Page 130 of Beware of Dog

“Oh, puke,” Fox muttered, which meant he’d seen it, too.

Shep’s chest and shoulders lifted on a big breath, and slow exhale. Then he turned, finally, and trooped up the stairs. He started past their alcove, either without noticing them, or without acknowledging them.

Fox put thumb and forefinger in his mouth and whistled, a trick they’d both inherited from Devin. It was so loud and sharp that people down on the lawn twisted around to peer at the house.

Shep froze mid-step, and glanced over, brows lifted.

“Where are you headed?” Fox asked, casually. He even grinned, though it didn’t touch his eyes.

Shep’s expression was a flat challenge. “To get something real to drink. That dipshit Elrod put Heineken in the Solo cups.”

Fox scooted to one side of the wicker bench and patted the other. “Grab yourself something and come join us.” It was clearly not an invitation, but an order.

Shep’s lips compressed, and he turned and continued into the house.

“Bet you a tenner he’s running out the front,” Fox said.

Walsh took another regrettable sip of La Croix. “Nah. He’s got more balls than that.”

Fox smirked.

Shep didn’t run out the front. He returned less than two minutes later, carrying a glass of white wine he set on the coffee table, and a brimming whiskey rocks; sat down next to Fox, his arm hooked over the arm of the bench so there was a half-foot between them.

“Alright,” he said, before either of them could speak, and took a long swallow of his drink. “This is the part where you guys give me the death stare and threaten me and insult me to my face by being all subtle and British.” The last he said with a curl of his lip, unimpressed. He took another sip, and a grin tugged at one corner of his mouth. “What’re you gonna do? You gonna sit on his shoulders and fight me face-to-face if I don’t answer the way you like?”

Walsh tilted his can toward him. “Fuck you.”

Fox burst out laughing, a rare, bright punch of sound, face creased up from smiling. “Ha! That one’s good, I’ll give you that.”

Shep smiled, pleased with himself. But grew serious as he looked between the two of them. “Guys, we aren’t really doing this, right? Youcame. That shows you don’t totally disapprove. Do we have to keep doing this whole big brother thing? Or can we fucking get on with our lives?”

“That’s good, too,” Fox said, nodding.

Walsh said, “How is it that you’re a bigger asshole than him?” He tipped his head toward Fox.

“Well,” Shep said, “I work at it.”

Fox looked delighted. He leaned in closer to Shep, and stage whispered, “The thing you’ve got to understand about Kingston Rutherford—”

“It’s a shame Abbie’s going to grow up without a father,” Walsh cut in, “because I’m going to kill you.”

“Promises, promises, jockey boy. The thing you’ve got to understand about King is that he’s the most joyless, boring sod on the planet. He can’t stand to see anyone having any fun.”

Walsh plucked an ice chip from the bucket on the table and flicked it at him. Fox of course batted it away.

Shep pointed to them in turn. “Cass warned me about this. Sibling rivalry. Makes me glad I’m an only child.”

“It’s only a rivalry if there’s some risk of losing at anything,” Fox said. “Which I’m not.”

Had he been drinking, Walsh would have chased Fox’s bait and fallen down the rabbit hole of bitchery. But, clear-headed, he forced his attention onto Shep, where it belonged at the moment.

He nodded to the glass of wine on the table. “Is that for Cass?”

“Yeah, she hates beer.”

“You let her drink?”

Shep’s brows lifted. “Lether? What, like she’s my kid or something?”

---