Page 100 of Five Brothers

“No.”

He hits me over the head, and I laugh and jog backward around the truck as he pursues me.

“But just think!” I point out. “If he killed Dallas, it would be one less mouth to feed. And with Iron gone, it would be an extra bedroom. We could move Krisjen in.”

Trace comes at me, but I plant my hand on his head, pushing him away.

“Can’t you just fuck her already,” Dallas yells at me, “so she can move on to Macon, and then she’ll finally leave after she’s made the rounds?”

Trace stops, looking over at Dallas. “Leave her alone.”

“She’s a good kid,” I add, heading back to the driver’s side. “And I’m not going to have sex with her.”

“But you look at her.”

I glance at Trace even though it was Dallas who said it. Iron already went after Krisjen. I raised Trace like a father. It’s different.

“She’s beautiful” is all I say. “I’m a visual person.”

Trace laughs, throwing open the door and dropping into the seat next to me. Dallas climbs in the back.

“It’s okay,” Trace tells me. “I couldn’t take my eyes off her there for a while, either. And she’s a Saint. Something about them is a little more exciting because we can’t have them. Feels forbidden.” He looks over at me. “As you remember.”

I pause, my hand clutching the key in the ignition. “What the fuck’s your problem?”

He knows better than to bring that up.

“She’s good,” he says, not grinning anymore. “Really fucking good. Sorry to say, the best I’ve ever had.”

Sorry because he doesn’t love her and wishes he did.

“When you’re not fucking her,” he goes on, “you’re thinking about fucking her.”

“Don’t talk about her like that.” I turn on the car, hoping that shuts him up.

She works hard; she’s reliable, trustworthy, and cute as hell. And she’s perceptive. More than I like sometimes.

I have no intentions toward Krisjen. She’s a kid. But she’s somebody, and she’s his friend. He shouldn’t be acting like she’s something to use to blow off steam.

“I think you need another Saint,” he says. Before I can tell him to shut up, he looks back at Dallas. “And maybe you need one, too.” He smiles at his brother. “She’s a biter.”

Jesus Christ. “Give me a beer,” I bark back at Dallas.

Trace laughs, diving into his phone as Dallas reaches into the cooler, handing a can to me over the seat. I pop the top and take a gulp, setting it in the drink holder in the console and shifting intoDrive.

But then Trace growls, “Ah, son of a bitch!”

And I hit the brakes.

“Goddammit!” he yells, and I look over to see him pull on his seat belt, which he never does.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“That little shit!” He scowls. “A constant pain in my ass!”

“Who?”

“Krisjen!” he says, like he wasn’t just singing her praises. “We gotta go to her damn house.”