“Shut up,” I set down my now-empty bag of chips, lick my fingers clean and wipe them off on my jeans. Yeah. I’m classy like that. “What’s up?”
“I got you a date with your girl.”
I sit up at that, my heart immediately going into overdrive. “What do you mean, a date? Christ. You didn’t do something stupid like ask her out for me ’cause that’s like third-grade shit—”
“Hang on,” Malcolm thrust his palm into my face. “You need to slow the fuck down and let me finish.” He drops his hand and smirks. “Damn. You are really worked up over this girl.”
Garrett, who’s finally been released, strolls over, seemingly unaware of the rat’s nest now perched on the top of his head, and plops down beside Malcolm. “Right? The whiny bastard won’t shut up about her.”
Trey drops to the floor beside me and picks up his sandwich. “Yeah. It’s pretty sad.”
“Screw you both and can you please just get on with it?” I say to Malcolm, and damn it, I do sound kind of whiny.
Trey snickers and takes a massive bite of his ham and cheese.
Malcolm claps his hands and grins, his brown eyes taking on a devious glint that reminds me of the villains who tied girls to train tracks in old movies. “So, Jacob got back from his mom’s today, and he wanted to see his girl and Stella, right?”
I nod, even though it was obviously a rhetorical question.
“Turns out all three girls were over—Emma, Stella and Charlie—and they were planning a night out for dinner and drinks or whatever and they invited us along. I asked if it was cool for you to join us too, and bro…” He starts bouncing on the balls of his feet like a jacked-up frog. “That chick’s face lit up like a Christmas tree.”
“Yeah?” I try to hold back my smile, but it’s kind of a losing battle.
“I’m telling you, you are in like Flynn.” He starts bouncing again.
“Who the fuck’s Flynn?” Trey asks.
Malcolm’s bouncing stops, and he turns to my brother, brows furrowed. “It’s an expression.”
“It’s a weird ass expression. I mean, what does that even mean?” Garrett says.
“Yeah.” Trey scoffs and elbows me in the shoulder with a look like, “Can-you-believe-this-guy?”and says, “If we don’t know who Flynn is, why would we care if Ryan’sinlike him? He should beinlike somebody he knows.”
“Yeah,” Garrett chimes in. “Like Paul Newman.”
Trey cocks his head. “Who the hell is Paul Newman?”
“Spartacus.”
Now, it’s Malcolm asking, “Who the fuck is Spartacus?”
Talk about a discussion going completely off the rails.
Garrett opens his mouth to reply, but I cut him off. “Stop. Please. You guys are melting my brain. Garrett.” My brother tears his gaze from his sandwich to meet my eyes. “Paul Newman did not play Spartacus. That was Kirk Douglas. Trey,” I turn to my other brother, “Paul Newman is the guy who makes the salad dressings you like. Malcolm,” I say, pointing at my best friend. “Spartacus was some gladiator and a pretty shitty movie, so you don’t want to watch it.” Jackasses all nod their heads along as if, of course, they already knew all of that. “Now, don’t you two have some work to do or something?”
“Nah,” says Trey.
“Nah,” says Garrett.
They both cross their arms and give me big stupid grins. Sometimes, I swear they practice this shit ahead of time.
I groan and rub my eyes. “So, what time are they expecting us?”
“Six.”
I sigh. Well, there goes that idea. “I can’t do it. I don’t get off till five-thirty and no way am I meeting up with Charlie stinking like motor oil.”
“It’s cool,” Garrett says. He crumples his trash leftover from lunch and pushes to his feet. “I don’t have a lot of work today. I’ll cover for you.”
