Her Sexiest Mistake

oomph,' he said, seeing stars when Mike landed his elbow in his ribs.

Taking advantage of Kevin's pain, Mike grabbed for the paper, but Kevin flipped him, then inched forward for the paper just out of reach.

Mike put a knee in his back, let out a huff that Kevin knew was a laugh, and while Kevin gaped for air like a fish, Mike snatched the paper, tearing it into little bits.

They both got to their knees, breathing like lunatics, crumbs of chips falling off of Kevin.

You still fight dirty, Kevin signed, then brushed himself off.

Mike grinned. Thank you.

Kevin shook his head, disgusted with the both of them. What the hell is wrong with you?

Mike looked at him but ultimately shook his head and turned away.

Kevin pulled him back around, half braced for another wrestle session.

Mike tried a smile, but it failed to reach any real wattage. You ever get tired of rescuing me?

Hell, yes!

So why do you?

Well, if that wasn't the question of the hour. He'd been doing it for so long it had become second nature, ever since that terrifying morning when their mother had gone out shopping and said to Kevin, 'Watch over Mikey.' Kevin would never forget standing there in the ER waiting room, just a little kid himself, his mother sobbing as she yelled at him, 'You were supposed to watch Mikey!'

No sane person would blame the kid, but sometimes guilt had nothing to do with being sane.

Now Mike was waiting for an answer, and the only one Kevin had couldn't be uttered. So he shrugged. Don't make me look at that too closely or I'll remember how pissed off I am at you.

Mike looked at his feet, huffed out a breath, then looked up again. I don't want to be this guy anymore.

What guy?

The happy-go-lucky fucking loser.

Kevin's heart squeezed, and he shook his head. You're not a loser.

I don't have any money, I mooch off my brother for a place to live, and I don't have a job.

You're going to get that job you interviewed for.

I didn't get the fucking job, all right? They cancelled the interview. They went with someone with a better resume, someone who's kept a job longer than a week.

Ah, hell. I'm sorry.

Yeah, and I was looking so forward to sitting at a computer for ten hours a day typing my fingers to the bone entering data processing info. He moved toward the door.

Kevin had promised himself no more interfering, no more rescuing. And yet he still rushed to get in front of his brother, putting his back to the door so Mike couldn't slam out. I've been thinking.

Mike lifted a brow. Don't hurt yourself.

Shut up and listen. I need help at the teen center.

Mike's eyes narrowed suspiciously. I thought the teen center's up for sale, and that once the building sells, the teen center is goners.

Right. But until that happens, I need someone.

I don't want a pity job.

Ah, come on. You know damn well there's no such thing as a 'pity' job. A pity fuck, maybe, but not a pity job.

Mike wouldn't take the job. He wouldn't, because deep down, Kevin was convinced, Mike liked being unemployed, liked the handouts, the free ride.

The pity.

But it was just as hard to turn his back on the guy now as it had been when Mike was a little kid, not hearing the shouted warning of some danger coming from behind…

I have no experience, Mike pointed out.

It's organizing sports and events. Easy stuff.

Mike let out a snort that didn't have any humor in it and shoved his fingers through his hair.

Kevin waited.

When Mike finally nodded, he looked extremely defenseless.

So you'll do it? You'll interview?

I'll think about it. Mike pushed Kevin clear of the front door and opened it.

Kevin held him back. You'll interview? he repeated.

Jesus, you don't need to shout. Mike smiled at his own joke, showing a shadow of his old self. I said I'll think about it.

Four o'clock. I'll have the board members come. Be there.

Nodding, he turned to the door, then looked back. You have a potato chip in your ear.

And then he was gone.

Kevin shook his head and more chips fell. He gathered his keys and helmet and headed out, too.

The rap was still booming. The house immediately to his left was Mr. and Mrs. Dickenson. They were a couple in their fifties who enjoyed cruises to Mexico, morning walks through the hills, and opera. Not rap.

'Turn that crap down!' boomed a female voice through the morning air.