Page 110 of Bragg's Match

“No tequila for you.”

I flop backwards on the sofa. “Whatever.”

Miller slams a bottle of gin on the coffee table. “It’s time.”

I groan. “We couldn’t use a different type of alcohol for truth or punch?”

Truth or punch is a ‘game’ we play when one of us Bragg brothers is struggling but won’t admit what’s going on with him. It usually ends up with all of us drunk and one of us bruised.

Miller pours shots and hands each of us one. I sniff the liquid and grimace. I hate gin. Give me tequila any day of the week. Yes, I tend to remove my clothes when I drink tequila. I don’t know what the big deal is. Public nudity is not a crime in Winter Falls.

“Truth or punch,” Miller growls.

“Truth or punch,” I repeat before downing the shot. Ugh. Gross.

“Why is Miller being especially grumpy tonight?” I ask.

He crosses his arms over his chest and looks down at me. “We ask the questions at truth or punch. Not you.”

I sigh. “No need for punching. I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.”

Basically, the game works like this. Whoever’s in the hot seat – me in this instance – gets questioned by the others. If he refuses to answer a question, the questioner gets to punch him.

He smirks. “Baby Brody’s afraid of being punched.”

I hate being called the baby, but I swallow my growl. I know better than to give my brothers ammunition they can use against me when we’re playing truth or punch. I’ve played this game enough in the past year as Riley, Miller, and Elder found their significant others.

“Me first,” Peace declares.

I roll my eyes. “Yeah, yeah. We know you’re the oldest and get to start the questions.”

“Have you told Soleil you love her?”

Elder groans. “You can’t ask yes or no questions. It defeats the entire purpose of truth or punch.”

“Yes,” I answer Peace’s initial question before he can formulate a new one, which would be against the rules. Not that anyone cares about the rules.

“What was Soleil’s response to your declaration?” Elder asks.

I drink another shot of gin while I formulate my answer. The trick is to answer the question but leave room for misinterpretation.

“She didn’t believe me.”

“Why not?” Miller grumbles.

“Dude. You’re grumpier than grumpy today. Who pissed in your Cheerios?”

“You did.”

“I’m positive I would remember weeing in your cereal.”

“My fiancée,” he begins and I roll my eyes.

He loves to throw the word fiancée around. Good for him. He proposed to Eden and she said yes. Big whoop. It’s possible my jealousy is showing. Or I’ve had too much gin. Either way.

“My fiancée is upset her best friend is hurting.”

“It’s not my fault.”

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