Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
DANNY
I t wasn’t my fault, I swear. I just happened to look over while Frankie was licking syrup off her fingers and then I couldn’t look away?—
Shit. I need to get these thoughts under control. Before I start imagining a fully naked Frankie Armstrong covered in whipped cream and sweet, sticky syr?—
Jesus, Danny! Go find a bucket of cold water and stick your head in it! And leave it under until the bubbles stop because you’re making a huge ass of yourself!
I settle for heading outside into the fresh air and breathe deep to regain control. It’s being back around family that’s the problem. Every time I’m in the company of my siblings, I regress. Old habits; right from when I was little, I was always the prankster, the entertainer, the court jester. When you don’t fit the Durant mold, you have to find some way to stand out. But it’s not a talent that ages well. I need to step up and be better. In particular, I need to be better than Frankie Armstrong.
Now, that’s a complicated thought. Do I want to be better than her, so she’ll finally take me seriously? Or am I channeling the Durant competitive spirit into yet another challenge: which of us, Frankie, or me, gets to be the MVH, most valuable helper?
No point in unpicking it any further. Whatever my underlying motivation, the end game’s the same: to win.
A rattling rumble down the driveway signals the approach of some aging vehicle. I’m always interested in vehicles, no matter how old and crappy, so I wait to see what it is. In doing so, I forget to wonder about who it is.
An ancient Dodge pick-up truck pulls up and stops with a judder of brakes and, I swear, a whistle of steam.
“Hey, Danny!” calls a voice from the open passenger window.
Crap. It’s my sister, Ava. Haven’t seen her since last Christmas. I resist the urge to rub my arm because it’ll make her cackle with glee.
She hops out of the cab with her usual speed and agility. Ava is tiny, with short dark hair and Nate’s gentian blue eyes. She lives in all-black activewear, and zips around like Tinkerbell’s evil twin. She used to be an exercise rider for a top Kentucky racehorse stable but got burned out and quit. Before she was diagnosed, she was tested for all kinds of frightening conditions, so the burnout verdict was a big relief, especially for my mom. Secretly, none of us other siblings thought Ava would have the patience for the extensive rest that’s needed if you don’t want burnout to turn into chronic fatigue. But by that stage, she was in a committed relationship with Cam Hollander, Flora Valley Wines handyman and barrel maker, and the slowest moving human on the planet, so she was forced to chill. I can see Cam now, just starting to think about getting out of the truck. Meanwhile, Ava is already across the gravel and up in my face.
“What are you doing here?” I demand.
Attack is the best form of defense when you’re a Durant.
“Same reason as you,” she says. “Cam and I are part of Team ‘Make Sure Nate Doesn’t Have An Aneurysm’. Shelby will be fine, as we all know. It’s Nate who’s most likely to push himself to breaking point.”
“Yes, but why you ? Cam works here. He’s already part of the team. You’re still supposed to be taking it easy, aren’t you?”
“Doesn’t mean I won’t have a useful role,” she says. “For example, I could train you .”
“To do what? Trot on command?”
Ava smiles and pats me on the arm. I try not to flinch.
“I already trained you to do that years ago,” she says. And heads past me to the house.
Goddammit. I walked right into that one.
Cam’s finally made it across the gravel. He was a soldier, served in Afghanistan, and he’s a big unit, a head taller than me and Nate, and built like the kind of tree he makes barrels from. Despite it being high summer, he has on his usual plaid flannel shirt, sleeves rolled up, and old work-roughened jeans. I suddenly become a little self-conscious of my sage green polo shirt and chinos. Told you I should be wearing overalls.
“Hi, Cam. Good to see you again.”
As well as being the slowest human in existence, Cam’s also the least verbal. He lifts his chin in response. Could mean, “You, too.” Could mean, “Still haven’t forgiven you for teaming up with Jackson Armstrong last year and roasting me about my love life.”
I give it a fifty/fifty shot. Nate was teasing him that night, too, and Cam and Nate are best buds now. Nate’s probably closer to him than he is to me.
“Danny.”
Speaking of. My beloved bro appears, to summon me curtly from the house. Ava’s right: Nate’s in stress mode, which makes him extra impatient and officious. I breathe in some more fresh air, so I can deal with Nate being overbearing, Ava looking for every opportunity to goad me, Cam possibly plotting retribution, and Frankie being … distracting.
I could, you know, stop thinking about her in terms of competition. I could offer to collaborate, work with her. That way I could keep the promise of good behavior I made to Shelby and Nate. It would bring Frankie and me closer, and who knows where that might lead?
Or I could accept that I’m a Durant and we’d sacrifice vital body parts before conceding defeat.
I square my shoulders and walk back inside.