Chute Yeah (The Valentine Boys 3)

Everybody at the table froze.

“Something wrong with the bacon?” Desi asked worriedly, looking at the bacon now with apprehension.

I shook my head, then pressed my hand down on my cheek, right where my tooth was now aching.

“No,” I answered. “Nothing. I just have a toothache.”

Banks’ hand went to my neck and squeezed lightly.

“Did you take anything for it?” he asked.

I shrugged.

I’d actually been doing that for the last couple of days.

I’d get it to go away easily by popping four ibuprofen. The thing was, I hadn’t had a chance to take any today, and with that one bite of bacon it reminded me.

“Not yet,” I admitted. “I didn’t have time.”

My face must’ve shown my embarrassment, and exactly why I hadn’t had time, because everyone, including Banks, started to laugh.

Banks got up and came back with a bottle of ibuprofen.

I shook out four.

“You take four of those?” Darby asked, sounding incredulous.

I nodded. “Yep. Why?”

“I thought girls were supposed to take like two or something,” he muttered, taking a bite of his bacon. “Nope, bacon is amazing, like always.”

I looked at my bacon mournfully.

Sadly, I didn’t think my toothache was up to handling anything hard.

Meaning the bacon and crispy sausage weren’t going to be eaten.

That left me with scrambled eggs and possibly toast.

After taking the meds, I chewed carefully, worried I was about to have another shot of pain go straight to my brain, but other than a few instances of slight pain, I was able to chew mainly on my left side and avoid it.

What I didn’t avoid was when I was drinking my orange juice moments later and made the mistake of thinking OJ would be fine.

Let me tell you something.

It wasn’t.

The moment that the cool liquid hit my tooth, I about died.

Bile rose in my throat, and I nearly came out of my seat as I slammed the glass down.

“Yeah,” Callum said, studying my reaction. “You definitely need to go see the dentist.”

That was what I’d been trying to avoid.

“Yeah,” I sighed. “I know.”

And to get everyone’s focus off of me, I gestured to the house.

“Are there any concerns on the building process y’all would like to address?”Chapter 18Question- is it for ‘fuck’s sake’ or ‘for fuck sake?’ I want it to sound professional.

-Candy to her father

Candy

“Dad,” I said. “You have to cook that other chicken first. It was out of date two days ago. If we don’t cook it today, it’s going to go bad.”

My father grumbled under his breath as he moved to the chicken in question.

“It was out four days ago,” he said.

I looked at the ceiling.

“Open it up and smell it,” I urged. “If it smells bad, throw it away. If it doesn’t, then cook it.”

“I don’t want to die of food poisoning,” he said. “I’m cooking the new stuff.”

I stood up with annoyance.

“Dad,” I said. “I’m just going to cook that chicken tomorrow for lunch if you don’t cook it tonight. Then it’ll be five days out.”

My dad grumbled even more under his breath, then went to get the other package of chicken.

I rolled my eyes and went back to payroll.

“Smell this,” he said, holding a piece of raw chicken only a few inches away from my face.

I winced, my aching tooth protesting the movement, and jerked my head back, surprised to find it so close to me.

Then leaned forward and inhaled deeply. “Smells fine.”

He sighed. “It smells funky.”

I nearly growled in exasperation.

“It does not,” I countered, pain starting to throb in my jaw now. “It smells just fine.”

“If I die because you made me cook this chicken…” he started.

I interrupted him.

“Dad, payroll needs to go out tomorrow, and I’m only a quarter of the way through,” I snapped. “All you have to do is dump those two pieces of chicken into the pot, add the soup, then turn it on low. Can you do that, or do you need me to?”

My dad had arrived for dinner, and instead of it being cooked for him, he was having to do it because I hadn’t realized payroll was so far behind.

And I was now swamped with his business stuff because apparently, he’d been a little further behind than I’d originally thought he was—i.e., meaning he hadn’t done shit while I was gone.

Meaning I was now trying to catch up three months’ worth of paperwork and bids, as well as collecting money from clients who were late paying, but my father wasn’t late doing their work.

“Jesus Christ,” I heard him mutter. “For real. Get up here and smell it.”

Gritting my teeth to hold in the angry words that were threatening to spill out, I did as he asked, getting up to smell the chicken a third time.

“It smells fine,” I promised.

“I need you to be sure,” he said. “If I get sick because of this…”

I picked up all of the chicken and dumped it into the trash. I followed that up by washing the knife, cutting board, and then my hands before placing them all back in front of him. This time with a brand-new package of chicken.