to god.

No Derek existing in the aggressively Derek-way to exist.

Just my room. Half empty—thank fuck. Sunlight slanting across the carpet where his shit used to be. And me, sprawled on the mattress with one arm behind my head and absolutely nothing on the docket until Monday morning.

I stare at the ceiling for eleven minutes. I know it’s eleven minutes because I counted.

Then Grant’s voice carries up through the floorboards.

“Boys!” There’s a pause and the sharp hiss of a can being cracked. “We are celebrating the fall of a dictatorship!”

I allow myself exactly thirty more seconds of ceiling time before I roll off the bed, drag on a shirt that’s probably clean, and head downstairs.

Grant is holding court in the kitchen when I get there.

Now, one thing you gotta know about Grant is that the dude is absolutely massive.

If I had to describe him, “brick wall” would pretty much do the job.

Wide everywhere. Thick through the shoulders, thick through the neck, with thighs that tell the whole horror story about the football program’s leg days.

Or maybe just from lugging his Materials and Methods binder across campus, which is a full-body workout in itself.

He points a finger at me the second I clear the doorway.

“Kit, bro,” he says with a reverence that makes me snort. “Derek. Is. Gone.”

“I know.”

“His stuff is gone, too.”

“Yeah, I know. Some weirdo helped him haul it out last night.”

“Man, I woke up this morning and his truck wasn’t in the driveway. I sat in my car for five minutes just to make sure I wasn’t dreaming.” He drinks his beer and burps. “I cried a little.”

“Man, you didn’t cry.”

“A little.”

I fill a glass of water and lean against the counter, letting him have his moment. He’s mid-sentence about the time Derek complained that Grant’s protein powder was taking up too much fridge real estate—a story I’ve heard three times and which gets longer each time—when Walker shows up.

He fills the kitchen doorway, two six-packs tucked under one arm while casually doing pull-ups on the doorframe with the other.

He found a natural lip there four minutes after moving in, and has treated it like a gym ever since.

He hangs there, ankles crossed, his biceps popping massive. It’s an insane look.

“Nineteen. Twenty.” He drops and sets the packs down on the counter. “Some of Derek’s shit was on the curb when I walked past. Little sad.”

“As if,” Grant scoffs.

“I’m not sad, bro. I’m just saying. Sad little pile of shit.”

Walker grins, a mischievous expression that’s pure fifth-grader.

He’s the guy who suggests the most unhinged things just to laugh at people’s reaction.

Or maybe all that shit just pops out in his brain and he has no filter, who knows.

Depending on the day, it’s either really funny or really exhausting.

He’s also the guy who lives in gym clothes—tiny shorts (seriously, why so tiny?) and almost always shirtless—and sees zero issue with it. There’s still chalk on his hands when he reaches over to hijack a sip of Grant’s beer.

“Dude, get your own,” Grant mutters, not even bothering to move.

“I brought more.”

“Then drink that!”

Walker ignores him, and drops into a seat at the kitchen table, drinking his stolen beer. “Kamaru Usman versus prime Jon Jones. Same weight class. Who wins?“

“Jones,” Grant answers immediately.

“Ha! Wrong.”

“It’s not wrong, it’s—”

“It’s empirically, scientifically, mathematically wrong, bro, and I will explain to you exactly why.”

I take my water and bail to the living room, because I’m not hearing that.

Finn and Miles show up together a few minutes later.

Finn is shorter and skinnier than the rest of the house, but he moves at twice the speed of everyone else because he chugs energy drinks like they’re water. The rest of the house provides the muscle and the brain. Finn has neither.

If Grant is wide, Walker is muscle, and Finn is… well, Finn, then Miles is tall. Tall, tall. Like his skeleton had more ambitious plans for itself than the rest of him, and just kept growing. People are constantly trying to scout him for basketball, but Miles would rather die than play a sport.

He crashes onto the recliner, balances the laptop on his knees, and starts aggressive-typing without a word of greeting.

