Nick

“My vote’s for pork. Beef gets all fucking tough and stringy if you don’t do it up right,” Pee Bee said.

I turned away from the meat case and shot him a look. “If you don’t do it up right?”

He nodded. “You know, if a fucker don’t know how to cook it.”

“What can I get for you?” the butcher asked.

“We’re not sure yet,” I said. “Give us a minute.”

He wiped his hands against his apron and grinned. “I’ll be back to check on you in a few minutes.”

I turned toward Pee bee. “You come to last year’s barbeque, Peeb?”

“You know I did, why?”

“Year before?”

“What the fuck you gettin’ at, asshole?”

“Were you here year before last? At the barbeque?”

He sighed, and then nodded. “Yep.”

“Was the barbeque good?”

“Damn good.”

“Flavorful?”

“It was good as fuck, why?”

“Was any of it stringy or tough?”

He shook his head. “I just said it was good.”

“Ryder was in charge of the smoker for the last two years. If you liked it, it’d stand to fuckin’ reason that he’d know how to cook the fuckin’ meat.”

He shrugged. “Okay.”

“We’ll get some of each. Fifty-fifty.”

“Get more pork than beef. Beef ribs are a fuckin’ bitch to get right, Boss.”

I folded my arms in front of my chest and glared at him. “Didn’t we just settle this? Fifty-fifty?”

“We didn’t settle it. You did. You don’t ever fuckin’ listen to me. You might ask, but you don’t give a fuck what I say.”

“Oh, so now you got your fuckin’ feelers hurt huh? Over some beef ribs?”

“Make a decision yet? The butcher asked.

We both glared at him.

“I’ll just…I’ll…I’ll come back in a few minutes,” he said.

I turned toward Peeb and huffed out a sigh. “You don’t pay attention to the details, asshole. I asked you what you liked, not what you wanted. I was being polite. Courteous.”

He laughed. “Now you’re a kind-hearted fucker, huh?”

“Something like that.”

“So you were just askin’, but not givin’ a fuck what I responded?”

“Jesus fucking Christ. Not exactly. Are we really standing here in the fucking store arguing about meat? Why does everything have to be so god damned difficult with you?”

He shook his head. “It ain’t difficult. I ain’t difficult. Beef ribs are a bitch to get right. Get pork. That’s pretty simple. You wanna be a prick and go fifty-fifty, do it.”

I flexed my biceps. “You calling me a prick?”

“I just called you one, yeah. You flexin’ on me, Boss?”

I shook my head. “Just asking a question, you big dumb fuck.”

“I’ll beat your presidential patch-wearin’ ass, Crip. Don’t call me a dumb fuck.”

“Dumb pork-eatin’ fuck.”

He raked his hair from his face and took a step back. “I mean it.”

“So, did you make a decision?” the butcher asked.

We both turned toward him.

His eyes widened. “I’ll be back.”

“Beef,” Pee Bee snapped.

“Pork,” I said.

His eyes darted back and forth, alternating between Peeb and me. “Go with a little of each?”

“Fifty-fifty,” I said. “We need about 75 pounds of ribs, total. No, make it 80. And 30 pounds of beef brisket.”

“When would you like it?”

“Can we pick it up Friday?”

He nodded. “We’ll need you to pay in advance on that much meat.”

I reached for my wallet. “Just give me an amount.”

“So, 40 pounds of beef ribs, 40 pounds of pork ribs, and 30 pounds of beef brisket?”

I nodded. “Sounds right.”

He punched his finger against the keyboard on the scale, printed off three stickers, and stuck them to a piece of butcher paper. He handed me the slip of paper. “Just pay at the register. They’ll scan those for you.”

“Appreciate it.”

He chuckled. “I thought for a minute you two were going to actually fight over it.”

“Like a fist fight?” I asked.

He nodded. “That’s what I was thinking.”

I wagged my finger between Peeb and me. “Who do you think would win?”

The look on his face changed to worried. “Oh, I’d hate to guess.”

“Guess.” I said.

“I really…”

I narrowed my eyes. “Guess.”

He pointed to me.

“Come on, Peeb,” I said with a laugh.

“Are you fuckin’ kiddin’ me?” Pee Bee said, laughing as he spoke. “I’ve got fifty pounds and seven inches on him. You picked him?”

The butcher shrugged.

Pee Bee chuckled. “Why?”

“Why’d I pick him?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Because he looks mean.”

“He might look mean, but I am mean.”

“Come on, tough guy,” I said. “Let’s go before you hurt someone.”

We paid for the meat, and walked out to our bikes.

“Wanna eat?” I asked.

“Sooner or later, yeah.”

I raised my leg over the seat and sat down. After strapping on my helmet, I turned toward Peeb. His helmet still hung from his handlebars. He sat staring blankly out at the street.

I cleared my throat. “You coming?”

He nodded. “You bringing her to the barbeque?”

The annual barbeque was a family event and everyone was welcome. “Was thinking about it.”

“Funny how things change.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

He looked at me. “You ain’t brought anybody to the barbeque since we been havin’ ‘em. Just funny. Not funny haha, but funny weird.”

I glared back at him in disbelief. “It’s weird that I’m bringing her?”

“Now you’re bringing her? Not thinking about it?”

“I’m fuckin’ bringing her. Jesus.” I shifted my eyes to the street. After a short pause, I continued. “She’s a good woman.”

“No argument here. It’s just weird, that’s all.”

“Don’t make it into something it isn’t. She’s not my Ol’ Lady.”

“Ain’t makin’ it into nothin’, Boss. Don’t get me wrong, I like that little bitch. A lot. She’s good people.”

I nodded in agreement. “Fish tacos?”

“Sounds good,” he responded. “But changing the subject ain’t gonna make me stop asking questions.”

He could ask all the questions he wanted, but I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to answer them.

Because I had no earthly fucking idea where my life with Peyton was headed.