Page 113 of Five Brothers
JC grabs Mars by the elbow, leading him away. We’re not far from home.
“Let’s go,” I say, then to Trace and Dallas, “Take the truck. I’ll meet you there, and we’ll load up some tires to bring back for her car.”
They climb in and shove off, racing down the road the short distance back to the house.
I feel pretty fucking stupid for being that petty with that piece of shit, but I forgot how good it felt to do something that’s not work, and end the night with something pretty.
I take her in my arms, then notice the white dress she’s wearing. Sleeveless and ending at mid-thigh, it has straps across her chest and back, showing slivers of skin. Her hair is soaking wet now, but she feels just as good.
And slowly, I start to spin, holding her eyes the whole time.
“What are you doing?” she asks, stumbling as she tries to keep up.
“It’s our first date.”
We’re dancing.
I twirl her faster, around and around, again and again, and when I dip her fast and low, she finally smiles. Uncontainable and uncontrollable.
I guess she’s sleeping over.
13
Krisjen
“I need to get home,” I tell Army.
He pulls me by the hand, up to his house. “Just let us fix your car before Macon wakes up and sees we just cost him five hundred more in tires.”
Which he’ll have to pay for, because it’s one of his brothers’ fault—again—that they’re ruined.
Trace and Dallas hop out of the truck, and Army releases my hand, heading over to them. But I grab his hand again. “I can’t crash here tonight.”
He stops and looks at me, but I don’t know what I’m trying to say. He squeezes my fingers. “Sleep in Liv’s room,” he tells me. “Your brother is over with Santos’s kid. We’ll do your tires now, and you can leave in the morning.”
He walks off, and I start to protest, but then he barks at Dallas before he reaches the front door. “Where the hell you going?” Army asks him.
“To bed.”
“Help us,” he orders him as Trace lifts the door to the garage and they start rolling out fresh tires.
But Dallas just laughs under his breath and disappears into the house.
Army clenches his jaw but lets him go, and I tuck my wet hair behind my ear. Rain kicks up mud on the ground, and I pull off my heels, bare feet in a puddle.
“Army, stop,” I call out. “I can afford a tow truck and my own tires. I can’t stay here.”
“I’m not going to try to fuck you!” he shouts.
Trace stops and turns to me wide-eyed, and I just close mine for a moment.
“Not tonight, anyway,” Army adds. “Get out of my hair and go to sleep.”
Embarrassment washes over me, and I can feel myself sweating. A tickle of a smile curls Trace’s lips.
I hold up my middle finger, mouthing, “Fuck you.”
He pouts, using his own dialect of sign language while mouthing, “But I love you.”