Page 9 of Jonesing for a Spy

My first was… odd. The second was shit. This one? Everything is devolving. By number four, I might as well be wearing a diaper.

Charlie’s big palm rubs my back. It’s warm and soothing, just like him. “You okay, Scoot?”

My eyes drop closed. Scooter. Scoot. Maybe I don’t need that diaper. Maybe I just need my family. The effect is the same.

I twirl on my stool to face my brother and the man who would be my kryptonite if I weren’t so damn awkward.

“Yeah, Skip.” If he’s using my nickname, I’m using his. “Deep-throating olives backfired on me.”

Charlie flushes red and groans. “Fuck me. Never say that again. Please, I beg of you.” Turning to the man at his side, he makes an unnecessary introduction. “Strider, this is my sister, Scooter. Scoot, this is a buddy of mine from way back, Strider Anderson.”

A smirk dances across Strider’s lips as he extends a hand to shake. “Nice to meet you, Scooter.”

“Strider,” I acknowledge, with my palm in his for the second time today. “How do you know Skipper here?”

“Skipper?” He looks at my brother and fights a laugh.

I take what little time I have to wipe away the tears and whatever makeup has run down my face.

“Family hazing basically. We all have terrible nicknames. That’s Rookie.” He points at Davie. “Hambone will be along anytime.”

The amusement lighting Strider’s face is undeniable. “I’ll stop complaining about my parents and their The Lord of the Rings names now.”

“I wondered.”

“You did?” His reply is quiet and goes unnoticed by my nosy brothers.

Shit. I said that out loud.

Strider

She gives a subtle nod, rolling her bottom lip between her teeth to bite as if that will stop her from speaking.

I notice. My dick notices. Everything in my humming body notices.

I pray her brother doesn’t, though, because nine years of casual friendship and grabbing a beer when I’m in town will be over if he sees me eyeing his sister like I want to unwrap her like a Tootsie Roll pop and start licking until I find the creamy center.

I grab the spine of the stool next to hers. Though my body is turned toward her, I twist my neck to Charlie and poke the bear. “Skipper like on a boat or like what’s sandwiched between hop and jump?”

He merely shrugs. “No clue, man. Mom and Dad started it, and I didn’t ask. Some of the others are… questionable.”

“And Hambone isn’t?”

“Did someone call for me?” A man enters the room from the back. He’s taller and thinner than Charlie, but darker. He smirks, but his eyes are shrewd. Somehow I know the tilt of his mouth is a farce.

“Jamie.” Mirren jumps off her stool, with a wobble, and throws herself into his arms while I fight irrational jealousy that her brother holds what I wish I could.

The man ruffles her hair before letting her go and staring straight at me, sizing me up. He extends a hand. “Jamie Jones.” His shake is firm, if not tight, as he holds my eyes.

“Strider Anderson.”

Mirren returns to her seat, and I step aside, giving her room to pass, hoping the dance of our bodies moving around each other isn’t obvious to her three brothers.

I don’t know anything about Jamie or the man they call Rookie, but Charlie’s never struck me as a man to mess with… much less with his sister in the mix.

And cheesy nickname or not, Jamie looks like he would use his eyes to shoot laser beams at anyone who gets within a three-foot radius of him. He doesn’t say more, he simply dresses me down with his eyes, while keeping a grasp on my hand, daring me to break first.

It’s his brother who halts the stare-down. He rounds the bar and extends a hand for me. “Call me Davie. This”—he lifts his hands like a ringmaster under the big top—“is my place. You can play all the PAC-MAN you want.”