That smug bastard. I grabbed a chunk of tomato and flicked it at him. “No, it ain’t.”
The juicy tomato stuck to his shirt and slid slowly down his chest, leaving a wet trail and a few seeds behind. His jaw worked, his teeth grinding.
Maybe I shouldn’t have, but I did. I dug at him a little more. “You got something on your shirt, Gibs.”
Bowie snickered, and it was all over.
Gibson tossed an entire taco at me. The contents—mostly meat and cheese—spilled into my lap. Bowie shouted something, but Gibson had already thrown food in his direction.
“You ass,” Bowie said, and tossed some avocado at Gibson.
I grabbed what was left of Gibson’s taco and threw it at him—hard.
Gibs tried to retaliate at Bowie, but the taco I threw distracted him and he hit Jonah instead. Jonah tossed something back, Devlin scooted away from the table, Nash ducked, and seconds later, all hell broke loose.
Gibson stood and threw more food from his plate. He wasn’t even aiming anymore. Someone hit him with a scoop of sour cream. I tossed chunks of marinated steak across the table, then threw a lime wedge at him. He grabbed a bowl of salsa and I dove for cover.
Salsa sprayed across the table and onto the floor behind me. Bowie crouched next to me and nodded. Together, we tipped the table upright to make a barricade to hide behind. We grabbed whatever was near—chips, olives, avocado, lime wedges, tomato, tortillas—and tossed them over the edge of the table.
“Shit,” Gibson growled.
“I’m hit!” Nash shouted.
Bowie and I were running out of ammo, and Gibson was closest to the food table. The steady stream of taco fixin’s flying over our heads indicated he’d gotten to it.
“Jonah, reload,” I said.
Jonah had taken cover behind a chair. He nodded and crawled closer to the food. Bowie and I hurled the last of what we could reach at Gibson while Jonah reached up and pulled a few bowls off the table.
“Just toss it,” I said.
Gibson noticed Jonah and his lips curled in a sneer. He scooped a handful of pico de gallo and tried to throw it, but most of it just splattered all over the floor. Jonah slid a bowl of sliced onions our direction, then the chopped lettuce. Bowie and I made good use of them, pelting Gibson with vegetables as fast as we could throw.
There was a lull in the action, and for a minute, I thought maybe Gibson had relented. Bowie and I waited, our backs against the bottom of the table, handfuls of cheese and lettuce at the ready. Jonah had moved further from Gibson—couldn’t blame him—and I had no idea where Devlin had gotten to. Nash seemed to have bailed on the scene at the start.
Bowie nodded, and we inched our way up so we could look over the top edge of the table. I caught the evil in Gibson’s eyes just before mine were hit with a fistful of guacamole.
“Goddammit, Gibson!” I ducked behind the table and wiped the guac off my face. “Quit being such an ass!”
“You’re an ass,” he said, and more guacamole went flying over my head.
Scarlett’s voice came from somewhere to my left. “I’d say you’re all asses at this point.”
I couldn’t see her from my hiding spot, but the heat in her voice made me cringe. I was certain she had her hands on her hips. Probably shaking her head in disbelief.
“Oh my god.” That’d be Cassidy.
I rolled my eyes. No doubt June was with her. Great, an audience.
“Y’all get up,” Scarlett said. “Come on, now.”
Bowie and I glanced at each other, understanding passing between us.
“Nope,” I said. “Not until he does.”
“Fuck that,” Gibson said. “I ain’t getting up first.”
Scarlett let out an exasperated sigh. “Then get up at the same time. Put down the guacamole, Gibs. What’s wrong with you? I swear, y’all are grown men. Quit acting like children.”
“Jameson?” Leah Mae asked.
“Stay back, darlin’,” I said. “Gibson, if you throw anything at her, I will kick your ass.”
“I ain’t throwing shit at the girls,” Gibson said, although it sounded like a reluctant concession.
“Okay, fine,” I said. “I call a truce. We all drop our weapons and stand on three. Agreed?”