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6
Standing at the door to Tati’s apartment, Grant gave Lucas a manly split-second bear hug with a slap to the back.
“You know what to do?” Grant asked his brother, feeling skeptical he could do this without bringing harm to himself.
“Yes, Chief, I’m well aware of my mission.”
If he had a dime for each time he’d heard that.
“Listen to me closely. When you see her, do not get all lovesick and sappy. Get straight to the point. Get in. Get out. I’d go with you, but a pining ex-lover getting caught sniffing around Birdie would be easier to explain than his far better-looking police chief of a brother.”
“Jesus, Grant, I’m not a golden retriever. I can exhibit restraint.”
“Bullshit. You forget I’ve watched you interact with Birdie Wellborn since I was in first grade. When you look at her, it’s like someone turned on the lights while you’ve been living in a dark, dank cave for a millennium.”
“That’s rather…descriptive and oddly illustrative of the way you look at a certain ex-FBI agent turned P.I.”
Grant stared at Lucas, not moving a muscle in his face, with the exception of one lifted eyebrow, fearful it would expose his true feelings for the woman who was likely boring a hole through his back with her sky-blue doe-eyes while munching on a post-dinner snack.
Grant shoved the duffel into Lucas’s midsection, causing his body to curl over with a forced exhale. The bag was filled with identity-masking paraphernalia custom curated by Tati herself. Watching her turn his brother into someone else entirely, that he wouldn’t even recognize, gave him a whole new appreciation for the art form.
“Make contact, impart the facts, but do not, I repeat, do not touch her. Keep your shit together. And then, walk away, before Errol’s security team gets their hands on you, throws you in a body bag, sends your lovesick ass over to Dr. Hillsboro, who proceeds to put you in a long deep sleep, and then dumps your sorry carcass into the Charles River.”
Lucas looked to the ceiling. “Have you ever known me to not keep my shit together?”
His big brother was wicked smart but lacked self-awareness.
Under the spell of the one woman Lucas Santos was prone to lose his ever-loving shit over. And it was more than a few times.
Grant looked at Lucas with a sardonic face and lifted his hand, palm forward, for illustrative purposes. He closed his thumb. “The day I walked in on you and Birdie about to kiss and you washed every pair of my brand new tightie-whites in pink food coloring in retaliation.” He pulled down another finger. “When you believed Birdie stole Lorraine Walker’s purse, only to discover it was a lie, so you walked into the boys’ locker room, slammed your fist into your locker, denting it in so it would no longer open, and fracturing your middle finger.” He pulled down yet another digit. “Watching Birdie give me a lap dance.” He looked off to the side as if reveling in the memory just to mess with him. “After which, you refused to speak to me for a solid week. As if it were my fault.” He was on the verge of describing Lucas’s next Birdie-induced offense when Lucas held up his hand in defeat.
“That’s enough.”
“Have I made my point?” Grant asked, eager to get back to Tati.
With hands on his hips, staring out toward the darkened skies, Lucas sighed. “You’re right. She’s been messing with my head for decades.”
“Just keep the one below the belt under control and we might have a snowball’s chance at saving her,” Grant instructed, looking over his shoulder as Tati searched her pantry for snacks.
Lucas rubbed his eyes. “Saving her from herself was always the more difficult task.”
“Agreed,” Grant said gruffly, raising his voice so the woman currently foraging for food was sure to hear. “Women will self-sacrifice without thinking twice.”
He thought he heard a particular waif, with an unholy appetite, mutter in the background, “Misogynistic asshole.”
“So are you staying here, with her?” Lucas asked with zero subtlety.
Grant didn’t like the smirk on his big brother’s pretty-boy face.
He crossed his arms, feeling rather uncomfortable at being the one scrutinized. “Makes sense. I’m sworn to serve and protect. She’s likely still traumatized from being taken from her last home.”
“Hey,” Tati countered from across the room with a mouthful of Triscuits. “I’m not traumatized, I’m pissed off.”
Grant smiled at Lucas, saying again with a raised voice and lifting his chin to the side, “So you’re good if I were to get a hotel room?”
“No,” she said, rather quickly. “I mean, you promised to help me throw together some Molotov cocktails later tonight.”
Lucas eyed the woman over Grant’s shoulder. “I’m assuming she’s not talking about alcoholic endeavors.”