“Nested if statements,” he tells the laptop. “Nested if statements, you piece of shit!”

“Dude,” I say.

“There is a null value returning from line forty-two and I cannot—”

“Dude.”

“What! What, man, what?“

“Derek’s gone.”

His face goes through a visible shift from weed-annoyed to weed-relaxed. “Oh, thank God.”

“Man, this calls for a party,” Finn announces, springing to his feet and heading for the kitchen.

He’s back ten seconds later with a Tupperware container.

“Edibles,” he announces. “Blue raspberry. I’ve had four.” He makes a dramatic pause. “I feel like a god.”

“How long ago did you take them?” Walker calls from the kitchen.

“Like an hour?” Finn perches on the arm of Miles’ recliner. “Don’t worry about it.”

“That’s exactly the kind of shit I didn’t want to hear,” Grant groans.

“I’m fine. I’m good. I feel incredible.” He looks at Miles’ laptop screen. “What are you doing?“

“Working.”

“Dude, it’s Friday.”

“Code doesn’t care what day it is.”

“Your brain cares.” Finn shoves his phone about four inches from Miles’ nose. “Look. This guy’s cat fell asleep in a tortilla. Look at how relaxed it is. You need to be that cat, bro.”

Miles doesn’t look up. “I need to fix this before Monday or I’m going to fail an assignment that’s worth thirty percent of my grade.”

“The cat is so relaxed.”

“Man...”

“Look at the cat.”

I’m not watching this, exactly. I’m sprawled on the couch with my feet propped on the armrest and my eyes half-closed, head tipped back, just absorbing the noise.

Grant’s voice echoing from the kitchen, Walker’s laugh, Miles’ low muttering, Finn’s relentless campaign to make Miles look at the tortilla cat.

Someone’s music is playing, but at least it isn’t Derek’s shit.

I breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth, very slowly.

This is what the house is supposed to feel like.

Fuck, man. Life is actually decent sometimes.

By seven o’clock, Walker had relocated the Usman-Jones debate to a whiteboard he liberated from Grant’s room.

Miles has finally closed the laptop—a feat that took Finn thirty minutes, two more edibles, and a heated argument about the importance of relaxation.

Finn is currently hovering somewhere between buzzed and fully wasted, DMing everyone he knows that the house is celebrating the death of assholery.

I’m still on the couch.

I’ve moved, technically—refilled my water, found a bag of chips, and came back. But mostly I’m just here, feet up, listening to the room vibrate. It’s a different world from the last eight months of Derek’s presence.

Significantly different.

Grant notices me at some point during his third retelling of the protein powder fridge story, which has now evolved to include a subplot about Derek straight-up stealing the stuff.

He points a finger at me.

“Look at this guy.”

I look at him. Everyone looks at me.

“Most relaxed motherfucker on the planet,” Grant says, with genuine drunk fondness. “Derek could be literally shitting in his cereal and Kit would just be like... ‘Cool.’”

Walker tilts his head, considering. “He did the cereal thing, though.”

“He did the thing where he’d take Kit’s cereal, and then left the empty box in the cupboard.”

“Yeah, man, not to defend the prick,” Miles says, “but that’s a far cry from shitting in the bowl.”

“It’s worse than shitting,” Walker argues. “It’s a violation of the social contract that—”

“I’m just chill,” I say. That makes them stop.

“Chill?” Finn lets out a bark of a laugh. “Bro, you’re not chill. You’re lazy. Huge difference.”

I push up on my elbows, frowning at him. “I’m literally the most patient person in this house.”

Walker scoffs. “Patient, my ass. You can’t even wait for the microwave without talking shit to it.”

“That’s different.” I flop back. “The microwave lies. It says two minutes, but that’s a scam. It takes three. Minimum.”

What follows is the dumbest argument in recorded history.

Everyone has a take on who’s the chillest, who’s the laziest, and who’s high-strung.

Finn claims he’s patient because he can binge an entire season of a show in one sitting, but Grant points out he talks through every single episode.

