Tap (Men of Lovibond 1)

Kelsey holds up her hand placing a barrier between her and Ivy’s crotch. “Dear Lord. Do something about that.”

She looks down to inspect her bikini bottom. “Sorry.” She inconspicuously makes the appropriate adjustments. “Better?”

“Yeah, but are you sure that thing isn’t going to be see-through when it gets wet?” I can never bring myself to trust a white swimsuit.

“It’s fully lined. It’ll be fine.” She’s braver than I am.

“O . . . kay. Whatever you say.” I guess we’ll find out soon enough.

The heat is fierce, and I down my Pale Hazel quicker than I should. Sheez. One beer and my head is buzzing. “How much alcohol is in one of these bastards?”

I fetch a bottle from the grocery bag we’re using to collect trash. “Damn. Eight percent.”

Ivy swallows the last of her beer. “Oliver has always known how to brew a stout one.” He didn’t get that nickname for nothing.

I’m ready for something else cold to drink, but not another beer. I flip the top on the cooler and dig for a bottle of water. “Anyone ready for another drink?”

“Pass a water my way,” Ivy says.

“What about you?” I know Kelsey. She’ll ask for one the second I close the lid.

“Nah. I’m still nursing this one since I’ve gotta drive.”

I wipe the water and sand from my hands and check my phone. Again. “Still nothing from that little shit.” He’s avoiding me, and I want to know why.

Kelsey points at our makeshift trash bag. “Dig those bottles out and let’s take a pic with our beers to send him.”

“Let’s do it. He always gets a kick out of that.” The girls love sending Ollie random selfies of us drinking Lovibond beer. I guess it’s sort of our where will your beer show up next? groupie project.

“I’m pretty sure he won’t mind getting a picture of the two of you in bikinis.” That will gain his attention if anything does.

Kelsey calls out to our neighboring beach goer, a middle-aged gray-haired man with a huge potbelly. “Excuse me, sir. Will you take a picture of my friends and me?”

“Of course. Happy to.” I bet Kelsey just made his day. Probably his year.

Our three-girl posse strikes a pose with our empty Pale Hazel bottles, each of us pointing to the label like always.

“Say cold beer,” the man says.

“Cold beer,” we repeat in unison.

I hear several pings from my phone. “Some mighty pretty girls in that picture.”

“Thank you. That’s a sweet thing to say.”

“I took several. You might want to take a peek and see if you like them. I have three daughters so I know all too well how you girls can be about the way you look in pictures.”

“It’s just going to my brother so it doesn’t have to be perfect.” I can hardly make out what it looks like with the sun shining on my phone. I see little more than a dark screen. “Looks good to me. Thanks.”

“You’re quite welcome. You girls have a fun day and stay safe. Don’t have too many of those beers. They can get you into a heap of trouble.”

This man sounds like my dad. “Yes, sir.”

Kelsey holds out her hand for my phone after our amateur photographer returns to his lounger. “Gimme. You’re not sending that if I look like a fat ass.” But it’s to Ollie. He really won’t care. She’s like another older sister to him.

Kelsey is gorgeous but has this ugly little habit of only seeing negative things about herself. It’s the one thing I really dislike about her.

She doesn’t use self-criticism as a ploy to gain compliments like a lot of women. The girl truly believes she’s overweight. Too curvy. That’s what she calls herself but she couldn’t be more wrong. She’s a lovely size.

“You’re so full of shit. You haven’t taken a bad picture in your life,” Ivy says.

“I think not.” She uses her hand to shade the screen. “It’s not terrible, best I can tell.”

“Hey, you need my approval too.” Ivy swipes my phone from Kelsey and studies it. “Well, I won’t be putting it on my Christmas cards but I guess it meets my minimal requirements.”

“I’m not posting it publicly. It’s just going to Ollie.”

Having a brewski with K & I at Tybee. Wish you were here. Miss you.

