Rough Edge (Tannen Boys 2)

He’s got on black jeans, ones I know he’s never worked in because they’re completely free of any stains or rips and fit like a second skin over his ass, loosening up over his muscled thighs. His button-down shirt is black and so are his boots. He’s like a dark knight, with a gunmetal belt buckle, a camo-cow hat, and a thick leather strap bracelet.

That bracelet had been a surprise tonight. I’ve never seen Brody wear a single bit of jewelry, and I would’ve said he’d find it as unnecessary and useless as I usually do. But for some reason, all I’ve been able to think about are his fingers on and in my pussy with that leather bracelet on . . . and nothing else.

He licks his lips, likely knowing exactly what I’m thinking, and takes a sip of his beer.

The waitress comes by to take our orders, doing the double-take that Emily and I are used to. Luckily, this time, there’s no stupid twin-ology question. Can you read each other’s minds? Do you get confused over who you are? If one of you is hurt, does the other feel it? Do you ever switch places?

We’ve heard them all, but our waitress seems much more taken with Dan and Brody than Emily and me having matching faces, and the guys are who she’s staring at.

“Chicken sandwich, plain and dry, sweet potato fries,” Brody says, pointing at me, then he continues with, “cheeseburger, medium rare, A1 sauce on the side, and onion rings.” He glances at me, giving me an opportunity to make any corrections, but he got it perfect. The best part is that I know he ordered that way so we can split everything, having the best of both worlds on every front because that’s what we always do.

We have a ‘usual order’, and the idea of that makes my heart jump into my throat. In a good way. It means history, of the evening where I could not make up my mind so Brody came up with the amazing idea to share everything, and it means understanding that we are an ‘us.’

And also . . . we might need to add some veggies to our diet. Maybe a salad night? I laugh a little at the image of Brody digging into a big dinner of salad. His dark eyes search me questioningly.

“Salad,” I say, with no context or frame of reference at all.

“Pass,” he answers as if we’re having a normal conversation. “That’s what we feed the hamburgers.”

Emily is watching the Erica and Brody show with rapt attention, like we’re fascinating creatures to study. I glare at her, ordering her not to make a big deal of nothing. Except I know that double negatives aside, it’s not nothing.

It’s something . . . when Brody casually lays his hand over the back of my chair and I snuggle into his side.

It’s something . . . when he tells me his Tree House stout is delicious and I take a sip from his glass, agreeing that it’s pretty good, but not as good as the lager he brought over last week.

It’s something . . . when my hand naturally lands in his lap, cupping his thigh and tracing small lines along the denim but imagining it’s his bare skin beneath my palm.

It’s something . . . when he talks about his animals, and I remind him to be nice to Baarbara because she’s my favorite badass goat. And that’s something I never thought I’d have.

It’s something . . . when Brody kindly proclaims me to be an artist with engines again, like he’s decided that’s the best way to describe my dirty, work-with-my-hands-all-day job.

“Emily tells me that you do a little more than run a repair shop. Is that right?” Dan asks politely.

I scowl at Emily, but she shrugs like sharing my secret is no big deal.

It is.

Brody knows. Emily knows. And fine, all the guys at the track know. But the more people who know, the higher the risk becomes of Dad finding out. I do the mental calculations of how likely Dad and Dan are to run into each other. Dan already said he spends most of his days, nights, and weekends at the hospital, though I suspect what free time he does have is spent with Emily. Dad avoids doctors as if they’re death peddlers, so unless he happens to pop into Emily’s at the same time as Dan, statistically, their crossover rate is pretty low.

“I don’t advertise it.” It should sound playful and coy, but it sounds like a threat, which is honestly more my intention. “In fact, don’t tell many people at all . . . but I do custom car work on the side for a select group of car enthusiasts. Under the hood stuff, mostly, though I can outsource. I work on classics, newer models, nitrous add-ons, and specialize in getting the most horsepower out of every single engine.”