Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 76303 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 382(@200wpm)___ 305(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76303 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 382(@200wpm)___ 305(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)
I hate my best friend sometimes.
3
Trace
There’s a lot to be said for being attractive.
I would know, because I’m handsome.
I can’t control what my face looks like—it’s not my fault I’m so damn good-looking. At least, that’s what my mom always told me when I was growing up. Then again, she told my brother the same thing, and he’s not even half as gorgeous as I am.
I swing my car around and put it in park so my asshole brother can climb in; he loves riding together to visit our parents. No idea why. I suppose it’s because he’s one cheap son of a bitch and loves saving the gas money.
Tripp earns more than I do by almost double; he can afford the quarter tank of fuel it takes to get to Mom’s, but does he ever volunteer to drive? Fuck no.
“Get in, bitch, we’re going shopping,” I tell him as he squeezes his large body into my luxury sports car. It was my first stupid purchase after I signed my contract with the Chicago Steam, but it wasn’t my last. Car. House. The diamond watch glittering on my wrist, casting prisms throughout the interior of my car.
“Shopping? I thought we were going to Mom and Dad’s,” Tripp says, buckling himself in, not trusting my driving. The guy is one of the worst backseat drivers on the planet. Such a nag.
“We are going to Mom and Dad’s. Stop being so literal—I was making a joke.”
Not nearly as good-looking, and not nearly as clever—my brother doesn’t think anything I say is funny, and I’m hilarious, just ask me.
“Is True going to be there?” Tripp’s referring to our younger sister as he shifts in the seat of a car that realistically doesn’t fit either of us in it comfortably. Too tall, too broad, too big for this boxy, compact sports car.
“No, Mom said she’s got something going on. Packing to go out of town or something like that.”
Our sister works in athletics, too, as a junior agent for a management company, and she spends a lot of time going on recruiting trips with scouts. It’s baseball season at the university level and we haven’t seen True in weeks.
“Maybe we should FaceTime her later—make sure she’s alive.” For all the grumbling and bitching he does about us, Tripp sure has to know what we’re doing all the damn time. He’s not even that much older than we are, the three of us each only a year apart. Boom, boom, boom, our parents banging us out within a four-year period.
Literally banging.
“I wouldn’t worry about True. She can take care of herself.”
Tripp grumbles. Crosses his arms in a huff because I’m disagreeing with him. Stares out the window. “Can you make sure you come to a full stop at all the intersections? You almost gave me a damn heart attack last time.”
We go to our parents’ place almost every week if we’re around and not playing ball. In fact, each of us just got done with work.
I play baseball, Tripp plays football, and we bought our parents’ house together. That fucker over there in the passenger seat tried paying for all of it, but I found out and wedged my way in—no way was I going to let him lord that shit over me the rest of my life. Oh, and I bought them each new cars. Then dipshit over there bought them a cute little lake cottage, but then I went and got them a Jeep for the cottage.
The list goes on and on—not that we’re competitive.
It’s just that I’m better. He simply won’t admit it.
I give my reflection a once-over in the rearview mirror and adjust it at the same time.
Approaching the intersection he’s suddenly sooo concerned about, I rev my engine, listening to it hum and purr—like my last date did when I made her come.
That thought makes me chuckle as I roll through the stop sign to piss my brother off, and it does, just as I knew it would.
“What the fuck did I tell you, man! One of these days you’re going to get pulled over, and your popularity isn’t going to get you off.”
“Ha!” I laugh. “You said ‘Get me off.’”
He glares, clutching the brace bar above the window. “You’re an idiot.”
“You are.”
“You are.”
“I just said that—you can’t say it.”
“Make me,” he mutters, glaring out the window, grasping the bar tighter.
Yeah, we argue like we’re twelve. So what?
I give him a sidelong glance, slowing my speed to appease him. “You’re not actually worried I’m going to get us killed, are you?” The truth is, I’ve never been pulled over for speeding, or breaking any laws. Have I broken them? Yes, but they were only minor infractions. Anyway, I would never do anything illegal. Not on purpose. And the truth is, I am a conscientious driver—just not when Tripp is in the car. He is way too easy to needle.