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Jude opens the twelve-pack, tossing each of us beers and handing one off to my uncle, who is too busy with driving to focus on catching a can.
Cold beer popped open, I lift it to my lips and take a hearty gulp.
Damn, this really is kind of perfect.
Remy does the same, and for the first time since we left that strip club, I see his face start to relax. The wrinkles between his brow no longer present.
Thank fuck.
Ty and Jude do their typical Ty and Jude shit, alternating between fighting with each other, laughing, and tossing insults toward the rest of us.
Though, it’s easy to ignore them when you have a beer in your hand, chill music filling your ears, and a warm breeze brushing across your face.
At first, I figure Uncle Brad is just taking us for a short ride around the lake, but when he takes a slight right and heads toward a very familiar alcove, I realize he has some plans.
“Okay,” he announces as he brings us to a stop right beside an old, rickety dock that everyone on the boat knows fondly as The Plank. “It’s time to vote.”
The Plank was the go-to place for our uncle after our father took off and left my mom to deal with us wolves on her own. Anytime we rowdy boys were fighting or disagreeing or wreaking havoc, he’d bring us here. To get shit settled the old-fashioned way.
“No way, Uncle B,” Jude comments, his face lighting up in amusement. “Aren’t we a little old to walk The fucking Plank?”
“Nope.” Brad shakes his head. “So, let’s decide. Who was the biggest asshole of the night?”
There it is. The big question—Who’s the asshole? Because, as our uncle always used to say, You Winslow boys are going to bring glory back to the last name your father tarnished. And to do that, you have to be man enough to admit when you’re an asshole and apologize for what you’ve done.
I grin.
Rem chuckles.
Ty just sits there, completely unaffected.
And Jude rolls his eyes on a big sigh. Though, his response is a direct result of being the one brother who has been voted to walk The Plank the most.
“Who says it’s Remington?” Brad questions, and the only one to raise his hand is Jude.
Remy laughs. “Yeah. I knew that one was coming.”
“Pretty sure it was the fifty bucks’ worth of Taco Hell you made him buy you,” Ty adds, a shit-eating grin covering his lips.
“But seriously?” Jude questions. “Who the fuck eats that much Taco Bell?”
Remy just shrugs. “What can I say? I was hungry.”
“You weren’t hungry. You were just being a spiteful douche.”
“That, too,” Rem responds, completely unbothered. “But my torn boxers are proof that it was valid. No one deserves to have a stripper’s fucking shoe that close to their dick.”
Our uncle just sits there, semi-listening to what is being said, but not questioning anything.
The man is purely focused on counting votes.
It’s safe to say after helping to raise four crazy boys, nothing fazes you.
“Looks like one vote for Rem,” Uncle Brad comments. “Who says it’s Ty?”
Jude tries to raise his hand again, but Brad is quick to respond. “Don’t be a little bitch, Jude. Your vote is already in.”
When no one raises his hand, he moves to the next. “Any votes for Flynn?”
Still, no one.
And when Brad says Jude’s name, three hands are raised.
Instantly, Jude groans, then proceeds to lift his middle finger and wave it around at all of us. “You guys are such dicks.”
“Three votes for Jude,” Uncle Brad says, not even trying to hide the fact that he’s loving every minute of this. “Well, Jude, looks like it’s time, buddy.”
“What the fuck?” Jude bitches, but he stands up and proceeds to hop off the boat and onto the rickety dock.
“Down to your skivvies!” Ty exclaims with his hands cupping his mouth.
Jude just glares and proceeds to shrug off his shirt, shoes, socks, and jeans.
“Looking good, Jude,” Rem teases and lifts his phone in the air, pretending it’s a fucking video camera and fake-recording Jude’s every move. “How about you give us a little model walk? Really strut your stuff.”
Jude flips him off, but being too fucking playful for anyone’s good, he doesn’t hesitate to get into it. His face morphs into his version of a serious model face, something more akin to Derek Zoolander than David Gandy, and the bastard walks up and down the dock with terrifying precision.
“I don’t know whether I should be impressed or horrified that that boy shares some small vestige of DNA with me.”
My uncle’s words spur a laugh to pop from my lungs.
But it doesn’t take long before even Brad Robinson reaches his limit.
“Okay! Okay! Enough of the bullshit. Get to the edge of the dock and do the damn thing.”
Jude doesn’t hesitate, walking straight to the end of the dock until his toes just barely hang off the edge.
