Page 32 of Five Brothers

“Iron, let’s go!” Army shouts. “We’re late.” I hear the others climb into the truck. My smirk grows, the challenge hanging between us.

Iron jerks his head, looking at Macon. “Give me your knife.”

“Why?”

“Just give it to me, Macon!”

Iron holds out his hand, and Macon hesitates as the truck’s engine starts up. He digs in his pocket and pulls out a pocket knife, tossing it to Iron.

Iron swipes it midair and twists around, heading back toward the restaurant down the street.

We all stand and watch as he stalks toward the stairs, but then he stops at my dad’s Benz, unsheathes the blade, and it hits me what he’s going to do.

“No!” I growl, but I’m too late.

He bends over, stabs the front left tire, dragging the blade through the rubber to widen the gash.

“Ah!” I cry as laughter goes off in the truck behind me.

Iron runs over, tosses the knife back to Macon, and smiles. “Change that one, too?”

“You son of a—” Macon bites out, charging up next to me as we both watch Iron-fucking-Jaeger pull himself up and over the side, hopping into the truck bed.

“What the hell are you doing?” I scream.

He flashes me a white smile.

I ball my fists. “You asshole!”

He lets his head fall back as he laughs. “Go, go, go!” he shouts to Army in the cab.

They all howl as Army speeds off.

“Whoo!” Trace hollers.

“Goddammit!” Macon calls after them.

“I can order an Uber, you know!” I shout.

“We’ll be back at five o’clock!” Iron calls out, leaning up on his knees as they drive off. “Tell Mariette we want our usual, and can you make those stuffed mushrooms you brought on the Fourth of July?”

“I’m not making you shit!”

“But I’m going to prison, Krisjen.”

He sounds so fucking innocent, like I’m going to feel sorry for him. Trace covers his face with his hands, unable to stop his laughter.

They disappear down the street as Macon and I just stand there. Paisleigh giggles inside my car.

“God—” Macon says through his teeth. “Son of a …”

I look up at him, his scowl darkening as he turns from the truck that just sped off down to me.

I shrug. “It’s not my fault,”

“Just …” he grits out, holding up his hands like he’s going to strangle someone before gesturing to Mariette’s. “Get over there and work this off. So help me God, I’m going to fucking explode right now.”

I don’t have a chance to argue further before he walks back into the garage, but I’m not sure I would’ve anyway. I would just leave. If I had a car.

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