Chapter 8
Thayne
Bronny dramatically throws his head in my direction at the same time he gags, “Cringe.”
I pull my midnight black Chevy truck up to the stop sign and grunt, “Why you gotta say cringe?” My attention briefly cuts over to him in the passenger seat. “Why can’t you jus’…Idontknow? Cringe?”
“Extra. Cringe.”
“Says the bud sportin’ a haircut that makes him look like the Withers’ alpaca.”
“Girls love my hair.”
“Girls love your hair products.”
“Julliard said we could ship jus’ based on my hair.”
That girl is the embodiment of that Will Smith & DJ Jazzy Jeff Song.
We’re talkin’ every single verse.
We’re talkin’ the extended remix edition.
“Yeah, I don’t think that datin’ someone jus’ for their hair is a good idea.”
“Why not?” He asks as I turn left. “Dubs shipped a girl for like six weeks ‘cause they liked the same paint.”
“Dubs is definitely not a good player to call to the ice for the assist.”
“At least he dates.”
“We’re literally pickin’ up my date right now.”
“Yeah, but she’s like the first one you’ve had since the trade that got you here.”
“Not true.”
“Not fake news.”
“I-”
“Let me cook.”
“Wh-”
“And,” he snaps with so much snark I wanna nut check him for his tone, “it’s obvs ‘cause you got no rizz, meanin’ you’re the last simp that should be poppin’ into the pod for a mic drop.”
“I hate everything you jus’ said.”
Bronny makes a mocking sympathetic face. “’Cause it’s true?”
“’Cause it’s further proof I – was in fact – born in the wrong fuckin’ decade.”
Not that I needed more proof.
My choice of tuneskies, bowties, and belief that romance didn’t die when rubbers were invented, demonstrates it enough.
Smoothly pulling my truck into Gilly’s driveway, I firmly point to his door. “Get out.”
“Whyyyyy?” whines the teen that’s got me questioning whether it was a good call to bring him along.
“First off,” killing the engine occurs, “it’s the polite thing to do.
You’re meetin’ someone for the first time, particularly someone important to the person haulin’ your ass all around town for the next few weeks, so it’s courteous to get your ass out of the vehicle and make that connection face to face, which is basic manner trainin’, somethin’ I see I need to reintroduce you to. ”
Bronny pulls his lips to one side of his face but doesn’t argue.
“Second,” my head moves to maintain eye contact, “we let the driver’s date – regardless of gender – sit in the passenger seat.”
“What if they didn’t call shotgun?”
“Standard bud rules are not valid in courtin’ situations.”
“Courtin’?”
“Datin’.”
“Oh,” my little brother grunts at the definition, “why not?”
“”Cause that seat should go to the person he’s tryin’ to build somethin’ with whether that’s love or a dick touchin’.”
“I don’t wanna touch your dick,” he mirthfully announces on a warm chuckle.
“Good ‘cause we ain’t that kinda family.” Laughter briefly fills the space between us before I grab the Dalvegan Dragons tumbler out of the cupholder and exit the vehicle.
“Now, remember, you make today hard for me, I’ll make the week hard for you.
” Once he’s sauntered around the truck, I seek comprehension. “Understood?”
“Yeah, I got it.”
Together, we approach Gilly’s front door, somewhere I haven’t been since our first – and only – night together.
However, it ain’t for lack of tryin’.
She has a somewhat demanding job.
Athletes need their teeth fixed – particularly during their off seasons – and she gets the shit done.
For most of the day, our connection has to be benched.
She has to focus.
Stay focused.
Like me on the ice for three periods and an OT.
Does it suck?
A bit.
Sexting between teen tantrums would make them slightly more bearable.
We’ve been exchanging good morning calls on her way to work, flirty song lyrics texts during her short lunches, and video chats after Bronny decides he’s had enough brotherly parenting for one day.
I haven’t seen her physically since I left here Thursday morning and have hated every minute of it.
Friday night she had plans to see Aly’s oldest daughter in the musical version of Matilda – I watched the Netflix version and pretended I was at the show with her.
Saturday, she had brunch with her parents – which it’s much too early to meet I know – and drinks with Kira who ambushed her into a blind, double date situation with some sieve her husband went to college with.
Didn’t like that.
Didn’t like that shit at all.
Didn’t like that shit so much I almost casually went to grab a drink from the bar they were at.
Had the troublemaker beside me not been trying to wheel a neighbor’s oldest daughter in my theater room – while I was home – I probably would’ve.
His uncontrollable horniness is forcing to me check my own.
I gotta be a good example.
And letting him do “The Wild Thing” just so I could prevent some random plug from going after my woman – who’s still trying to learn that she’s mine – would not be that.
So.
Here I am.
