“I’M surprised you let the girl out of your sight.” War props himself up against the counter in my kitchen, beer in hand.
We’re having the first ever Bolts team dinner, and I’m hosting. Not all the guys could make it, but there are enough of us that Daniel and War had to bring chairs from their apartments to seat everyone.
“And I can’t believe you brought team dinners back. This is awesome.”
Our dinners in college were nothing like this. Tonight, we’ve upped the fancy with tablecloths and candles, real forks and plates, and a whole selection of wine. We even have cloth napkins that Aiden spent an inordinate amount of time turning into bolts of lightning. Yes, the napkins are Bolts blue. I can’t make this shit up.
My brother stands in the corner, shaker in hand, humming “La Cucaracha” while swaying his hips. “Who wants a cocktail?”
Daniel is the first to grab a glass of the neon blue drink. “This stuff is delicious.”
With a shake of my head, I open the oven a couple of inches to check on the lasagna. When I note that the cheese has melted perfectly, I pull it out and pop the garlic bread in. By the time the lasagna is cool enough to eat, the bread will be ready.
I point to the lettuce next to War. “Make yourself useful and toss that salad?”
War chokes on his beer. A little dribbles down his chin as he pounds on his chest and coughs. “Guy’s got jokes.”
I shrug. “No, I really just want you to toss the lettuce.”
McGreevey steps into the kitchen, glass of red wine in hand. “Smells fucking phenomenal. Becca is going to be so jealous.” He pulls out his phone, leans in close to my masterpiece, and snaps a picture of himself grinning beside it. He taps out a text, then pockets the device again and sips his wine.
“You can take her a plate,” I offer.
He laughs. “Nah. It’s more fun this way. She taunts me with pictures of the things she makes for dinner while I’m on the road. It’s only fair that I do the same for her.”
“If I was married, those are not the kind of pictures I’d want my wife to send me while I was gone,” War chimes in.
McGreevey licks his lips. “Oh, I get those pictures too. Not all of us are lonely with just our hand day in and day out.”
I snort, and War glares at me. “Boy’s not celibate for the first time in his life, and now he’s judging me.”
I fold my arms across my chest. “I’m not not celibate.”
His eyes go comically wide, and I worry he’s going to choke on his beer again. “Sara hasn’t taken that virginity yet?”
The apartment goes dead silent, and War cringes. Yeah, man. His voice was entirely too loud.
“Saint’s a virgin?” Hall asks, blue drink dangling from his fingers.
War sets his beer on the bar. “Shit.” He meets my eyes, red faced and wearing an apologetic frown. “Sorry, man.”
I shake my head and wave him off. “You’re all making a bigger deal out of this than it needs to be.”
“Dude, you’re a thirty-year-old virgin.” Hall nudges my brother, probably expecting backup.
Aiden merely shrugs, shaker in hand. “Guy’s only ever wanted one girl. I think it’s sweet.”
My chest goes tight at the sincerity in his tone. “Thanks, bro.”
Hall sighs, his shoulders slumping. “But you’ve got the glitter. Why would you get the glitter if you weren’t going to use it?”
Aiden pauses his shaker. “Did you just say my brother’s donkey dick’s ‘got the glitter’?”
“Did you just refer to his junk as a ‘donkey dick’?” McGreevey mutters with a grimace. “Fucking Americans, you guys are weird as shit.”
“Least we don’t eat ketchup chips,” Aiden chirps. He’s the only person I know who doesn’t like ketchup. “Crazy Canadians.”
I snort. “You can’t insult the Canadians. They gave us hockey.”
He glares at me and shakes the stainless-steel cup he’s still clutching for emphasis. “I had your back.”
“Hey.” I hold up my hands and laugh. “I’m not bothered that I’m a virgin. Neither is Sara. It’ll happen when it happens.”
“But, like, it’s gotta be romantic, right?” Hall says, stalking toward me now.
“Um, no.” I grab a beer from the fridge and point at the salad. “War, grab that.” Then I hand my beer to Hall. “And you, take this. Aiden, get the bread. I’ll grab the lasagna.”
“What can I do?” McGreevey asks.
“Summon the guys so we can plan the great deflowering,” Hall jokes.
“Ha ha,” I mutter. I slip my oven mitts on, then follow them into the living room with the lasagna.
“Camden, what do you call a thirty-year-old virgin?” Hall teases.
Our second-line center shrugs. “Your sister?”
Hall scoffs. “Dude, that’s out of line.”
This guy. “And you’re not?” I give him a pointed look.
“She’s my twin sister,” he says. “She’s only twenty-three. And she’ll be a virgin until she’s fifty.”
I roll my eyes as I place the food on the table. “You’re insane.”
“Don’t anyone at this table even think about Millie like that.” He points a finger at War, then drags it around the room, making sure to make eye contact with each of us. Then he sets my beer at the head of the table.
War rubs his hands together and sits beside me. “Okay, boys, we gotta strategize. How should Brooksy pop his cherry?”
“I don’t have a cherry.” I lean back in my chair and drop my fists to the table. “Also, I don’t need your help.”
Across from me, Camden is tapping away at his phone. “I looked it up. A guy doesn’t have a cherry, but,” he says, dragging out the word and grinning at me, “you can drop your Skittle.”
War chokes on his beer again, and I slap him on the back. I consider cutting him off. Drinks seem to be a hazard for him tonight.
“Fuck,” Camden says. “Some of these are ridiculous. Virgout. Cherry blaster—”
“Please stop talking.”
“Where’s your whiteboard?” Aiden is up and out of his seat in a flash and headed toward my bedroom.
“How many times do I have to tell you to stay out of my room?” I should have locked it before he got here.
The ass ignores me and disappears inside.
McGreevey grunts. “This’ll be good.”
“Enough out of you, old man,” Hall volleys. “He doesn’t need to be slapping the tims.”
I sigh. “What the hell does that even mean?”
“Or playing with the ketchup.” Aiden snorts, wheeling the whiteboard into the living room.
War pinches the bridge of his nose. “Playing with the ketchup?”
Aiden shrugs. “Canadians. What can I tell ya?”
“We don’t play with the ketchup.” McGreevey grunts. He shoves a big bite of lasagna into his mouth, then he points at it with his fork. “But I’d full mountie my wife if she could cook like this. Jesus, Brooks. You’ve been holding out on us.”
War slaps me on the back. “Man can cook, and he’s got a donkey dick covered in glitter. He’ll do just fine.”
I shake my head and pick up my fork. “Hope y’all enjoy the first and last Bolts team dinner.”
