Chapter 24
TWENTY-FOUR
brODIE
“Brodie, honey. Come and give your mom a big bug hug.” Mom wraps her arms around me, squeezing me in the way only she can.
I can’t help but melt. All of five foot nothing, she’s a pint-sized powerhouse in a family of six-foot-something men, somehow stronger than all of us put together.
“Have you been eating anything other than noodles? You’re skinny.”
I roll my eyes as I rest my chin on the top of her cute curls, dyed her signature shade of auburn. “Mom, I bench two-ten. I must be feeding myself well enough to be able to do that.” I press a kiss to her forehead and step back. “You look beautiful. Nice outfit.”
She does a twirl in her blue party dress. “One of these days, some smart girl’s going to fall for that charm.”
“Got news for you, Mom. Brodie’s doing just fine in the girlfriend stakes.” Brad steps in behind me, leaning down to kiss Mom’s cheek.
I will the ground to swallow me whole.
Mom squeals. “Oh my god. Tell me everything. Is she from here? Is she beautiful? Well, of course she’s beautiful, because look at you. Is she a writer too? She must be bright. And funny. I bet she’s gorgeous and interesting and—”
“Enough.” I send daggers at Brad and wrap my arm around Mom. “I don’t have a girlfriend. Brad’s being an asswipe.”
“Language.” She fixes me with her don’t mess look as Brock strolls in.
“Who’s being an asswipe?”
“Brad.”
“Language.”
“Me.” Brad grins. “I was just saying how Brodie’s got himself a girlfriend. Brock can tell you all about her, Mom. He works with her.”
Holy fucking Christ. I’ve literally walked into my worst nightmare. In fact, scratch that. It’s like my worst nightmare had a baby with my second-worst nightmare and they created a monster nightmare I didn’t even know it was possible to have.
Today was always going to be rough. Family dinners in the Holt house are never fun, especially if Dad’s in one of his moods. But this is so much worse.
I make an effort to stand tall. “Brad, shut the fuck up. Brock, let’s not do this today. Mom, sorry I said fuck. Twice.” I hold my arm out for her to slap it. “Can we all get back on track? We’re here for the birthday girl, remember. Where is she?”
Mom narrows her eyes and glares at the three of us in turn, nostrils flared. We all shrink. See? Total powerhouse.
She shakes her head. “Whatever’s going on, I want the full story before you leave this house. Dinner’s in thirty. Gram’s in the fancy room. Go make her feel special. And for the love of god, no swearing in front of her. She’s eighty. I’m not having her drop dead at the table.”
Mom sashays into the kitchen and I eyeball Brad.
“Not funny, dude.”
He smiles, all innocent. “What? Just delivering the great news.” He throws an arm around Brock. “How’s work? Walked in on any more X-rated shenanigans?”
Brock rubs at his throat, looking at Brad and then to me as if he’s calculating what he should say. He shrugs. “Pretty boy here has been on his best behavior.”
“Holy shit. Are you two actually bonding?” Brad grins.
Brock and I both tut in unison.
Brad chuckles. “And what about Savannah? For real. Please tell me there are updates.”
“Nah.” I shake my head. “There’s nothing to tell.
Savannah and I are strictly friends until this article is written.
Maybe then I’ll have some news for you. It’s only a maybe though.
No guarantees.” I do my very best to keep my voice relaxed, blinking innocently even though every time I close my eyes I’m seeing Savannah, naked, in my bed.
We’ve fucked so hard and so many times in the past three days I’m not walking properly.
Stopping wasn’t an option once we’d started.
Breathing without her in my arms is difficult.
And the only reason I made it out of my apartment tonight is because she took an extra shift.
Otherwise there’s no way I would have been able to leave the bed.
Or shower. Or couch. Or kitchen counter…
I push Brad into what Mom calls the fancy room, otherwise known as the living room, and remind myself that getting a boner at a family dinner is not an option.
Brock goes to follow, but pauses, his mouth level with my ear.
“Strictly professional my ass. You look dogshit tired. So did Savannah last night. A hundred bucks says that’s not a coincidence.
” He chuckles and disappears, turning on the charm as he goes.
“Gram, you’re looking gorgeous. Not a day over thirty. Give your favorite grandson a hug.”
I sag against the hallway wall, Dad’s fire department certificates taunting me with their this-is-what-success-looks-like message, when the man himself stomps down the stairs.
Oh, fucking joy.
He parks one step from the bottom, meaning I have to look up at him.
His mouth is twisted as if he’s eaten a lemon, but even more unsettling is that it’s like staring in a mirror showing my future.
