Page 12 of South of The Skyway

“Yeah, I freaking reek. Was about to hop into the shower. What’s up?”

“I fucked up.”

The faint click of a lamp switch accompanied a groan before a distant thud. I imagined him dropping his duffle onto the hardwood. “Alright, I’m listening.”

“I met a girl.”

“That was fast.”

“But she told me to let the fates decide if we’re meant to meet.”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

“That I’m an idiot.” There’d never been a truer statement. Fuck, I should have fought for her, pushed her on it. But everything about her felt like the fire sign she so proudly claimed. Wild. Uninhibited. Like she’d smother if I put too much pressure on her.

“I’m afraid that’s well established, so what’s new?”

“Piss off.”

He chuckled, and suddenly the audio was tunneled. I assumed he was putting me on speaker. “For real though, fill me in, man.”

“Met her while doing some market research—”

“Is that what we’re calling it now?”

“—and we just, I dunno, clicked. But when everything was done—”

“Christ Rhy,inthe bar?”

Like he could talk. Jameson was hands-down the wild-card in our family, next only to our youngest brother, Maverick. “—and I asked for her number. She told me if we were meant to connect, we’d see each other again.”

“Welp. Clearly, you’re both crazy, and it’s a perfect match.”

“Come on, be real.”

“I am being real.” He cleared his throat as I heard the shower flip on. “I love you, man, but you’re a hopeless romantic if you think that was anything short of a dismissal.”

“Fuck.”

“I mean, didn’t youjust?”

“Shove off.”

Jameson’s laugh had always sounded like home to me. It was no different when he was serving me a steaming pile of tough love. I ran my hand over my hair, wishing I could see his face, and had been smart enough to drag Paxton into the conversation. Five years Jameson’s junior, Pax was likely the most level-headed of our brothers. He was direct like Jameson, without being quite as cut and dry. The siblings between us were both far too optimistic to construct proper feedback, so we’d loop him in whenever we needed a mediator and an actionable game plan.

“You get a picture?”

“Between zipping my pants, and her skirting out the door under the guise of fate?”

Jameson hesitated for a beat–a telltale of him actually bothering to think before speaking. “Nothing before?”

“No.”

“Dark and tan?”

I countered, “Blonder than me.”

“Damn,” he chuckled. “That’s new.”

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