Roman-2(Lane Brothers, Book 5)(79)

“Tell him, imp.”

“And then what? He’ll have a fit and start the freeze out like he did with poor Logan. No, I’m just—”

“Putting off the inevitable.”





Chapter Four


Becky

Yeah, I know this shit is inevitable, I think, staring down at my half-eaten chicken and the potato I’d been about to go Terminator on, suddenly not even a little hungry anymore.

I always feel this way when I think about Dad and his unreasonable expectations. Too bad I’m not always capable of staying without an appetite, hence my big butt.

“Look, Devon, give me a goddamned break, okay? My dad’s like a Nazi when it comes to what he expects. You know what happened when Logan went into the Marines instead of taking that football scholarship and going pro-ball. They haven’t spoken in years. The only reason we’re seeing him next week is because Lila threatened to cancel the wedding if he didn’t keep his yap shut.”

Logan is by far my favorite brother. He’s three years my senior, but he’s always been there for me, even in girly situations like that time I got my period and needed him to bring me tampons.

We used to be inseparable, but due to the ‘banishment’ I haven’t spoken to him in about eight months, when he was deployed. Dad’s a great guy, but he has these goals for each of his kids and if we don’t conform he gets stone cold about that shit: what I am currently trying to avoid.

“You’re talking to me,” he says, and I frown, before it hits me.

I haven’t stammered or stuttered or blushed once, not once, because I’m angry and irritated by his nosy interference. Well, ain’t that fabulous? The only way for me to string a decent sentence together is when I’m giving him heat.

Dammit.

“So? I have lips, a tongue, and a freaking mind. Of course I can talk,” I mutter, attacking my potato for something to do while he just sits there and stares at me. “I just don’t do it all that well around you.”

Oh God, why did I have to go and say that? It’s like a red light, a beacon, a siren’s song for guys like Devon. They thrive on knowing that some poor pathetic chick is too dazzled by their beauty to form coherent words, and now I’ve gone and hinted that I’m still a complete dork when it comes to him.

Cripes.

I’d give anything if he’d just let that kernel go unasked and change the subject.

“I know. I also know you haven’t been with anyone. Why?”

I change my mind, I change my mind! Ask about the other thing instead! I yell inside, feeling my face heat so suddenly my hair should be standing straight up.

“This…something…potato?”

Aaand we’re back to the ‘soup for brains’ part of my schoolgirl crush. I’m so mortified I want to let myself turn to Jell-O and melt right off of my seat and into the floorboards, but he just smiles and keeps looking, his expression letting me know he has the patience of Job and expects an answer.

“Um, uh, I…”

If I string the words together really slowly, there’s a chance I might get a decent, albeit lacking, sentence together, something that’s better than my show of genius a second ago.

“No…attraction?”

There, not the most engaging thing I’ve ever said, but as my anger is totally dead, crushed beneath mortification and humiliation, I feel it’s better than stringing together something that will undoubtedly contained the words ‘broccoli’, ‘cabbage’, or ‘Brussels sprout’.

It’s a thing: when I get nervous I start recapping the name of every vegetable I know of. It was an exercise in therapy to correct my lisp, and I’ve had the brain fart ever since.

His eyes seem to sparkle at the statement, and I shake my head, oh brother, and stand to my feet, pointing toward the noisy bunch out in the hall and marching toward them.

“What about that arse at the airport?”

I choose not to answer, because telling the dick that I’m so stunted I can’t even get a wettie for a guy as hot as Dillon is so low on my list of things to do I can’t even…

“Mind your….business,” I snap, pasting a fake smile on my face and scuttling around to stand beside Mama, not wanting to get between Dad and his golden boy.

I love the bastard, but one of these days I’m going to tell him how brown that ring around his nose is.

“There you are, scamp. Come give your favorite brother a kiss!” he yells, bringing me in for a hug as if I haven’t seen him in years instead of the three months it’s been since he came to check my apartment and give me another lecture about safety, pepper spray,and kicking balls—ask questions later, after the dick wad’s dropped.