Page 46 of Drilled (Dad Bod Contracting 2)
But somehow it’s empty.
I watch James bring his two drinks across the yard to where Franco is tirelessly splitting wood, each chop as viciously powerful as the last. James stands aside, waiting for Franco to pause, and then hands him one of the glasses.
Franco takes it, stirs the drink with the straw, and then sucks the entire thing down in a matter of seconds; he hands the empty glass to James and goes back to splitting. James shakes his head and walks away, sipping his own drink more sedately.
I’m lost, watching Franco split wood, and I can’t help wondering if he thinks I’m fooled as to why he suddenly feels an urge to hack at a poor innocent tree.
A few minutes later, Nova glides in, leans a hip against the counter beside me, and fans herself with a hand. “Holy moly…that man!”
“I know, right?” I say, still helplessly watching Franco.
Nova laughs. “I mean, yeah, but that’s not who I meant.” She gestures at James, who is currently locked in an arm wrestling match with Jesse; Jesse is a beast, all right, but he doesn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell against James, whose gargantuan bicep is bulging and rippling with exertion, the veins popping.
“Oh.” I sip at the new drink, knowing I’m acting like a lush, but unable to help it. “Yeah. James is…something else.”
“And those girls of his? God, they’re just darling!”
“I didn’t even know he had daughters,” I admit. “But I don’t know him that well.”
Jesse, Imogen, and James all troop into the kitchen right as I’m saying this, and James plops onto a stool next to Nova.
“If you’re in here, who’s watching the meat?” Nova asks. “I only came because Imogen promised me a thick, juicy steak.”
James gestures at the grill with his drink. “Ryder. He’s a better griller than I am. I got ’em started, and he’s finishing ’em. We have a system.”
Jesse laughs, a mocking guffaw. “Yeah, a system we had to figure out after you ruined I don’t even know how many hundreds of dollars in steaks because you suck at grilling, but you’re too damn stubborn to admit it, or ask for help.” He glances at Nova and then at me. “We had to agree to let him start the grill and put the meat on, but then when it was time to actually flip it and finish it, either Ryder or me take over, because Franco is almost as shitty at a grill as James.”
“Hey, I can make a hell of a grilled cheese, okay?” James says, defensively.
“Yeah, but Nina’s are better.”
“And who taught her?” James asks.
“Me, dumbass!” Jesse says, stabbing James in the back of a hand with plastic drink sword. “You don’t even use mayo!”
James rumbles something unintelligible, which I assume isn’t polite. And then, louder, “Whatever, fucker. So I’m not a great cook? Who gives a shit?” Still not polite, but I feel for James.
I pat him on the shoulder. “I’m on your side, James. I can’t even boil water.”
Imogen laughs. “No kidding! You tried to make spaghetti once in college and damn near burned down the entire hall.”
“How do you even do that?” Jesse asks. “It’s water.”
“She forgot about it, let it boil over, and then it totally evaporated, and then the pot started scorching.” Imogen is laughing helplessly now. “I came over to borrow her notes and found the pot on fire. Audra was in her room, the door closed, with—uhh—” she trails off awkwardly, not wanting to embarrass me quite that much, apparently.
“I was exploring the mysteries of the female orgasm,” I say, affecting a prim tone. “And I may have gotten a little carried away. It could happen to anyone.”
Of course Franco chooses that moment to enter the kitchen, dripping sweat and breathing hard. He hears my statement, stiffens, his jaw clenches, and he turns right back around and goes back outside. He crosses over to the grill where Ryder is flipping the steaks, burgers, and hot dogs, a drink in one hand and tongs in the other, gesticulating with the drink as he tells a story to Laurel, who is visibly hanging on every word, her eyes locked on him, watching him, clutching her own drink in both hands as if for dear life.
Franco snatches Ryder’s drink from his hand mid-gesture, slams it back, and then returns the empty, and walks away without a word to either of them. Ryder stares mournfully into the empty glass, calling a sarcastic “Yeah, sure, help yourself, dick!” after Franco.
Laurel laughs as Ryder shakes his head in disgust before turning to finish flipping the meat. She takes a tiny sip of her drink from the straw, and then fits the straw up to Ryder’s lips. He turns his eyes to hers, quirks an eyebrow, and then takes a long sip. He says something, she nods and shrugs and smiles.
