Page 39 of Boots, Bucket Lists & Bad Ideas
“Get her to stop burnin’ shit down.”
Wheeler takes a breath and runs his hand over the back of his neck. “I get it, you’re not a parent. But don’t go saying things you don’t understand. I’ll find a replacement.”
“You’ll get on that fucking bus.” I let out a frustrated breath, my boot tapping against the floor with irritation.
I know they won’t get on the fucking bus.
“Who are you putting in your place?” I snarl at Beck.
He glances at his glass, avoiding my eyes. “Bronx agreed.”
I shake my head. “Nope.”
“And I’m sure Wyatt could do it,” Levi adds.
“This isn’t a damn frat party.”
“If it were, then Sterling would have shown up,” Dean chuckles.
“This is a work trip, and Bronx pranks more than he breathes,” I remind them.
Bronx and his brother’s pranks might’ve been funny back in the day, but the idiots didn’t grow out of their “gotcha” masterpieces.
I’d never admit to them, but some of those pranks had been wicked. Like the time they Saran-wrapped the principal’s car.
Or the time they let three goats out and painted them 1, 2, and 4. The faculty spent days searching for the third goat that had never been released.
“He’s harmless,” Dean says.
“All that talk about family, pride, and legacy,” I mutter. “And you two are all too busy for a business rodeo?”
“You could come,” Levi suggests.
“I’m building the fucking treehouse for your kid this week.”
“I’ll help you tomorrow, and then that’ll clear up your week.” Levi hitches a thumb at me. “He is a master treehouse builder.”
It isn’t the first one I’ve built.
“I’ll pitch in too,” Beck says. “I’ll be close enough to the ranch to keep an eye on the heifer.”
The rest of my brothers chime in to assist with the treehouse, like that’s going to make up for ditching the event that’s been a year in planning.
Levi claps his hands. “It’s settled. We’ll help you, and you go to the rodeo.”
I point at Levi. “I’m not going to the rodeo, and y’all can still help me with the treehouse tomorrow.” My finger slides to Wheeler. “You can fuck off.” I point at Beck. “You can fuck off, too.” I drain half the beer in one go.
I need a second.
Maybe a third.
And a fistfight.
I storm off, my brother’s shouts trying to beckon me back. I’ve had enough brotherly “non-birthday” time.
7: YOUR BELT, OUR RULES
HART