I somehow managed to inherit almost all my genes from Dad, meaning we’re carbon copies with only graying hair, a fire-scarred complexion, and his bitterness for life separating us.
“Brodie.”
“Dad.”
The silence that follows is so uncomfortable I nearly break, but I know better than to give him even an inch.
It’s a test. One I’ve failed too many times in the past. He’ll wait.
And wait some more. And eventually I’ll end up saying something, anything, to ease the awkwardness of the locked-and-loaded waiting game.
And once I break, all hell will erupt. Basically, whatever I say he’ll latch onto and use it to rip me apart.
Today, however, I somehow hold fast. Maybe some of Savannah’s magical strength is rubbing off on me.
Dad growls. A literal growl, like an attack dog.
I still keep schtum.
He then nods. Once. Eyes narrowed. Calculating. And turns, shuffling into the fancy room, his hand snaking into his hair.
Holy shit. I made Dad mess up his hair.
“How’s training going, son? Still set for the summer?” Dad’s focus has been all on my brothers so far and that’s just fine by me.
Brad nods as he chews a mouthful of Gram’s favorite meal, meatloaf. “All on track. Had a meeting with the coach last week. They still want me wearing the C.”
I break out a grin, instantly blowing my low profile. “That’s awesome, dude. Congrats.”
Dad scowls at me, grumbling something under his breath before returning to Brad. “Good. They need you, son. Five-game skid last time I checked.”
“Yep.” Brad deflates a little, glancing from Dad to me and back again. He clears his throat. “Have you heard what Brodie’s working on?”
Fuck it.
I’m sure he has all the good intentions, but good intentions never work with Dad.
I offer a silent prayer to the gods, stars, and entire fucking universe that somehow one of them will find a way to shut his mouth.
I also stomp on his foot under the table.
Unfortunately, I get the wrong foot and my Blundstone connects hard with Brock.
“Ow! What the fuck was that for?” Brock shoots me a glare.
“Brock. Language.”
He dips his head. “Sorry, Mom. Sorry, Gram.”
Gram blinks at him, all tight gray curls, bubblegum-pink sweater, and a sparkly grin. Whatever Mom tells us, I’d put a hefty wager on Gram not caring about our swearing. Either that or she doesn’t understand a word we’re saying.
I train my eyes on my meatloaf and mashed potatoes, digging deep to locate my appetite, and hoping Brock’s F-bomb will have distracted Dad from Brad’s question.
Unfortunately, Dad’s a dog with a bone when it comes to anything about me.
He puffs up in his seat at the head of the dinner table, placing down his cutlery and picking up his beer. Each movement measured and slow.
I try to swallow the forkful of meatloaf that’s currently quadrupling in size with each chew, wrestling for something I can say to deflect what’s about to happen. I come up entirely short because my head empties like a black hole.
“Do tell us, Brodie. What is it you’re working on? I assume it’s something to do with writing.” Based on Dad’s tone, writing is tantamount to me being a serial killer.
I force my meatloaf down so I can reply, but it’s Brock’s voice that pipes up. Once again, not being an asswipe.
“Brodie’s working with me at Eight. He’s writing a feature on our probie.”
Dad bristles and I shiver at the arctic chill he sends down the table.
“Is he now? Eight?” He makes another of his growling sounds. “I’m surprised Kendall even allowed you in the place. Maybe he’s going soft now the pension clock’s ticking.”
I grip my knife and fork. “Kendall’s great. He invited the Herald to write the piece. The focus is celebrating the importance of the community fire hall.”
“And they got lumbered with you.” Dad literally scoffs out the phrase. “They could at least have sent someone qualified. You’re still just a junior lackey—”
The clatter of my knife falling to my plate rings out, silencing him. He smirks. It’s his expression of choice when he knows he’s getting to me.
I make a concerted effort to unhunch my shoulders and think about something else. Like Savannah. And her smile. And the way she lights up every edge of my dark corners. I blink, the tension in me softening a fraction only to hear Brock in full swing.
“… he even got stuck in with drills. The crew is enjoying having him around, and he’s found a great angle by focusing on Savannah.”
My mouth gapes. First, what the hell is with Brock? Second, please god, he didn’t just say Savannah’s name out loud?
Mom frowns as she cuts her meatloaf. “Wait, didn’t you date a girl called Savannah back in college?”
I go to respond. To offer something throwaway that will redirect this entire conversation away from the multi-car pile-up it’s careening toward.
Unfortunately, Brock’s the one who speaks first. “It’s the same woman, Mom. Brodie’s ex-girlfriend now works at Hall Eight.”
I groan. Mom gasps. Dad sneers. Gram watches all the action like it’s OT in game seven of the Stanley Cup finals and we’re fighting over the puck.