“Oh yeah? Did it feel like a G?”
“Oh fuck off.”
I laugh as he stands and lets the bearskin fall to the ground. He stretches his arms over his head, yawns, and then loses his balance and stumbles forward, right into my dad’s desk. His right knee smashes into the front, his left hand knocks over a notebook, and his right hand only misses the Zen garden my mum bought for my dad by mere centimeters, causing Rupert to freeze in panic.
“Bollocks, that was a close one.” He lets out a shaky breath. “I think my dick just shriveled up.”
“I heard it squeeze into your scrotum from here.”
“Impeccable hearing.”
I tug on my ears. “Thank you. I grew my ears myself.”
“And you say you don’t accomplish things.” Rupert tsks at me. “Dare I say, you can write ‘grows own ears’ on your list of unblemished achievements.”
“Grew my own dick and arse too.”
Rupert straightens up, puffs his chest, and slowly claps. “And the list continues to grow.” I take a curt bow and then gulp another mouthful of fermented barley water while Rupert snags a Sharpie from the cup on my dad’s desk. When he turns around, he dramatically holds the pen in the air and says, “Let the besmirching begin.”
Smiling, I sit back, utterly pleased with my choice in dare. Sure, making him wear bloody battle britches is all fun and games, but watching him become a graffiti artist on my father’s beloved portrait—now that’s pure entertainment.
With a herculean effort—because he’s knackered—Rupert moves a chair in front of the mantel, stands on top of it, and then gently caresses the pen tip along the bushes at the base of the rock my dad’s perched on.
“What are you doing?”
“One second.” His tongue sticks out as he concentrates, his other hand hanging on to the mantel to steady himself.
He swirls his hand with flair.
He leans in a little closer, examining his markings.
And when he’s done, he pulls away, caps the Sharpie, and then tosses it at me, hitting me dead in the chest.
I glance up at the portrait, looking for any sort of defilement, but I don’t see one goddamn piece of evidence that he made his mark. Did he even do anything?
“What the fuck is that?” I gesture to the painting.
“It’s called code,” Rupert says and then beckons me with his finger.
With a hoist, I lift my body off the chair and stumble across the floor, ramming right into the fireplace.
“Aw fuck.”
Rupert lets out a roar of a laugh while I rub my shoulder, thinking twice about the addition of whiskey in my drinking tonight.
“The fact that you’re not wearing any pants just made that so much better. Your thigh jiggled.”
The fuck it did.
I glance down at my bare legs, my half-unbuttoned dress shirt barely covering my junk and my pink toenails that Rupert made me paint as a dare looking more like a Jackson Pollock splattered across my feet.
“Why don’t I have pants on again?”
“Because the swish swash of corduroy was driving you bonkers.”
“Right.” I chuckle. “Swish swash.”
Rupert sways. “Your words, not mine.” He clears his throat. “Now, please, bring your attention to these bushes.”
