Slow Grind (Men of Mornington)

“She told Aubs the cancer’s back. I told her I didn’t want her knowing until I had a plan. The last thing I need is her all the way over there worrying about me.”

“Aubrey,” I say with a smile. It’s funny how I was just thinking about the goofy kid; now Max is bringing her up. Has to mean something. “How is the kid?” I ask. The last time I saw her was when she was twelve, and she was yelling at me for leaving Max hanging from a tree. By his underpants. Covered in honey. Next to a beehive. What can I say? I was an arse back then. I did mention she was protective of her big brother, didn’t I?

“Kid? Dude, she’s twenty-one. I wish she were still a kid,” he mutters, shaking his head.

“Twenty-one? You’re kidding me,” I say, my mouth twisting into a grin. I can’t imagine that wiry little tomboy all grown up. She’ll always be that little girl with the pigtails, covered in freckles. Then again, we just celebrated Em’s twenty-first with a huge party. I wonder what she looks like these days? Em’s always been a pretty girl, though she ruins it with all the piercings and hair dye, but Aubrey was a little more on the awkward side. Cute, but awkward. Kind of nerdy in a way—like Max. Nose always buried in a book or writing in that diary of hers.

“Don’t even think about it, Drew,” Max growls.

“What?” I laugh, holding my hands up in self-defence. “I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Yeah, well, keep it that way,” he grumbles, shaking his head.

A knock on the door interrupts us, and we both look up to see Nash, Sam, and Cam standing there. They stroll in, Sam dropping a six-pack in the fridge before collapsing on the couch next to me. Sam and Cam are twins. They were impossible to tell apart as kids, and they loved pulling jokes on Max and me. Nowadays it’s much easier since Sam has beefed up and Cam has a beard.

“Hard day?” I grin at Sam. He shoots me a look, which only makes me laugh.

“Fuck off, Drew.”

I’m always giving him shit about his job. Sam’s about as alpha as they come. With a full chest of tattoos and a Harley, he somehow ended up the Purchasing Director for one of the biggest lingerie store chains in the country. In a

ll honesty, I couldn’t think of a better job than staring at scantily-clad women all day long. It’s a tough job, but someone has to do it, I suppose.

“Naw, come on, man, don’t be like that. If you’re mad at me, who will I ask for advice on what colour thong suits my skin tone?” I chortle.

“Dude, I’ll shove my fist so far up your arse you’ll be wearing that thong around your neck,” he growls as the other guys howl with laughter. I reach over and slap him on the back, pulling him into my arms for a hug.

“You wouldn’t hurt me, mate,” I tease. He groans, struggling out of my grip. “Now that we have that out of the way, let’s play some poker.”

Five best mates since primary school, and we’re all so uniquely different; I bet some wonder how we ever became friends in the first place. Sam is the alpha, Max is the protector, Nash is the roughneck—always in trouble for something—and Cam is the peacekeeper. Then there’s me, the joker of the group, though the guys might argue man slut is a more appropriate name for me. I’ve never been shy about my love for women, and lots of them. Separately, we’re successful and handsome, but together, we’re a powerhouse of badass, and so close—even after all these years—that when you mess with one of us, you get all of us. That goes for cancer, too.

“Are you still fucking Darla?” Cameron asks, dealing out the first hand. Unlike Sam, Cameron is typically reserved. He’s not usually interested in who we’re sleeping with, who’s a good lay or even who has the best rack. Out of the five of us, he’s the quietest.

“As a matter of fact, I am, though I wish I weren't,” I say, tossing a fifty-dollar note into the center of the table. “The woman barely gets off my dick long enough for me to shower.”

“Oh, poor baby,” Max interjects. “Fucking a beautiful woman must be so terrible,” he adds in his typical sarcasm.

“I’ll take her off your hands, if you’d like,” Nash jokes, tossing a few chips in the centre of the table.

“She’s all yours, mate. You’ll have to brush up on your handyman skills, though. She likes her appliances fixed before she takes the dick,” I grin. “Hey, maybe I can take back my fifty-dollar buy-in and put Darla on the table instead?”

We laugh in unison and Max wins the first hand. Nash deals out the next, and the laughter, jokes and game continue well into the night until everyone except Max is so pissed we end up crashing at Max’s place. I’m not even sure who won, but considering my pockets aren’t full of cash, it wasn’t me.

At some point in the middle of the night, I pull myself off the couch and go into the kitchen to hydrate myself and find Max sitting on a barstool, staring off into the night.

“What’s going on, dude?” I ask, pulling a bottle of water from the fridge.

“She wants me to go back and stay at home.”

“Who? Your mum?”

“Yeah. She’s not taking no for an answer. And how can I keep ignoring the fact I’m not getting any better?”

“It’s going to be okay, Max. You’re Superman.”

“Well, Superman may have found his Kryptonite, and it’s not the cancer. Her name is Rosalind Rosewood.”

“It won’t be so bad. Aubrey’s coming, right?”