I send my message and attached photo before either can change their minds about the picture. “If he doesn’t reply this time, one of you is lifting your top and letting me take a picture of your boobs to send him. I won’t tell him which one of you it is and he’ll have to respond to find out. Boom.” Ollie thinks Ivy and Kelsey are hot so I guarantee that will be an instant response.

“I nominate Kelsey.” Ivy pats her chest. “I doubt he’d get very excited over these B cups.”

Our nominee’s head spins in Ivy’s direction. “I don’t think so.”

“Okay. Then my vote is for you to get in your car and take your ass to Birmingham to see what his problem is if it’s bothering you so bad.”

Ollie is twenty-seven years old, no longer that little boy I have to shield from real-life monsters. But no matter what happens, he’ll always be my baby brother in my eyes. I’ll never stop worrying about him.

I haven’t been to Birmingham in a long time. Too long. “It could be time to pay the boy a visit.” We have things to discuss.

“His big beer fest is coming up next weekend. It would be the perfect time to visit.” Lovibond is hosting this year so I’m certain it’ll be a blowout. Ivy could be onto something.

“Lawrence should show up without any kind of warning.”

“No. We should show up without warning. All three of us. Make a girls’ weekend of it.” Kelsey is always up for a party.

“I can’t go. I’m on next weekend.” Ivy always has to work when we want to do something.

“Take off.”

“Don’t be dumb, Kelsey. You know I have to request vacation time six weeks in advance at the hospital.” Ivy loves what she does but isn’t blessed with the luxury of making spur-of-the-moment plans like Kelsey and me.

“Whoa, Nelly,” I interrupt. I need to give this a little thought. “I’m not sure Ollie will be all that happy about me showing up during one of his busiest events.”

“Probably not, but do you really care if he gets pissed?”

Yeah, I do. He wouldn’t be angry to see me, but he might wonder why I’d choose to come knowing he wouldn’t have time to spare. “As adult siblings, I think we should maintain a level of respect for one another.”

“He’s crazy about his big sister. He won’t get mad.” I think he might but he’d get over it quickly when I tell him why I’ve come. I don’t want to discuss our birth mother or what she wants over the phone. It needs to be handled in person.

Ollie has a way of hiding his emotions—another lesson we learned early in life. I need to read his face so I’ll know his true feelings about Mommie Dearest’s request.

“Do it, Law. You’ll feel a ton better after you see everything is all right with him. And you’ll have a good time at the festival while you’re there.”

“I guess I could schedule Wynter to manage the store for a few days.”

“You’re the owner. You can do whatever you want.” True. But leaving the shop for three or four days means I have to put my confidence in someone else to run my business. Can I?

“Wynter is the best employee you’ve ever had. She can handle the boutique without you for a few days,” Ivy says.

Wynter is young but does an excellent job of managing my business. She handles most things the way I would.

“You’re going to work yourself to death if you don’t delegate jobs to your employees. That’s why you hired them.” I’ve been hearing this for three years from Ivy and Kelsey. And my family.

“I know.” But it’s so much easier said than done. And I know it’s right if I do it myself.

“Give Wynter a chance to prove herself. It isn’t possible for her to run the place into the ground in a few days. If she screws up, never leave the responsibility in her hands again.”

I haven’t gotten away in so long. I think a break would do a world of good for me. And I haven’t been to Birmingham in . . . a year. Wow. Has it really been that long? I should be ashamed for not getting over there sooner. “Okay. You’ve talked me into it.”

Lucas Broussard

Stout’s phone dances like a little bastard on my desk. Again.

“Motherfucker.” It’s her again—the relentless texter. It’s Sunday. Doesn’t she ever give it a rest?

One call. One voicemail. Three texts. That’s probably not excessive to most people but it’s nearing harassment in my book. If this were a woman I’d fucked, she’d officially be blocked by now.

I lift the phone to see what the chatterbox is saying this time and am pleasantly surprised to see a photo of three women in bikinis. Each is holding a Lovibond beer in her hand. A variety pack. Not the beer, the women. One redhead. One blonde. One brunette. “All right. All right. All right. This is the kind of text I don’t mind receiving.”