Page 2 of Serving Bunt

It was safe to say that my ex-roommate did not believe in curses. Or El Chupacabra. Or that the baseball gods had been out for revenge ever since Roman had switched his walk-up song to “Circle of Life.”

Fucking Lion King.

That hadn’t stopped him from spending hours on end at my kitchen table, listening as Abuelita described in vivid, horrifying detail the night a red-eyed beast had drained three goats and “looked her directly in the soul.” Or asking clarifying questions even though he didn’t believe a word of her story. That was how much he loved her.

All the guys did.

And I couldn’t blame them; Abuelita was fucking awesome.

“Not again with the curse.”

“An ancient entity,” I said firmly. “Probably Caribbean, definitely offended.”

“By what, exactly?” He held up a finger wrapped in black tape. “And I don’t want to hear about Roman’s walk-up song again.”

“I’ve narrowed it down to either the new clubhouse coffee machine or that thing Pink calls a mustache.”

Pink gasped from behind us. “You take that back.”

I turned slowly.

Let the record show, I was not anti-mustache. I was, in fact, extremely pro-mustache under the correct circumstances. Some well-groomed whiskers on the right face, with a sculpted jawline and a little bit of swagger?

Fucking hot.

Just last year, I had casually dated an honest-to-God, wood chopping lumberjack. Thick flannel, thicker forearms. The whole Pacific Northwest, Ron Swanson lookalike starter pack, topped off with a 70s porn ‘stache that was one hell of a sex accessory.

Just thinking about it made me shiver.

One night, after a few IPAs and a heated debate about how to “properly” season cast-iron pans, he’d pushed me against the wall of his log cabin, dropped to his knees on the bearskin rug, and gone to town on my log.

It was the kind of blow job that erased every word from my vocabulary, except fuck, please, and more.

And that mustache? Jesucristo.

It’d felt like velvet sandpaper in the best possible way. Tickling, teasing, and just enough friction to short-circuit every rational thought.

But Jared Pink’s mustache wasn’t that.

The dude might’ve been a Cy Young award-winning pitcher, but his mustache looked like it had been drawn on with a Sharpie during some kind of drunken dare. It was patchy and uneven, the kind that made you wonder if the man owned a mirror or if he was just committed to the bit. Knowing Pink, it was probably the latter.

I pointed toward his upper lip. “That thing is actively sabotaging our vibes.”

He clutched his chest with feigned outrage. “It’s distinguished.”

“Patrick Stewart is distinguished,” I shot back.

“Sir Patrick Stewart,” Roman corrected from my left. “Did I ever tell you guys about the time he hit on me at Dunkin’ Donuts?”

Bennett snorted, finally cracking a real smile as he dropped onto the bench. “Diaz has a point, dude,” he directed to Pink. “You look like you’re auditioning for the villain in a low-budget Western.”

“Okay, fuck all of you,” Pink muttered, but he was fighting a grin. “But especially you, Benny boy.”

“What did I do?”

“You fucked my sister.”

Bennett’s smile didn’t falter. If anything, it got softer, the kind of look that reminded me of the head-over-heels himbos from my favorite movies.