“That’s it, boys! Let’s get ready to flambé!” Blake claps his hands just like Rooke loves doing in his class, but I forgive him, because seconds later, I’m fucking soaring.
A bottle of tequila appears, and it says a lot that I throw back every shot handed to me. I fuckinghatetequila. Once I’ve puked up enough of one type of liquor, it’s dead to me.
But I forget about it tonight as me and the guys play Overcooked on the PlayStation.
Coke seems to give me amnesia.
Rooke? Who the fuck’s that?
Haven? Just some random charity case from the sticks.
The bong does another few rounds. We order pizzas, crack open more beers, do more shots. Someone mentions a party, but we’re too busy trying to max out our score to leave the frat house.
Blake channels his inner Gordon Ramsey, screaming at us to pick up the pace as we try to coordinate a burger assembly line that’s rapidly descending into chaos, our fried brains overheating as we try to remember who the fuck’s supposed to be chopping veggies and who’s burning the patties.
“Those burgers look worse than my fucking crypto portfolio!” Blake shrieks, while Austin just giggles like a fucking girl and keeps throwing lettuce at the wrong station.
After a short coke break, we’ve just gotten our shit together with thirty seconds left on the clock, when Jace walks into the TV room.
Everyone stops what they’re doing, even Blake, who’s panting like a husky in summer, his controller clutched in white, shaking hands.
“Yo, what’s up, man?” I call out when Jace just keeps standing there like a fucking narc.
“I’m back from the hospital,” he says.
“Good for you.” I glance at him, then back at the game. A small fire has broken out at the fries station. “Guys, guys! Who’s on fries?”
“You, you fucking idiot!” Blake yells.
“Visiting hours are over.” I hear Jace sniffing from the archway. “But I’m guessing you didn’t have any plans to go see him today. Or yesterday, according to the hospital’s sign-in sheet. Or ever.”
He just keeps standing there, silent, after that pronouncement. Because that’s how he talks—like he’s giving a sermon.
I glance at him again, and then back at the flat screen as the timer runs out.
“Fuck!” I stand, slamming the PlayStation controller into the couch cushion where I was sitting.
Jace doesn’t even blink.
Fucking reptile.
“You’re fired, Kai,” Blake says, calm but for the shake in his voice. “Get out of my kitchen.”
“The fuck you looking at?” I bark as I storm past Jace, my thumb already slipping behind the waistband of the black Brunello sweatpants I threw on before coming downstairs.
I’ve been holding in this piss for like half an hour. Now that I’m unemployed, I can sort that outandavoid Jace’s accusing stare. Always loved me a twofer.
“Anyone who hates a brother or sister is a murderer. John 3:15,” Jace intones.
“John can suck my—” I cut off, throwing him a glare as he follows me to the guest bathroom just around the corner. “Jesus, you wanna come hold my dick for me, or what?”
His expression, like the bible chick who got turned into a pillar of salt, solidifies. Yeah, my mom dragged me to church a few times before I knew to make myself scarce on a Sunday morning.
“Your brother won’t be coming home any time soon.”
I was closing the door in his face, even though hardly any of us ever bother when we’re just taking a piss. But I stop, because suddenly the tequila feels like it wants to come back up.
“Yeah?” I try for cool and detached, but my voice just sounds weak. So I harden it. “You miss your little fuck buddy, huh? Maybe if you pray a little harder, he’ll come back. Then you won’t be so lonely anymore.”
