5 Bikers for Valentines

“Hey, pretty boy,” Quinn said. “Can you make yourself useful and grab those boxes out of the truck?”

I look down at my slacks and shirt. The last thing I want is to get myself dirty. Cason and Quinn might not care if they were filthy and grimy, but I sure as hell did.

It's always been that way though. Cason has always been pretty tidy, but not anywhere near as fastidious as I was. And Quinn has more or less always been a slob. I loved my brothers, but it's one of the things that's always driven me the craziest about them – especially given that we share a house.

“Come on, bro,” Cason called from the back of the truck. “You've been playing businessman while we've been busting our asses out here all morning.”

I sigh and unbutton my shirt. Taking it off, I laid it neatly on the passenger seat in my truck. Stripping out of my slacks, I laid

them over the shirt. People were milling about, getting their booths set up and ready for the bonfire, but I was still in a t-shirt and my boxers, so I didn't care. I grew up playing sports and spent my fair share of time in the locker room, so my sense of modesty isn't all that high.

Grabbing my gym bag off the floor of the cab, I threw on my shorts and changed out my shoes. If I'm going to be getting sweaty and dirty doing manual labor in that heat, I sure as hell wasn't going to do it in my nice clothes. My brothers may be the kind of animals who are going to wear the same clothes they're in now to the bonfire, but I'm not.

As I'm tying my shoes, I look over at Cason and Quinn, who are laughing and joking with one another. And as I looked at them, I was struck – not for the first time – by how similar, and yet, how different we all were.

Although we all had that McCormick build, Cason and Quinn took more after our mother in the looks department. My hair and complexion were a little darker than theirs – more like our dad's. Although we were all athletic, to an extent, Quinn was always the best of us when it came to sports. I was good, but he was the natural athlete – a skill that earned him a scholarship to Notre Dame.

It always bothered me that Cason was naturally smarter than me and Quinn was always the better athlete. But, as I got older, I learned to appreciate the fact that I was good in both areas. While maybe not as exceptional in one area or the other like my brothers, I was still well above average in both.

Not that either of them let me ever forget they were better than me. If there's one thing we all got from our family's genepool, it's that healthy McCormick ego. Growing up, everything had been a competition between us. Our father believed sibling rivalry and competition was good for the soul. Good for developing a young man. And so, he nurtured that sense of rivalry and competition between us.

It one thing that's never changed between us – although, as we've gotten older, it's more about fun and bragging rights than it was the bloodsport it had been growing up. But my brothers and I still find ourselves competing over one stupid thing or another all the time.

Of course, given that I'm the only one who's actually done something to continue honing my body and my brains, I'd have to say that I've pulled ahead in the game. Yeah, Quinn is still in great shape and he still kicks my ass down at the gym, but his days as an athlete are over. I still play ball whenever and where ever I can. Quinn just seems content to work out, and not really do anything with his life.

And Cason – always the smartest of the three of us – hasn't done a damn thing to better himself. He never went to college. Hasn't done anything but work at the Driftwood for most of his life now. And yeah, we own the place and we're doing pretty well, but back in the day, I'd always expected bigger and better things out of Cason.

“Seriously, bro,” Cason called again. “You gonna do any actual work today?”

“Nah,” Quinn said. “He's probably got a hair and manicure appointment.”

“Probably booked himself a spa day,” Cason said.

They laughed together like they thought they were the funniest guys on Earth. What those clowns know about running a business though, I could probably squeeze into a thimble. Without me, we would have been out of business a long time ago – not planning for expansion.

And part of running a business was having a face to put to it. Public relations. Looking and acting like a professional. Neither of those two clowns could pull it off. That responsibility fell to me. And yet, they're going to sit there and bust my balls about me doing my job? It's shit like that, that pissed me off about them.

Walking over to the truck, I grabbed a couple of boxes and walked over, tossing them into the back of the food truck at Cason's feet without a word. Both of them looked at me, a surprised look on their faces.

“What's up with you?” Quinn asked.

“I'm just doing a little actual work,” I snapped. “Gotta help out before my spa appointment, right?”

“Dude,” Cason said. “What's your deal? We're just giving you shit.”

I turned back to them, my anger flaring. “Yeah, well maybe I'm getting sick of you two giving me shit,” I say. “Maybe, I'm sick and tired of you assholes walking around acting like you do all the work around here and I don't do shit.”

“Dude, c'mon,” Quinn said. “It's not like that –”

“No?” I turn on him. “Then how is it exactly?”

“C'mon, bro,” Cason said. “We're just screwin' around like we always do. We know you work hard to keep the Driftwood going.”

I look at both of them and see that my little outburst bothered them. Good. I get sick and tired of the both of them acting like I'm not doing anything just because I'm not lugging shit around to one event or another. The work I do for the Driftwood is important. And it's every bit as critical to keep it alive as Cason's cooking is. And it's high time both of them realize that – and appreciate all the shit I do for all of us.

“C'mon, man,” Quinn said, wrapping his arm around my neck. “Don't be such a whiny little bitch. Not today. Today's supposed to be fun!”

“Seriously, bro,” Cason said. “It's all good, man. We're just bustin' your balls.”