I drop my keys and phone on the nearby entry table before bending down and scooping up my three-year-old nephews. Riggs and Deacon are a handful, but they’re a lot of fun in doses. Being the cool aunt is a gig I relish.
“I found the meatballs. Is the pot ready?” I sway my hips, a toddler balanced on each, as I make my way into the kitchen.
“I think those two are over-seasoned. They might need a bath before we eat them,” Lindsey says over her shoulder.
“You can’t eat us!” Deacon giggles against my right hip.
“I can’t, can I? I don’t know about that. Maybe we should ask Pap.”
I lean to the side, putting Deacon’s head within reach of my father as he sits in his wheelchair by the dining counter, a knife in one hand and a fork in the other like a wild zombie ready to feast. It’s nice that despite his stroke and subsequent uphill battle with rehab, my father has maintained one hell of a sense of humor.
He growls at the boys playfully, licking his lips as if he’s about to take a bite, and their legs kick wildly against my thighs until I let them go. They scurry down the hallway and up the stairs to my washroom. I cup my mouth as I prepare to shout.
“You best not be using my expensive soap!” I wink at my sister as the boys giggle from the bathroom upstairs. I don’t have expensive anything, but we’ve discovered when I refer to the soft hand soap as expensive or fancy, the toddlers are more apt to wash their hands for real.
“How long do you think we can run with that trick?” my sister asks.
“Bah, still works on . . . you . . . two.” My father’s words come out between breaths. He’s come a long way with his speech therapy, but every sentence is still an challenge to get out of his mouth.
“I wash my hands just fine, thank you very much.” I bend down and kiss my dad’s cheek before adding ahumph.
“Sure, but if something is . . . expensive, you two . . . sure need to have it!” He coughs out his laugh as my sister purses her lips in response.
“Not gonna lie. You’re right, Dad,” I admit. My father lets out a quiet but satisfied grunt.
I pull the wad of cash from my day out of my pocket and flatten the bills on the counter. Lindsey spots the crisp hundred the moment she turns around.
“Damn, who gave you that tip?” She swipes it and holds it up to the light. I think she’s inspecting if it’s real. I sure as shit hope it is.
“I won a bet. Well, more like I got a commission forhelpingsomeone win a bet.” I shrug as I slide onto the stool next to my father.
“Okay, how does that work? Are you a bookie now?” My sister slaps the hundred-dollar bill back down in front of me and arches a brow before turning her attention back to the stove pot. I can see the cheese-encrusted edges of the peppers in the oven, and my stomach growls.
“No, Lindsey, I’m not a bookie. Just the usual antics from the latest crop of ballplayers at Earl’s. You know how they like to haze the rookies. I felt bad for this one, I guess.”
I can sense my sister itching for more details. She puts out a vibe, like shockwaves, when she’s about to get nosy. Thankfully, she pulls the peppers from the oven to fill them with meat sauce before grilling me with more questions. My rambunctious nephews buy me more time, fighting over who gets to sit next to me until I solve everything by giving up my seat and standing between them as Lindsey dishes out our portions. My knife is halfway through its first cut into the stuffed pepper when the interrogation resumes.
“Felt bad for him, huh? What was this bet? Did they make him embarrass himself in front of you? Was there a strip tease involved?” She smirks after chewing through her words, and I’d kind of like to flick her stuffed cheek with my finger.
“No, they didn’t make him strip for me.” I flit my gaze to either side to remind her that her impressionable toddlers are right here.
“I’ll strip tease for you!” Deacon announces. I glare at my sister, expecting her to drop her face in her palm in shame, but she continues staring at me with her smug grin, unfazed.
“He doesn’t even know what that means. It’s fine. So, spill it. What made this one different?” She takes another massive bite of her dinner, something I have yet to do.
“I don’t know. He was sweet, I guess. I mean, cocky like the rest of the players, but he was also nervous. The guys prodded him to try to take me home, and I wanted him to save face, so I walked out with him and let them think whatever they want. I kept the money, though.”
I shove a massive bite into my mouth before another question comes, and the euphoria from eating cancels out the stress of enduring my sister’s enquiry.
Lindsey quakes with a silent laugh, then glances at my dad.
“Don’t look at . . . me. She’s your . . . sister.”
My sister rolls her eyes at our dad but quickly turns her attention back to me.
“That’s a lot of money he let you walk away with. Those boys don’t make a lot playing for the Mavericks, so you must have made an impression on him.”
There is so much insinuation to her tone, I don’t have to look at her expression to know it’s tongue-in-cheek.
