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“Max!”

“Fine.” He slid the graph cross the table. “Welcome to the Promised Land, my friend. Eat, eat, eat.” He stopped chanting and then pointed to the numbers. “May I suggest starting slowly? Maybe with a one, seven, one, so you’re stimulating both her breasts and her—”

“This is what hell must be like,” I interrupted.

“Don’t be a prude, Jason. Real men ask for help. That’s what we are, real men!”

Real men looking at a graph on how to please a woman. A graph made by Max. Friggin’ genius.

God, I hate him sometimes.

A knock sounded at the door, and then it cracked open.

And like a room full of middle schoolers caught with a Playboy, all of us fumbled around until I finally just sat on the desk on top of the graph and exhaled.

The door opened.

“What’s— What’s… up?” I drummed my fingers against the glass covering the desk.

“Wow! Two what’s?” Milo’s eyes narrowed. “Why are you guys in Dad’s office?”

“Strategizing,” Max said in a clear voice. “Why else would we be in here? I mean…” he started to nervous laugh, “…it’s not like we’re looking at porn!”

“That would be weird,” Reid added with another burst of laughter.

“Max…” she crossed her arms, “…why’s Jason sweating?”

“How the hell do I know? Maybe he has an STD from chlorine?”

“Huh?” Milo squinted.

“Max, stop talking,” I said in a hushed voice. “Anyway, we should probably get back to work.”

“Yup!” Reid agreed, too quickly, while Colt stretched his arms and yawned, walking past Milo as if he hadn’t gotten advice on how to please her from another guy.

While my sister watched them leave, I slid the paper out from behind me with my fingers.

Max jerked it and hid it on his person.

Milo stopped us at the door. She cleared her throat then held out her hand.

Max hung his head then slowly pulled the sheet out from under his shirt and handed it to her.

“Good boy.” She patted him on the head. “And you missed eight.”

“THE HELL I DID!” he roared.

She just winked and said, “It was a later addition. You can thank Colt for that one.”

“Son of a bitch one-upped me?” He stomped away, yelling Colt’s name and shouting something about pistols at dawn.

“How you holding up?” Milo asked, her eyes serious.

I sighed. “I’m good.”

“You look stressed.”

“I’m always stressed.”