Page 164 of Monstrous Serpent

The corner of my mouth ticks up. “But I’ve seen a video of Ryan dancing. On a bar top.”

Ryan groans and covers his face with his hands.

“Bar top? That's your thing? Okay, respect. But that's vibes, not skill.” Atlas pulls his phone out. “Nah, we're settling this right now.”

“Atlas, sit down,” I groan.

“Little J, my honor is at stake.” He scrolls, tongue poking out the side of his mouth. “Henneman, pick the song. Actually, don't. You'll pick something weird. Doyle, move the coffee table.”

Doyle looks at me. I shrug. So, he gets up and moves the coffee table.

Ryan scoffs. “I'm not doing this.”

“You scared?” Atlas cracks his neck, then turns his hat backward. “Because that sounds like you know you’re going to lose.”

Ryan pinches the bridge of his nose, then stands, adjusting his sling. “One song.”

“Let’s do this.” Atlas taps the screen of his phone, and the opening bass of “Kaboose” rattles through the Bluetooth speaker Davis left on the fireplace mantel.

Holy. Shit.

Both of them turn around and go in. Like really go in.

Atlas rolls his hips, drops low, hands on his knees, and his ass is—okay, yeah, he wasn't lying. Fucking hell. Each pop hits the bass hard, like his body was built for this, and hockey was the backup plan. And Ryan matches him beat for beat, like he's back on a bar top, and the whole room owes him a tip.

Doyle loses his mind, slapping the arm of the chair, hollering. And I fumble for my phone, almost dropping it twice before I hit record.

“Not bad.” Atlas’s eyes narrow and he drops lower, adding a bounce to his ass that should be illegal on a man his size. “Learned this from Rua.”

Ryan goes red. Like full tomato. Then he plants his good hand on the floor and steps both feet back, lips pressed into a thin line. His knees bend, hips rolling low before popping back up with the beat. “Yeah, well, Connor’s mine. I won. Rua can suck it.”

Doyle grabs both sides of his head and screams while kicking his feet.

I grin, zooming the camera in on my boyfriend. “Atlas, if you lose, you’re never touching me again.”

“Pfft.” He glances at me over his shoulder, pops his ass hard—three times, each one hitting in time with the beat—then catches my expression and grins. “Yeah, that's what I thought.”

Davis bounds into the room. “Hey, what’s going on?”

Atlas waves him over without breaking rhythm. “Get in here, Baby J.”

My little brother doesn't need to be told twice. He launches himself into the middle of the floor and—oh no. His arms flail all over, his legs have zero relationship with the music, and his hips are doing something that looks like a fish flopping around on a deck while being electrocuted.

But his smile.

It’s so big his eyes are practically shut, like he either doesn’t know or doesn’t give a single shit that he looks like a malfunctioning robot. And Atlas is hyping him up, clapping and yelling “Let’s go, Baby J!” while Doyle is doubled over laughing so hard no sound is coming out.

I lose it.

I'm laughing uncontrollably as tears stream down my face, one hand gripping the arm of the couch, the other pressed against my brace because the pain jumped from a four to a nine. “Fuck. Fuck. Stop—oh my god, stop.”

Nobody stops. Davis adds a spin and trips. But Atlas catches my brother by the back of his T-shirt, hauls him upright without missing a beat, and somehow, they both keep dancing.

I'm dying. Literally dying. Every laugh ignites another bolt of pain, but I can't stop because Davis just attempted a body roll, and it looked like someone shook a sock full of Jello. “I can't—please—my fucking back—”

Atlas finally looks over, still moving, still grinning. “You good, Little J?”

“Do I look good?”