“Subtlety’s for people who can’t shoot straight.”
“How many guns do you have?” Boone asks.
“Enough.”
“That’s not a number.”
“It’s all the number you need, young man.”
He gets in his truck, then rolls down the window. “Oh, and, boys? My mother was married five times. Outlivedthem all. Natural causes, supposedly. The investigations were inconclusive but the insurance companies paid out, so.” He shrugs. “Just something to think about. Genetics and all.”
He drives off, leaving me with three traumatized McCoys.
“Your dad is badass,” Jesse says.
“I know, right?” I say.
“That’s not reassuring.”
“I agree.”
Wyatt steps forward, deciding to be the adult. “You good with this? All of it?”
“Define ‘good.’”
“Not running. Not regretting. Not deciding this was whiskey logic that doesn’t work in daylight.”
“It absolutely was whiskey logic.”
Jesse grins. “So we’re doing this? All four of us? In public? At a fence-mending party where someone will probably get tetanus?”
“Yup. Mrs. Delaney made T-shirts. They say ‘Feuding is Futile.’ She’s very proud of them.”
“Oh lord.”
“That’s Mrs. Delaney.”
Boone pulls out his phone. “Holy shit, we’re viral. Someone wrote a fanfiction about us.”
“Already?”
“The internet’s fast and horny. Someone wrote a whole thing about Wyatt’s hands.”
Wyatt looks at his hands suspiciously.
“Apparently they’re ‘rough yet gentle, like sandpaper made of boyfriend material.’”
“That makes no sense,” Wyatt says.
“Nothing about this makes sense,” I point out. “I’m ending a three-decade feud over expired mayo to date three brothers while my dad bones the town blogger who ranked his colonoscopy seven out of ten stars. Common sense is dead and we killed it.”
“Fair point.”
“There’s also a conspiracy theory that we’re a cult,” Boone continues scrolling.
“Are we?” Jesse asks.
“Do cults have this much sexual tension?”
