“Fuck off, McCarthy.”
“Call Crawford,” Hawthorne barks.
“What am I supposed to do? Salinger won’t let me actually run my sports teams,” I whine.
“You’re moving players around at random.” Our oldest brother doesn’t look up from his laptop. “You traded oneguy back and forth three times in five weeks to that Florida team. The GMs are going to revolt,” he says flatly. “I put money in your stadium. I don’t want the NFL to snatch your football team and ruin my investment.”
“No one’s investment is getting ruined. You always think the worst of us. Doesn’t he?” I nudge Hawthorne with my foot. “Huh, Hawthorne, doesn’t he?”
Hawthorne ignores me to address Salinger. “Do you have a fund set up for his inevitable legal fees when Fitz gets arrested for stalking?”
“It’s not illegal if you’re rich. I’m showing my affections.”
“You’re gonna show your affections from prison.”
“Can I have his sports teams when he goes to jail?” Faulkner snickers.
“No, no one touches my stuff.” I bristle, tense up.
“Then you better get me unbanned or learn how to cook authentic French bistro food.” Hawthorne growls. “Or I’m going to kill you and give all your shit to Faulkner.”
“I saiddon’t touch my shit.” Hawthorne flinches slightly when I stand up abruptly and get in his face. “That’s my stuff. Don’ttouchmy stuff.”
“Okay, no one is touching your shit. No one wants all the garbage you have piled up in your house. You’re like the Little Mermaid if she had anger management issues and an unlimited credit card and even lower impulse control than the chick in the movie.” Whitman kicks the back of my chair.
“I want my food,” Hawthorne warns. “Tomorrow is galette day. I better be eating one, or I’m taking a piss on all your shit.”
“Fuck you. I already have a plan in the works.”
“I sent my girlfriend to get my food.” McCarthy smirks, pulling out the quilted pizza-warming bag I’d given him as a gift last year and gotten a lot of shit for, might I add.
“Pastries!” Faulkner makes a rush for the bag.
McCarthy snarls at him. “Back the fuck off.”
“You owe me!” Whitman tackles McCarthy, and he goes down swinging.
The rest of my brothers raid the bag.
“Goddamn, they’re still warm.” Hawthorne groans. “I need to find the girl who makes these and marry her.”
“You fucking go anywhere near her—” I advance on him.
Whitman grips his croissant stuffed with brie and jam. “You can’t just claim every woman in this city as part of your hoard.”
“She doesn’t even like you if she banned you from the shop,” Faulkner adds, tearing into another pastry as McCarthy fights him for it.
“Don’t touch my stuff.” I grab my youngest brother by the collar.
He licks my face.
“Yuck, you have his spit on you.” McCarthy makes a face.
“Little shit.” I grab my phone.
I have a new email. I can practically feel the GM’s annoyance when he responds to my trade requests.
“I’m telling Salinger,” Faulkner hollers, glancing over my shoulder.
