“Yeah, Kiddo. I’m okay,” I reply, eyes trained on my door, so she won’t see me crying. “Go to bed.”
Then, I step into my room and shut the door behind me. I don’t look back.
Chapter 3
Sandwiches, Salads, and Spartacus
Ryan
It’s my lunch break,and I’m sitting on the floor of J.T.’s Custom Bikes and Repair showroom, eating a shitty ham and cheese sandwich with my brothers, because, Trey, who’s the oldest of the three of us, is a cheap bastard and refuses to waste money eating out every day like the rest of the crew. Across from us sits Garrett, our middle brother, happily chowing down like he hasn’t eaten the same lunch for the past three days. Trey’s scarfing it down too, but whereas the repetition simply doesn’t bother Garrett, Trey’s eating out of pure stubbornness.
The motorcycles on display around us are truly badass, mostly due to Garrett, who’s a master with the airbrush. I work with them, full-time, at the shop over the summer and holiday breaksto earn some cash for school. I’ve got a couple of scholarships and a little grant money, but it doesn’t cover everything. My brothers help out too, but being a motorcycle mechanic and artist aren’t exactly lucrative fields, so I work in my off time to make up the difference.
I’ve just finished telling them what happened with Charlie at the party, and Garrett is staring at me with a dumbfounded expression on his face. Looking at my brother’s face is like gazing three years into my future, albeit with slightly longer hair. Our features are so similar we could be mistaken for twins except he’s got about two inches on me, height-wise, and whereas I’m built of lean muscle, Garrett’s just skinny as fuck.
“So, wait,” Garrett says, bits of sandwich spewing from his mouth. “You’re telling me you saved this girl, who you’ve been crushing on for like a year—”
“Nine months,” I correct him.
“Whatever,” he continues, waving me off. “You saved this chick from probably being raped and you didn’t even ask her out?”
Trey shakes his bald head. Unlike Garrett and me, Trey’s a powerhouse. The guy’s got muscles within muscles and sick tattoos, all of which Garrett drew, covering most of his upper body. He’s also probably the smartest of us, even if he didn’t finish high school. “Seriously, bro? Are you a sociopath or just an idiot?”
“What’s a sociopath?” Garrett asks, his bushy brows scrunched in consternation.
Trey gives me a smirk. “Guess we know the answer to that question.”
I chuckle.
“Fuck you both,” Garrett says, yeeting a piece of bread at Trey, then me.
Trey dodges Garrett’s lousy throw, then chucks it back at him, nailing Garrett in the forehead. “Bro, what do you think he’s gonna do? Stop her and say, ‘Uh, hey babe, I know you’re traumatized and whatever, but you wanna fuck?’ What kind of asshole does that?”
“Who said anything about fucking?” Garrett replies, now spitting bits of chips. He jabs a finger at Trey. “Don’t start putting words in my mouth, bro.”
“I think we’d both be happy if you just kept your food in there,bro,” I say, emphasis on bro. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you not to talk with your mouth full?”
“I can’t help if I have bad manners.” Garrett shrugs, blue eyes going all puppy doggish. “I’m an orphan.”
“Oh, you did not go there.” Trey lunges for Garrett, who’s hopped to his feet like a jackrabbit and is now running through the shop laughing his ass off and using the expensive as fuck bikes as barriers between them. “Yeah. Keep chuckling, shithead. You won’t be laughing when I’m kicking your ass,” Trey says. Which is bullshit, because he’d never lay a hand on either of us, and we both know it.
It’s a testament to how well we know our brother, that Garrett can continue laughing when that two-hundred-fifty-pound beast is gunning for him. To anyone who just met him, Trey is scary as fuck. Under all that badassery, though, is the guy who dropped out of school, and worked two jobs, to raise Garrett and me after our mom died. The same guy who pushed me to get good grades and helped me fill out every single college application. Yeah, Trey’s the shit.
Feigning left, Trey snags Garrett’s shirt sleeve as he attempts to escape the other way. In two seconds flat, Trey’s got him in a choke hold, rubbing noogies on his head. Poor Garrett is screwed, and he knows it. Those noogies are nothing to laugh at.Garrett flails and kicks and screams so loud my eardrums bow from the pressure. Trey just laughs and laughs.
I’d like to say they’re not always this immature, but I’d be lying.
“Christ. How old are you two?” I say in-between bites of barbecue chips because, let’s be honest, this is the best entertainment I’ve had all week. “J.T.’s going to kick both your asses if you knock over one of his bikes.”
The sound of someone tapping on the glass door startles all three of us into silence. Trey spins for the door, pulling Garrett’s trapped head along with him. “Ry,” he shouts as if I’m not sitting ten feet away. “Your buddy’s here.”
Trey being Trey, doesn’t release his choke hold on poor Garrett; he simply drags him along while he unlocks the door for Malcolm. My best friend strolls in with only a passing grin, and a shake of the head, at seeing my idiotic brothers going at it.
Like I said, it’s nothing new.
Malcolm and Trey exchange hellos and fist bumps and Malcolm leans down to meet Garrett’s eyes before doing the same with him. That right there is the reason I love Malcolm. The man is loaded—both of his parents are big-time lawyers. His family is so upper class they’re kissing the stratosphere, but Malcolm is the coolest, most open-minded guy I’ve ever met. He doesn’t judge people on money, clothes or any of that other bullshit. You’re cool to him; he’s cool to you, and that’s the end of it. The first time Mal met my brothers, they hit it off immediately.
Malcolm squats in front of me, elbows on his knees and hands clasped between his legs. “You actually eating those chips or are you starting a new finger-painting trend,” he says, nodding at the copious amount of barbecue seasoning dusting my fingers.
