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Bond was grimacing at the texture of a sponge next to the sink, but then he opened up the container next to him and dipped his finger into it with a smile.
“That’s freakin’ awesome,” he sighed, sticking the finger in his mouth.
“Whatcha got?” I asked, pulling a stick of butter out of the fridge, and then peeling back the wrapper and taking a bite out of it. “We should serve this shit. People’d love it.”
Bond had found a spoon by this point, and was using it to eat out of the jar. “Think it’s flour? Why’d I never eat it like this before? What a waste, guys, what a waste.”
Hearing clinking and rustling, I watched as Jarrod pulled out three bowls and began taking things out of the fridge, freezer, and cupboards. “I’m going to make us the best sundae ever. Yo, y’all got any pickles?”
“Do we have pickles?” I snorted, pulling a massive jar of the things out of the fridge. “This is the Godfather of pickles. The Krakatoa of pickles. The Mount Everest of pickles.”
Bond joined us, not putting his jar down and still spooning the flour into his mouth. “What you making?”
In the bowl were three muffins with a spoon of ice cream on top of them.
“Hear me out on this. Okay, a muffin, with ice cream, some mayo, a pickle, some crushed chips, a small spoonful of peanut butter—crunchy, obviously—and a pretzel.”
For some reason, it sounded like the best thing we’d ever heard of, so we went about making it a reality before taking our bowls back to the office, so no one else saw our genius invention and stole the recipe.
Halfway through it, Bond started chuckling again, and both of us saw the state of his face for the first time, making us burst out laughing.
“Y-you l-l-look like Scarface,” Jarrod snickered, his deep voice sounding almost high pitched for once and making us all laugh even harder.
That was when Reid decided to rejoin us.
“I figured I’d come in and get something to eat before I—” he stopped and stared at Bond, looking absolutely horrified by what he was seeing. “Please, God, tell me that’s not what I think it is on your face.”
Bond’s head rolled on his neck like he had no muscles available, and then he wiped his forehead with the back of his hand and checked it. “There’s nothing on my face.”
He was wrong. He was covered in a thick layer of white dust from his cheeks down to his shirt.
“You got a little something right here.” I pointed at the tip of my nose, then nodded when he touched the end of his finger to his cheek and held it up—covered in the white powder.
“Got it. Thanks, man!”
Jarrod was lazily spinning himself on my desk chair while sniffing one of the drawings our niece had done for the office. Totally genius move. The markers smelled like bubblegum and sparkled like they had pixie dust in them.
“What’s on his face?” Reid asked, drawing our attention back to where he was standing with his arms crossed over his chest. “If I need to call for help arresting y’all, Mom’s going to be pissed.”
“You’re right,” I nodded. “She’d be so pissed at you.”
His eyes widened. “Not at me, you dill hole. She’ll be pissed at you guys getting locked up for doing drugs.”
All three of us gaped at him.
“We didn’t do drugs.” I glanced over at Bond, who was trying to get to his feet unsuccessfully. Realizing it was a useless endeavor when he had no muscles in his body to help him, he collapsed back into his desk chair and pretty much just slumped. “Well, we”—I gestured between myself and Jarrod—“didn’t. I dunno about him.”
Resting his face on his palm and causing his cheek to smush against his nose, Bond mumbled, “You ever eat flour? That shit’s fire, man.”
Pinching the bridge of his nose, Reid mumbled something.
“Hey, when did you get here?” Jarrod suddenly asked, like he’d only just noticed our other brother was in the room. “Want a brownie?”
“Um, I maybe wouldn’t eat those if I were you,” a woman said behind him, making Reid jump.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my brothers all lean to the side to see around Reid’s body at the same time as me, but it was Jarrod who saw her face first and recognized her.
“Mrs. G!” Normally, the enthusiastic greeting coming from him would be downright weird, but nothing was strange today. Nope, everything was tickety-boo.
Frowning as he looked from Jarrod to Mrs. Gallagher, Reid asked, “Why not? What’s wrong with them?”
Closing the door behind us, our guest came farther into the room, wringing her hands in front of her.
“They’re medicinal brownies. Last year, I discovered how well the ‘medicine’ in them worked on my arthritis and began making them for my neighbors with health problems.”
