“Who died?”
I laughed. Asshole. “Are you in or not? I’m starving.”
“I can never say no to those tacos. But we’re not talking about that shit I told you.”
The shit he’d told me was so fucking sick that I still couldn’t wrap my head around it. He was drunk and stoned when he told me that last night and afterward, he’d regretted it. But it was out there now and he made me promise to take it to my grave. Which I would.
I wish there was something I could do to help him but I had no idea what that could be. Except to be his friend, I guess. “Didn’t plan on it.”
“I’ll meet you there. I’m just leaving the ranch.”
“See you in ten.” I cut the call and tossed my phone in the cupholder. I didn’t even think about Lila or the fact that brisket tacos with pico de gallo was her favorite food. I didn’t think about her at all.
Chapter Fifteen
Jude
It had been three days since the night Lila came into my bedroom, and we hadn’t spoken a word to each other since then. She was either running, hanging out with her hot, bi-curious girlfriend, or working. She worked at the garden center. My mom said Lila had a green thumb and could make anything grow. I was tempted to tell her she had no idea how true that was. My dick grew every time Lila walked into a room. Which was inconvenient, all things considered.
Tonight she hadn’t come home for dinner. Brody was away at a rodeo this weekend. Jesse had just come home from a track day and bragged all the way through dinner about how he was going to be the next hottest motocross sensation. And Gideon sat in stony silence, like always.
While I ate my chicken and broccoli casserole, I tuned out my dad’s lecture. It was directed at Gideon, not me. “You’re starting high school next week. What are your extracurricular activities? What sports will you be playing?” my dad badgered him.
“There’s more to life than sports,” Gideon said, spearing a piece of broccoli with his fork but not eating it.
“Sports teach you about life. They teach you how to work with your teammates. They teach you how to win and how to lose. They teach you not to be a quitter.”
I finished my dinner and reached for my glass of water, guzzling the rest of it.
Setting down my glass, I leaned back in my chair and yawned, drowsy from the heat and the long week of football practice. Not to mention it was Saturday and earlier today my dad had me mowing the lawn and doing a million repairs to the house like I was his personal handyman. So I was tired and my mind was elsewhere.
“Can I be excused?” I asked, drumming my fingers on the oak table, antsy to leave now.
In our house, you didn’t just stand up from the table and walk away without permission. We had the weirdest rules. Drinking was okay as long as you never got behind the wheel. Fighting was cool, encouraged even. If we had a curfew, I wasn’t aware of it because it wasn’t enforced. As long as we got home alive and in one piece, and we kept our commitments the next day without complaining of being tired or hungover, it was all good.
But we had to ask permission to leave the table. We had to complete all our chores on the specified day according to the chart on the refrigerator. Right next to the chart with gold stars for our major accomplishments, typically sports-related and only if we’d won. Bedrooms had to be kept tidy. Wet towels on the bathroom floor were a major offense. Dirty clothes hampers were to be put in the laundry room on Saturday morning by eight or you did your own laundry.
We were all being trained for the US Marine Corps.
My dad looked over at me briefly and nodded, giving permission to leave then re-focused his attention on Gideon who looked like he was standing before a firing squad. I felt for Gideon, I really did. It sucked being under my dad’s scrutiny.
“Do you hear Jude complaining about having to go to football practice?” my dad asked Gideon as I rinsed my plate and put it in the dishwasher. “Do you see him quitting when things get tough—”
“I’m not Jude,” Gideon gritted out, shooting a glare in my direction like it was my fucking fault that my dad compared us.
I didn’t like it any more than he did. I hated when my dad pulled that shit and pitted us against each other like it was a competition.
“I want you to work on some drills together. Starting tomorrow morning,” my dad said, his voice firm.
I didn’t want to fucking work on drills on a Sunday with my brother.
Gideon shook his head and exhaled loudly. “How many times do I have to say it? I. Hate. Football.”
“Do you think Jude would be as good as he is if he slacked off and didn’t put a hundred percent into trying to be the best?”
I couldn’t handle it anymore. I snapped.
“You need to lay off,” I told him. His jaw clenched, his gaze swinging to me now. Ignoring his narrowed eyes and knowing damn well I was skating on some very thin ice, I forged on like the dumb shit I was. “He’s not me. Football is not his thing. He gets straight A’s. He wants to go to an Ivy League college and he’s smart enough to get in.” I only knew this because Jesse told me. “In the real world, that’s just as important if not more important than whether or not he wants to compete in high school sports.”
My father glared at me, outraged that I would dare to question him. I nearly laughed. He looked like one of those cartoon characters with steam coming out of his ears. He opened his mouth
