Page 35 of Badd Ass

“And Lucian schools us both,” Brock said.

I started stacking pint glasses, rocks glasses, and shot glasses into the washer. “For real, though,” I said. “You’re floating around with a goofy-ass grin on your face. Must’ve been pretty damn good.”

Brock shrugged while shaking up cosmopolitans for a gaggle of giggling blonde tourists. “Zane, brother, there are no words. I died and went to heaven…six times in one night.”

I stared at my younger brother with renewed respect. “Well, damn, son. That’s the way it’s done, I’d say.”

The group of thirty-something blondes he was mixing drinks for had overheard us and were whispering loudly to each other while staring between Brock and I.

Brock nudged me and leaned close. “I’m seeing her again next weekend.”

“Really?”

“Really.” He shot me a look. “And you know, you’ve been rocking a pretty dumbass grin yourself most of the day. Don’t think I haven’t noticed.”

“I have not,” I groused.

Lucian set four glasses on the bar and filled them with ice and Coke. “Have too.” He dug his cell phone out of his pocket and pulled up a grainy, blurry photo of me he’d obviously taken on the sly and, yes, I was sporting a grin exactly as described: big and goofy. “Exhibit A.” And then he was gone, having done his damage; typical Luce, dropping a bomb and sauntering off.

“The asshole took apicture?” I snapped, staring after my second-youngest brother.

Brock just snickered. “You mentioned something about a relationship between goofy grins and prime pussy?”

“Yeah, well…she’s way more than just prime pussy, so show some respect, you little bastard.” I grumbled.

“Hey, you don’t have to explain that to me. Those were your words, not mine.”

“Shut up,” I growled, and pulled a handful of limes out of a refrigerator and set about slicing them…a little too vigorously, possibly.

“Awww, did poor widdle Zaney-wainey get his feewings hurted?” Brock mocked from across the bar. “Methinks the lad doth protest too much.”

I stopped slicing and turned to fix an evil-eye glare at Brock. “Hold your hand up against the wall,” I told him.

“What? Why? What are you gonna do?”

“Just do it, asshole.”

Brock held his hand against the wall at the end of the bar, fingers spread wide, back of his knuckles against the wood. I flipped the knife in the air and caught it by the back of the blade, hesitated in the name of dramatic pause, and then whipped the knife at my brother’s hand. The blade flipped end over end and buried itself point-first in the wood between his middle and ring fingers, handle quivering.

“Remember that I can do that the next time you feel like mocking me, dickhead,” I snarled.

Brock slid his hand away from the knife and yanked it out of the wall, staring at it like he’d never seen a knife thrown before. “You could have hit my hand, jackass.”

I took it from him, washed it, and went back to slicing limes, ignoring the smattering of applause, stares, whistles, and whispers my little display had gotten. “Oh, please. I could do that from twice the distance in the dark with a hatchet.”

“Bullshit.”

I frowned at Brock. “What do you mean, bullshit? My unit and three others held knife-throwing competitions every year, and I won every time. Got to the point that they’d only let me compete with a handicap, meaning kitchen knives and hand axes and shit instead of actual properly-weighted throwing knives like everyone else got.”

Brock shrugged. “Huh. Never knew you could do that.” He scooped the lime slices from the cutting board onto the tray.

“There’s a lot of shit I can do that you don’t know about.”

“Like getting offended too easily?” He suggested, pouring a pint of beer for a customer.

“Like beat your scrawny, pretty-boy ass if you don’t shut the hell up,” I snarled.

Brock just laughed. “Case in point.” He shook his head as he handed off the beer and made change for a $10. “You’re crankier and tetchier than usual, even for you.”