Slowly, I inch the fabric of my shirt up my stomach, and there it is—that familiar flash of heat sparking in my girl’s eyes as they take in each pack of my abdominals being revealed.
“Oh, CK,” Quinn coos, dangling the plastic handles of an orange gift bag from her fingers.
“We got you one too,” Em adds when Quinn doesn’t say anything else.
“You know what that means…” Quinn singsongs, running her gaze up and down CK’s body, undressing him with her eyes. “Strip, Superman.”
I bring attention back to the woman who’s currently looking at me like she wants to pour gravy on me and lick it off. If she’s not careful, I’ll have her stripped naked and under me without a care for who else is in the house. Before I can give in to those urges, I pull on the Talk turkey to me shirt, smirking at the innuendo behind it.
“Eric James Dennings, you touch that pie and you won’t be getting sex until Christmas!” Bette yells from the kitchen.
“Damn, babe. Why you always got to threaten our sex life?” There’s a small whine in E’s voice.
“Because it works.”
Kay snickers at her brother’s arrival, calling out, “I’ll never get a niece or nephew if that’s what you use for punishment.”
“Didn’t we agree to not talk about our sex lives, Squirt?” E may not have gotten pie, but he’s munching on something when he levels Kay with a What did I say? look.
Kay never gets a chance to answer because Bette is shouting at the other new arrival. “Benjamin Turner, if you ever want to be allowed into this house again, you will get your head out of my fridge.”
“How the hell do you do that? You can’t even see me,” B complains.
“She’s got mom eyes, B.” Kay taps at the corner of her eye as jaws drop when B steps up beside E.
“But this guy”—B pulls E into a noogie—“hasn’t knocked her up yet.”
“She’s spent the past four years raising me.” Kay taps under her eye again. “Mom eyes.”
“Can we not refer to me potentially impregnating my wife as ‘knocking her up’?” E breaks himself free from his friend.
All around, jaws are dropped at the—normalcy?—of Kay’s family.
Wait…is Kay taking pictures of their bewildered expressions? Oh man, I love the shit out of this girl.
#Chapter48
Mama G calls for everyone to take their places for dinner shortly after the guys all arrive. It’s a good thing, because I seriously think Bette would have stabbed B if he tried to pick at the food any longer.
In keeping with our informal theme—and due to the sheer number of people here—we set up everything buffet style along the kitchen counters. Creamy mashed potatoes next to marshmallow-topped sweet potatoes. Sweet corn. Bacon crumble Brussels sprouts. Breaded and fried celery sticks and artichoke hearts. My plate is balanced on my forearm as I start to load it up with sides.
“Short Stack…” Trav stretches an arm over my shoulder to reach for the ceramic dish holding the wet stuffing while I scoop out some of the dry. “I know my boy is lovey-dovey with you, but have I told you I love you today?”
SMACK!
“Fuck, bro.” Trav rubs the back of his head, soothing away what I’m sure is a sting from Mase’s slap.
“Do I need to tattoo it on your forehead? Don’t hit on my girl.”
I bite down on my lower lip to stifle my laughter at how overwhelmingly possessive Mase has been. Hence the constant snapping at his best friend.
“I’m just saying…” Trav does a little twirl as he waves a hand over the food, only stopping to blow a kiss at the twenty-five-pounds of golden perfection that is the roasted turkey and its fifteen-pound fried counterpart. “This spread is a wet dream.”
“Could you maybe not sexualize my mama’s food?” G mumbles around the buttermilk biscuit hanging out of his mouth.
Plates loaded—mine with a respectable amount, Mase’s with his body weight’s worth—Mason guides us to the folding tables and chairs that now separate the kitchen from the living room with a hand on my lower back.
“Before everyone digs in, we have to say grace,” E instructs, stopping more than one fork in midair while Bette clicks the television over from the Detroit game to the video chat system we had installed.
The screen splits in half as we wait for the calls to connect to our family members who can’t be here with us.
“Dad! You’re filthy.” Tessa’s warm chuckle fills the room when Pops’ soot-covered face comes into view.
“Sorry, Teacup.” Pops tries to wipe his face but only manages to smear the blackness. “Just got back from a call.”
“Deep fryer?” T asks knowingly.
“Deep fryer,” Pops says with a shake of his messy-haired head. “When will people learn the turkey has to be fresh and to not do it in the garage?”
“Is Pops giving his turkey fryer lesson again?” JT asks when he and D join the call.
“Wouldn’t be Thanksgiving without it.” I rest my head against Mase’s shoulder as he plays with the ends of my hair.
Greetings are exchanged and JT talks shit about how I invited half the football team—cue eye roll over that exaggeration—I can’t help but notice the knowing looks Bette casts in our direction.
E, our host and defacto leader for the day, leads us through a short grace and the usual spiel on the importance of family—both blood and chosen—welcoming each new addition sitting around the table. As if on cue, the siren inside the firehouse sounds and we end the call, switching back to the football game.
Dinner passes in a cacophony of conversation, but no one seems to be bothered by it. It’s pure chaos and reminiscent of my childhood.
The guys may refrain from bringing up the topic of my brother’s identity, but witnessing them giving in to moments of fanboying makes my entire year.
Like when Trav and Alex pinch each other over B complimenting how Trav avoided a sack to complete
