Page 127 of Boots, Bucket Lists & Bad Ideas
“Though, I bet the snakes would’ve bolted in the opposite direction with every scream and thud as Hart bounced down that ditch.” Dean lugs a handful of bins from the bus—the right ones this time.
“I wasn’t screamin’.” I pass him, heading in the direction he’s coming from. “Don’t start unpacking that bin until I get back with the tablecloths.”
We can at least attempt to look somewhat presentable.
But inside the bus, I lock myself in the bathroom and slather lotion over every inch of my body, being especially carefularound my crown jewels. And yes, I slather my ass crack too—real good.
“Ahhhh,” I sigh, my palm pressed against the door, my pants and briefs at my ankles, my shirt twisted here and there.
How the hell the ants wedged themselves in my ass cheeks so damn fast, I’ll never know.
After relishing in the relief of my calm skin, I toss the empty calamine bottle in the garbage, making a mental note to buy more later.
I dress and then hunt through the bins until I find the one with tablecloths and clips.
Dean’s grinning and unpacking a bin by the time I get back. “How loud did you scream when those fire demons latched onto your testies?”
I guess we haven’t moved on from this topic.
I say nothing.
“You screamed like your soul had been ripped from your body, didn’t you?” He claws down his chest, the motion dramatic and mocking.
Lord, he’s theatrical.
I throw a black tablecloth at him. “Put on the tablecloth first.”
He lifts out a stack of wooden trays and drops them on the table with a thump. “Yeah, I’m not doing that.”
The tablecloth hits me in the face.
Asshole.
I snap open the tablecloth. It catches in the air before settling with a heavy drape. I roll out a leather runner across the middle. Its dark hide covers those blasted wrinkles. I do the same to Dean’s table before I start unpacking the bin at my feet.
“Testies are your besties.” Dean tosses boxes, mini-barrels, and displays onto the table, not following the diagram I designed. “Best be taking better care of them.”
I slap the blueprint page on his table. “This is what you’re supposed to be following. You’re unloading the wrong bin for this table.”
Dean lets out a low breath, examining the page without much focus. After a moment, he shakes his head and tosses the paper aside.
“I think I’m gonna hang the lights.” He grabs a string of Edison bulbs out of another bin, clanging the bulbs together.
“Be careful.” I move the items from his table to their proper location.
My skin still prickles with every movement, stiff and puffed. Maybe I should’ve taken an antihistamine too. Or wore fewer clothes. A T-shirt instead of this button-down plaid shirt, at least. But I figured if my brothers didn’t see the bites and welts, they wouldn’t comment.
I was wrong. It’ll be the talk of the week. I can hear it already between their attempts to decode the bucket list.
The bucket list.
How the hell am I going to participate in it when she made it clear I’m not welcome?
My thoughts drift to the need to scratch my ass. I resist, and it might very well kill me. The last time my body was this uncomfortable, I hooked up with a lady who heard that feather tickle torture was a thing I was into.
Yeah.
Feather.
