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Harry eyed him speculatively. “Do you know how to play?”
“Please. You’re looking at the reigning town champ.”
“Nuh-uh.”
Beckett just smiled, flexed his fingers. “Bring it on.”
THEY WERE PRETTY good, even the little guy. It shouldn’t have surprised him to find himself in real competition. He’d been battling his brothers at video games at five. Harry had patience and a knack for strategy while Liam went full-out, a technique that either paid off big-time or went down in flames.
And Murphy? He just lived it.
They bitched and moaned a lot, accused each other or the game itself of cheating regularly. Beckett either ignored them or joined in. Once they got over the shock of not being called out for poor sportsmanship or not being told it was just a game and supposed to be fun, they got louder, and wilder.
“I smoked you!” Harry cackled, shook his fists in the air.
Not entirely pleased at being smoked by an eight-year-old, Beckett scowled at the screen. “Shit.”
“You’re not supposed to say bad words,” Murphy informed him.
“You’re not supposed to say bad words. I have a license to swear.”
Liam snorted. “Come on.”
“And it’s up for renewal next month. Let’s—shit,” he repeated when he noticed the time. “We were supposed to eat a half hour ago.”
“We’ve got another Ben 10 game.” Harry bounced up to get it out of the case. “We can play it first.”
“Gotta fuel up, otherwise your mom will kick all our butts.”
“Butts are behind so you know how to write a b.”
Beckett studied Liam. “Okay. Let’s eat.”
He didn’t tell them to pick up the games. Harry hesitated, then shrugged and raced to the kitchen.
In the spirit of solidarity Beckett chose a Hulk plate. It amazed him that they ate salad without whining about it, but maybe it was because they rehashed the games while they wolfed it down.
Or they were starving since dinner was late.
They asked for Coke. Murphy broke as Beckett poured it out.
“We’re supposed to have milk. We’re not supposed to have soda.”
Liam shoved him. Murphy shoved back.
“Cut it out. It’s a special occasion. Man Night. Sodas all around.”
“He hit me.”
“I did not.”
“Yeah, you did,” Beckett said before Murphy could come up with the inevitable “did, too.” “And you hit back. It’s a wash.”
“I’m telling Mom,” Murphy muttered.
“You can’t do that, man.” Beckett shook his head as he scooped spaghetti, without warming it up, onto plates.
Torn between insult and being called man, Murphy stared at him, bottom lip quivering. “How come?”
“Code of Brotherhood. It’s strictly enforced on Man Night. What goes on here, stays here.”
Murphy thought about it as he studied his plate. Nobody cut up the spaghetti or the meatball. Maybe because it was Man Night. He stabbed at the meatball with his fork, and sent it winging across the table to land in Liam’s lap.
“Two points,” Beckett commented.
Then all hell broke loose.
On a cry of rage, Liam scooped up the meatball, threw it at his brother. He had damn good aim, and bounced the meatball off Murphy’s forehead.
Beckett had to give the little guy credit. He didn’t cry; he didn’t hesitate. He attacked.
He bounded out of the chair, leaping toward Liam. Spaghetti flew like wet confetti. Beckett managed to hook an arm around Murphy’s waist, haul him back as he kicked enthusiastically at his brother. Wild to retaliate, Liam made a grab. Beckett shifted to block, bumped the boy into the table.
And the cup of soda dumped all over Harry.
Desperate to stop the war, Beckett scooped up Liam as Harry, fists bunched, jumped up.
“Hold it, hold it. Harry, that was my fault. I knocked it over. Take it easy. Everybody just stop!”
“He did it on purpose!” Liam accused and tried to wiggle around to punch his little brother.
“Did not.” Murder in his eye, red sauce on his face, Murphy got in one good kick. “He didn’t cut it up. It’s his fault.”
“Everybody stop! Quiet!”
The shouts and accusations snapped off. Three mutinous faces stared at him as Beckett surveyed the damage. “Wow, that’s a pretty big mess.”
The meatball that started it sat partially smashed on the floor. Noodles and sauce glopped over the table.
“Mom’s gonna be mad.” And now Murphy’s eyes shone with tears.
“No, she’s not. Look, kid, these things happen when men eat together without women around.”
“They do?”
“I’m looking at it, so they do. Everybody just sit down.”
“He threw a meatball at me.”
“He didn’t throw it at you,” Beckett corrected as Liam stared at Murphy with the active dislike only siblings can feel for one another. “It was an accident because I didn’t cut it up. It’s my first day on the job, so cut me some slack. Go on and sit down.”
“But I got meatball on my pants.”
“So what? We’ll clean up after we eat.”
He set Murphy down, then picked up the guilty meatball and tossed it in the sink before sliding Murphy’s spaghetti back on his plate. He got a knife, another meatball out of the take-out dish, then set to work cutting it up.
“Big Chief Murphy. You look like you’re wearing war paint.”
And the boy smiled at him, sweet as an angel. “I like pisgetti.”
“Me, too. Want yours cut up, Liam?”
“Okay.”
“Gut shot.” Beckett poked a finger on the red stain on Liam’s T-shirt. “And still up for the battle. Harry?”
“I like to twirl it.”
“Good plan.” Fairly exhausted, Beckett dropped into his chair. “Dig in, men.”
CHAPTER NINE
THEY ATE LIKE WOLVES, BECKETT INCLUDED. MAYBE virtual war followed by a minor meatball fight piqued the appetite. After the meal, the best solution he could come up with was to strip them down in the tiny laundry room off the kitchen. As he tossed his spaghetti-tagged shirt in the machine for good measure, the boys did what naked boys have done throughout history.
They ran around the house yelling like heathens.
He wasn’t sure which was more of a mess, the kitchen or the kids, but opted to deal with the kids first. Since he doubted Clare’s standards stooped low enough to deck out three sticky, sauce-stained kids in their pajamas, he herded them into the bathroom.
“It’s a three-for-one,” he announced. “Everybody into the pool.”
“Can we have bubbles?” Murphy asked.
“I don’t know, can you?”
“We got Spider-Man.” Harry reached onto a shelf in the splinter-sized linen closet, took out a Spidey-shaped bottle.
“Very cool.” Beckett dumped a hefty dose in the water. “Okay, hop in, and I’ll—”
“We need our toys.” Liam got a plastic basket out of the closet, dumped in all contents. From the sneaky look he shot Beckett, Beckett figured that wasn’t how their mom handled it.
But, it was Man Night.
“Okay—”
“We need our soap stuff.” Harry got a pump bottle. “You can wash your hair and your skin with it.”
“Handy.”
“But you gotta wash our hair,” Murphy told him.
“Okay.” Beckett studied the bottle. “Let’s go for it.”
They climbed in. If he hadn’t been distracted by Spider-Man, toys, and soap stuff, he’d have considered water displacement.
He switched off the taps, tossed a towel on the floor where the water had lapped over. Because he was currently shirtless, he metaphorically rolled up his sleeves and got to it.
Realized inside of thirty seconds he’d need more towels.
It brought back dim memories of b
aths with his brothers, the water battles, the floods, the silly fun.
The wheedling protests when it was time to get out.
“Here’s the deal about Man Night. Women come back. If your mom comes home and sees this bathroom, the kitchen, men, we are toast. It’s better to get rid of the evidence.”