Whisking her away on her first available day.
Just as I prepare to press the bell, the door flies open revealing to me a sight worthy of more than the homemade summer beverage I’m grasping.
Gardinergivemestrength not to completely embarrass myself in front of the boys today.
“Jukes,” coos the woman I can’t wait to have my name.
Number.
Mini.
“Gillybean,” I breathlessly croon back while cupping her cheek to smash our mouths together.
Now, properly kissing your woman?
It’s a good example for Bronny to have.
The tip of her tongue temptingly rolls across mine leaving me with no choice but to chase after it in desperation to prove how much I’ve missed the powerful wet muscle.
This.
Her.
Us.
One feverish lash manages to become two and then three and a fourth alongside a hungry tug closer to match the deeper diving before Bronny is grumbling, “I can legit see your tongue in her mouth.”
At that, Gilly pushes me backwards and giggles. “Sorry!”
“Don’t be,” my younger brother insists after I swipe away the tiny bit of spit, I left behind in the corner of her mouth. “If you were mine, I’d likely do the same.”
Her small swoon is accompanied by a soft grin. “Well, aren’t you sweet.”
“And way underaged,” I gruffly reprimand him.
“For now,” Bronny cheekily pokes.
“Forever.” My attention drops down to him. “Knock that shit off. She’s not only off-limits but way too old for you.”
“Same can be said for you, Jukes.”
Her comment cockily curls my head back to her. “Not accordin’ to Simon & Garfunkel.”
“Calling me Mrs. Robinson is so not the compliment you think it is.”
“Fair enough,” leaves me on a small chortle. “What about ‘Diana’ by Paul Anka?”
“Not familiar with it.”
“’Desirée’ by Neil Diamond?”
“More familiar.”
“Broooooo,” the teen beside me whistles, “you’re like a human Spotify app.”
“And that’s why I call him Jukes,” Gilly states with pride prior to extending her hand out for him to shake. “Gillian.”
“Bronson,” he introduces during their greeting, “but you can call me Bronz ‘cause I’ve got all of it,” a flexing of his other sleeveless bicep is executed, “and-”
“No brains,” I intervene with a slap to the back of the head.
“Ou!”
“It’s actually brawns when referencing your muscles not bronz,” my other half gingerly corrects, “but more importantly, you’re more impressive to most girls when you’re just being yourself versus some exaggerated version you think you need to be for their attention.”
He gives the back of his head a small rub. “Is that how Thayne got you?”
“Yeah,” she meekly bites her bottom lip and meets my gaze, “and it’s how I’m sure he’ll keep me.”
“For forever if you let me.” Rather than allow for a possibly unwanted rebuttal, I politely segue by offering the beverage melting in my possession.
“I made you coffee for the drive.” She swings her “Tooth Be Told” beach bag over her loose fitted black dress covered shoulder and accepts the drink. “Cinnamon horchata iced coffee.”
“I’ve never had horchata iced coffee!” Excitement floods her beautiful dark gaze during the lifting of it to her lips. “What is it?”
“Coffee mixed with horchata flavoring, which I made from scratch with rice, water, cinnamon, and vanilla.”
She pauses instead of tasting. “Wait. You made the flavoring?”
“Yeah.” My floral, tropical Hawaiian shirt sporting shoulders innocently bounce. “Gave me somethin’ to do last night besides cock blockin’.”
“Which I didn’t appreciate.”
“Which is why you aren’t bein’ left alone today,” I mumble back.
“Wow,” Gilly warmly whispers out, “that’s so…thoughtful.” Her teeth briefly sink into her lip again. “I’ve never had anyone make me coffee before. Let alone the stuff that goes in it.”
Loving that I’m the first – and the first for so much – has my shoulders pushing back in pride at the same time I declare, “More than happy to be the first and last, Gillybean.”
She giggles and indulges in her first sip, something she enjoys considering the heavenly hum that escapes.
AlGreenhelpmenow.
I’m about one moan away from sending Bronny home in an Uber and blowing off the event to engage in a bit of “Love and Happiness”.
“This is soooo good,” she praises after a second taste. “You make it often?”
“Horchata? No.” I wait for her to shut and check that the door is locked behind her. “Coffee? Yeah. Been makin’ that since Gramps saw I could reach the button.”
My little brother fights the urge to chuckle knowing Gramps treated him the same way.
“Growin’ up, I’d make his for him – black no sugar-”
“On Sundays he’d put a shot of Wilcox in it to celebrate the lord,” interjects Bronny.
“I’d make Grams for her – two sugars-”
“On Sundays Gramps would put two shots of Wilcox in hers to help her find ‘more reasons’ to celebrate the lord,” cackles my brown swim trucks wearing houseguest.