“What gives, man?” Grayson asks as he tips the neck of his beer toward the house.
“What do you mean?” I swing the hammer and pound the nail into the two-by-four.
“Hottie songwriter,” Grant fills in the blanks for him.
“How do you know she’s a hottie?” I ask.
“I have my sources,” Grant says with a lift of his brow.
“So, that means Emerson must have seen her somewhere and given him the rundown,” Grayson says about Grant’s wife. “So, is she?”
I think back to the other night. The heat of her pussy with nothing separating us but a thin sheet. The way her nipples pressed against her tank top. She was warm and real and inviting when everything about my dream was cold and dark and debilitating.
I line up another nail on the two-by-four I’m holding over my head and pound it into place. “Aren’t you assholes supposed to be helping me?”
My older brother chuckles as he takes a sip of his beer before rising to help. “He isn’t answering, Gray. You know what that means.”
Grayson chuckles as I swing the hammer, and I know what’s coming next. “He likes her.”
Yep. Had that one right.
“I do not like her.” I take my frustration with them out on the nail.
“So she isn’t hot?” Grant asks, pushing my buttons when they’re already pressed after a few nights of restless sleep.
“That’s not what I said.”
“So . . . are you getting any yet?” he eggs on.
“Asks the man who probably isn’t getting any since he tied on the old ball and chain.” I chuckle and step back to grab the next piece of wood Grayson has cut for me on the table saw.
“I have no clue what you’re talking about.” Grant smirks a cat-ate-the-canary grin as if he’s remembering something I don’t want to imagine him remembering. “It’s only gotten better since the wedding, so no complaints here.”
“Dude, she’s pregnant,” I add.
“So? She’s still hot and everything still works the same. Duh.”
“He’s still punch-drunk on love.” Grayson rolls his eyes and sticks a finger down his throat like he used to do when we were little, and I laugh. “Seriously . . . how is she?”
I glance to Dylan’s bedroom window and think of the string of music that was coming from behind her closed door earlier. The guitar playing the same chords over and over, her muted voice barely making its way through the cracks. The oddly comforting rhythm of start, stop, repeat.
“She keeps to herself mostly,” I say as I flip the top of a fresh beer off and let the taste cool me off.
“She’s a songwriter?”
“Yeah,” I say with a shake of my head, still trying to wrap my head around her lyrics. “For Jett Kroger.”
“No shit,” Grayson says, but I don’t elaborate on their situation. “So?” He draws the word out.
“No. God. No.” I say the words a little too quickly as if I’m trying to convince myself that’s how I feel.
“She’s that bad?” Grant asks as he looks toward the house.
I picture her standing with her hands holding her robe closed and that shy smile on her face. The woman has an amazing body but is so damn afraid to own it. Such a contrast from the others I’ve dated who use it to their every advantage.
It’s refreshing. And kind of a turn-on since I finally got a peek of just how hot those curves are.
“No. Not at all. She’s pretty. Sexy more than pretty. She’s just quiet and reserved. Not my type at all.”
“As opposed to open and willing?” Grayson asks then chokes on his own laughter.
“Fuck off. This coming from the serial dater.”
“Like you’re one to talk. I heard Mallory stopped by your place on her way through town,” Grant says and smirks.
“Jesus Christ. Do you guys have cameras watching me?” I flip my brothers off and shake my head but know I’ll talk anyway. “Yeah. You know Mal—”
“A guaranteed good time so long as that time only lasts less than twenty-four hours.”
“Those are her terms, not mine.” Glitter-dress girl. I hear Dylan say the words and smile.
“Must be tough having someone want no strings, no rings, and just your ding,” Grayson says as we all start laughing.
“What are you?” Grant asks throwing his bottle cap at him. “Twelve?”
“Some days,” I mutter as I swing the hammer again and secure the crossbeam on the outdoor room I’m building. “Dylan’s cool. She doesn’t get in the way. She’s more than easy on the eyes. She grocery shops.”
“Sexy and domestic. Damn.”
“Yes. Happy? Now, can you stop being so damn annoying?”
Grant smirks in victory. “Never. It’s my job as the oldest to keep you in check.”
I mark the next board with my yellow chalk to show Grayson where to cut it. “Do you think Mom’s going to be pissed we bailed on Sunday dinner?” I ask to try and change the topic off Dylan. Last thing I need is for her to open her window and hear us talking about her and sex . . . especially when she knows damn well my dick hardened when she was on top of me.
“Nah. She was cool with it. She said it was too hot to cook so she’s taking Luke to the movies for Nana time instead,” Grayson says referring to his son.
“Maybe she’s the smart one and we’re the dumb ones sitting out here in this heat. It’s fucking hotter than hell. I thought it was supposed to be a mild summer,” I gripe as I pull at my shirt where it sticks to my skin.
“Take your shirt off, then,” Grayson says right before the whir of the saw begins and then ends.
I ignore his comment, hating that it still bugs me when it shouldn’t, and grab the beam a little more forcefully than he deserves. “Help me hold this, will ya?” I ask Grant, but he just stands there and stares at me like I’m about to get a big brotherly lecture I’m not in the mood to hear. “Don’t start this shit. It’s been a rough couple of days, okay?”
“You having dreams again?” Grayson asks while Grant’s eyes remain locked on mine.
“I’m good.” I shrug off his stare and walk to the farthest end of the concrete pad to ignore the shit he wants to address. I want to be left the fuck alone.
“Then take your shirt off. Show the two of us up with your definition since I know you’ve been lifting like a son of a bitch at the gym at all hours of the night.”
Goddamn small town.
“So what? I can’t sleep, so I go and lift. Is there a problem with that? It’s better than going out and drinking like I desperately want to some nights.”
“True. It might heal the scars in your head but—”
“But what?” I snap at him, hands fisted, temper tested. “Not the ones on my back?”
“Do you think I give a flying fuck about the ones on your back? I’ve seen your ugly ass more times than I care to count. Even parts of you I need a microscope to see,” he says for the laugh, but I don’t feel like smiling. “Do you think it bugs me what your scars look like? Do you think I’m going to look at you differently or love you any less? It’s the ones in your head I worry about, you stubborn asshole. Take your shirt off, keep it on, it doesn’t fucking matter. What does is that you know none of it’s going to get better until you realize the only thing we fucking care about is that you’re here and whole. Got it?”
I stare at Grant, jaw clenched against the shit in my head I don’t want to think about. Drew. Shelby. Brody. The sleeping pills I’ve been taking again just to keep my head above the water. The exhaustion from trying to pretend like everything is normal. I nod my head ever so slightly, letting him know I’ve heard him but not wanting to talk about it right now.
I don’t think I’ll ever be able to.
“Keep your shirt on, Grady. At least that way I’ll get a chance with the ladies,” Grayson says, always the one to play moderator.
Fuck that.
“You happy?” I yank my shirt off over my head, hating the immediate urge to turn my back from them so they can’t look, and swallow down the churning in my gut.
“Not anything we haven’t seen before,” Grant says as he turns to grab his beer without a stutter in his stare.
Christ. Why does it bug me so much? These are my goddamn brothers.
And yet, it still does.
“Are you guys going to help me, or are you going to stand there with your dicks in your hands all day?” Anything to shift the topic. To get the look on Shelby’s face and the request she made when I saw her at the station earlier this week out of my head.
“Says the guy who strokes hoses all day long for a living,” Grant says with a laugh.
“If firefighting was easy, cops would do it,” I reply and dodge the roll of duct tape he throws at me.
“Fucker,” he mutters but sets down his beer and picks up a hammer.
It’s about fucking time.
This room isn’t going to build itself.