Miles tries to claim he’s relaxed because he doesn’t get worked up, but Walker reminds him about the time he launched his laptop through the window because of lag.

It’s stupid. But it’s actually fun.

“Okay,” Walker says, pointing at each of us in turn. “Let’s compete.”

“Dude, not everything’s a competition,” Miles mutters.

“Statue contest,” Walker pushes on, ignoring him. “Whoever moves first, or speaks—”

“Speaking is moving,” Finn says.

“No, it’s not.”

“Your mouth moves, bro.”

“Whoever moves or speaks first, loses.” Walker sets his beer down on the coffee table. “Prize: losers pay for the winner’s beer for a month.”

Miles groans. “Man, that’s kid shit.”

“You got a better idea?”

“Literally anything else.”

“I’m in,” Finn says.

“Me too,” Grant agrees.

“Me too,” I say.

Miles gives me a look like I just betrayed him. “Fine. Whatever.”

“Then let’s start—”

“Wait. What?”

“—now!”

Finn lasts twelve seconds.

He makes it to twelve and then his phone buzzes. He twitches toward it before he can stop himself and mutters “shit” under his breath—which is both moving and speaking, and he knows it before the words even settle.

“Disqualified,” Grant announces immediately.

“I didn’t—”

“You twitched and you said ‘shit.’”

“Dude, you’re speaking right now!”

“Well, someone has to call it out.”

“Bro—”

“Disqualified,” Walker says, sounding delighted, and Finn drops to the floor with his back against the couch.

Walker goes next. He makes it thirty seconds, which is honestly impressive, but then he shifts. I realize he’d been flexing the entire time and his legs just gave out. When he adjusts, Miles barks “out!” right before his own phone vibrates and he reaches for it.

“Goddammit!”

Internet addiction has just killed two men.

Grant makes it two full minutes and then just picks up his beer, chugs half of it, slams it back down and says, “Worth it.”

The room goes quiet. They are all looking at me.

I won, but I still don’t say a word.

“Dude,” Grant says, leaning down to look at my face. “You’re not even blinking.”

Not true. I blinked twice.

I’ve been looking at the ceiling, finding shapes in the water stains—there’s one over the lamp that looks exactly like Idaho.

Finn, from the floor, pokes me in the ribs real hard. My abs flex, but it’s just a reflex.

“Bro’s dead,” Finn says, very final.

It makes me snort.

“I can do this shit all day,” I say, because I genuinely can.

Walker tilts his head. He’s looking at me with that fifth grader expression again.

“Okay, new bet.”

The room collectively groans.

“Dude, my wallet doesn’t have infinite money,” Finn complains.

“Hear me out. If any of us can make Kit move, he’s the automatic loser. Pays everyone’s beer for a month.”

What kind of absolute bullshit is this?

“How’s that fair?” I ask, already feeling not so chill. “That’s five people’s beer.”

“You the one who said you could do it all day.”

“I can.”

“Then prove it, bro.”

I shift my focus back to the ceiling. Idaho stares back at me, indifferent. “What’s in it for me?”

“The satisfaction of—”

“Nope.”

Grant goes quiet for a second. You can always tell when he’s running the math because he gets unnervingly still—a funny look, considering the circumstances.

“Three months,” he says. “You win, we cover your rent for three months.”

Walker starts to object.

“Shut it,” Grant snaps. “You’re the one who started this.”

“I was going to say that’s fair.”

Finn raises a hand from his spot on the floor. “I feel like I should have a vote here, seeing as I’m also paying rent.”

“You already lost the beer bet, shut up,” Miles mutters.

“That’s... yeah. Fair.”

I keep my eyes on the ceiling.

Three months of rent is real money. It’s also just math, and the math is simple: they can’t make me move.

I knew it the second Finn’s knuckles hit my ribs and I just didn’t care.

There’s a switch in me that gets very quiet sometimes.

Everything slows down, goes flat, and I can just exist in that space for hours.

Like I said: I’m chill.

“Deal,” I say.

Then, I go completely still.