Page 126 of Blue Collar Babes

Sitting down beside me, he takes out a smoke that he won’t light up because he’s trying to quit. Holding the cigarette to his nose, he inhales deeply, then puts it back inside the pack. He says smelling the tobacco helps with the cravings. It’s funny as shit to watch.

“You on a break?” he asks.

“Something like that.”

He bumps my shoulder and looks out across the parking lot. A row of mature pines and hardwoods stretches across the back part of the property, hiding the industrial buildings on the other side.

“You heading to the cemetery later?”

I always do on Parker’s birthday. I used to take the day off from work and spend the entirety of it at Parker’s gravesite with a bottle of high-proof vodka. Those days are no more. I haven’t picked up a drink in over two years.

Pax angles his head and looks at me. “Want some company?”

Every year he asks, and every year I turn him down.

“I’m meeting Ryder at The Fields later.”

“Good. I don’t like the idea of you being alone tonight. You don’t feel like going back to your place after, come crash at mine.”

Pax lives a stereotypical bachelor’s life, which means his apartment is filled with empty beer cans, pizza boxes, and the occasional ripped condom wrapper discarded on the floor.

“Your place is disgusting.”

He rolls his eyes. “Then sleep at Mom’s.”

That would be a big hell no. I love my mother, but the woman is the definition of a helicopter mom. She hovers and fusses, two things I can somewhat tolerate on most days, but tonight, it would drive me out of my damn mind.

“Pass. You coming tonight?”

Pax’s grin is wide. “Nope. Got a date.”

My brother is the greatest guy you’ll ever meet, but he’s also the biggest manwhore in Fallen Brook.

“Then I’m definitely not crashing at your place. Not my idea of a fun night listening to your headboard bang against the wall.”

His grin stretches from cheek to cheek. “It’s fun for me.”

I playfully shove his shoulder, my mood a bit lighter than from minutes before.

“Thanks, man.”

Taking off his ball cap, Pax sweeps a hand through his disheveled hair. “For what?”

“For being my brother.”

He drops his gaze and sighs. Neither of us are good with expressing “feelings.”

“Shit, man.”

Wiping his hands down the front of his stained jeans, he pushes up to stand and cuffs my shoulder. No other words are spoken. None need to be.

The side door creaks as it opens, then slams shut, and I’m left alone to my thoughts once again.

Except, instead of thinking about Parker, I think abouther.

THREE

PEYTON

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