Hard Luck (Trophy Boyfriends 4)

“Don’t ignore me.” Buzz pushes the magazine down. “This is yours.”

“I don’t want it.”

“Yes, you do.”

“You’re a dick, go away.”

Buzz holds the present out with one arm, presenting it as if it were on a silver salver, waiting and waiting and waiting for Tripp to take it.

“Fine, maybe I’ll open it,” he taunts, marching across the living room and plopping down on the couch, peeling one corner of the wrapping paper back. “Ooo what is this…”

Tripp’s ears twitch. Nose flares.

Like a child, he wants that present but isn’t about to admit it.

Buzz, oblivious to the death glare his brother is shooting his way, happily rips the bow off the top, sticking it to the top of Chewy’s head, the dog curiously wagging his tail and sniffing the wrapping paper.

“What is this? Huh, boy? Is this a present for Uncle Buzzy? Should Uncle Buzzy open it?”

“Stop calling yourself Uncle Buzzy,” Tripp complains, setting the magazine on his lap.

“I can call myself whatever I want. That’s what The ChewMeister would call me if he could speak English, wouldn’t you, boy?” He prolongs unwrapping the box by focusing his attention on the dog.

“That’s my dog, and I’m not letting you call him The ChewMeister. It’s stupid.”

“So I can’t call myself Uncle Buzzy and I can’t call him The ChewMeister? It’s Christmas, man—take a chill pill.” Buzz lifts his face and calls toward the kitchen where the women—except for me—have gathered. “Chandler, are you going to bang the crabby pants off this guy or what? Do us all a favor and—”

“Trace Wallace!” Mom shouts before he can finish his sentence. “Don’t you dare say it! Have some manners.”

He shrugs, grumbling under his breath. “I’m just saying, do us all a favor.”

Tripp’s eyes are glued to the box as our brother lazily peels back yet another strip of tape, and all the while I wonder what could possibly be inside.

The thing is, all three of us are great gift givers. We love it. I start early in the year, gathering up things as I travel, finding cool shit in the cities where I happen to be working. Nothing I ever give is boring—at least, not in my opinion.

So I wonder what’s inside the box, because for all his many flaws, Buzz does love spoiling people rotten. He gave me a leather travel wallet with my initials painted in gold, a matching travel backpack, and a new carry-on suitcase, all of it personalized and coordinating. Totally beats the inexpensive crap I’ve been flying with.

The point is, we’re givers. But for some reason, these two cannot get along. Bicker, bicker, bicker. They can go on and on about something, beating it into the ground, only stopping when our parents get involved. Or Buzz’s wife, or Tripp’s new girlfriend.

The Christmas thing went on for a full day, Tripp refusing to open the gift, so I cannot imagine what it would be like having the pair of them along to look at properties, bickering and arguing in front of a real estate professional—probably bringing their partners, too. The entire thing would become an embarrassing shit show.

Famous brothers or not.

“I appreciate the offer,” I tell Tripp, coming out of my reminiscent daydream. “But…”

“Oh come on—you can trust me. We won’t act five. Scout’s honor.” He makes the sign of the cross instead, as if that’s going to change my decision.

I take a bite of apple and immediately regret it, the acid kicking up dust inside my stomach. I set it on the counter and push it to the side. “Need I remind you, you and Buzz were booted out of Boy Scouts when you learned to tie a bowline knot and used it to tether him to a tree.”

“Please.” He snorts. “Buzz got himself free after three hours. Give me a break—I was teaching him basic survival skills.”

“My point is, the two of you can’t be in the same room together without getting into an argument. The last thing I need is you guys fighting in front of a realtor—I would be so embarrassed.”

“I wouldn’t be.” My brother laughs. “Who cares what anyone thinks?”

I do.

For the most part.

“The last thing I want to happen in front of strangers is a repeat performance of Christmas.”

“I’m sorry, but the asshole gave me an empty box.”

“No, he gave you a custom sweater with Chewy’s face on it, and a sweater for Chewy with your face on it.” I shoot him a look. “Plus an engraved gold dog tag. Don’t even try to lie and say you haven’t worn the sweater. It’s so awesome.” And expensive. And such a great idea—I wish I’d thought of it.

Tripp scoffs. “So what if I’ve worn it.” He picks at the sleeve of his shirt.

“Anyway, no way am I going anywhere with the pair of you. You’re so immature.”