Page 13 of Holding On To Good

“He who rules the stove,” Toby told him, Zen-like, a lean, tattooed, hipster Buddha with wild brown hair and black-framed geek glasses, “rules the world.”

“We’ll see how well you rule anything with a spatula shoved up your ass,” Miles warned Toby as he made a grab for the spatula.

Toby danced back like a boxer in the ring, the spatula held out of Miles’s reach. “A true king never hands over his throne. If you want it, you’ll have to take it.”

They circled each other like they’d done a thousand times before. No Jennings brother ever turned down a fight. It was a genetic flaw. One they’d all learned to live with and, in Silas’s case—a Navy SEAL stationed in California—embrace.

“Is that a quote from Game of Thrones?” Miles asked. “It’s a miracle you ever get laid.”

Toby faked going in low to the left then, when Miles bought the move, gave him a light swat with the spatula on the right side of his face. “Those are my own words of wisdom. And I get laid plenty. Women dig guys who can cook.”

Miles tipped his head, wiped his cheek on his shoulder. “You better hope they dig guys who get their asses handed to them.”

He lunged—all cop training, every ounce of finesse or fighting skill he’d honed over the years thrown aside.

The Jennings brothers fought dirty.

And they all fought to win.

Catching Toby around the shoulders, Miles put him in a headlock. Having been on the squeezed end of that particular grip from Miles, Urban knew it would take an act of God—or a few low blows—for Toby to free himself.

Miles was like a fucking boa constrictor.

Toby rammed his shoulder into Miles’s stomach. Miles grunted and stumbled back, knocking them both into the center island with a thud. The dishes and silverware on it shook, the glass pitcher of orange juice wobbled.

They grappled, wrestling around the kitchen, the sound of blows and curses competing with Pearl Jam’s “Dissident” playing over the stereo system. After pouring himself a fresh cup of coffee, Urban leaned against the counter and took a sip.

Toby elbowed Miles in the gut. Miles grunted and slammed his foot on Toby’s instep.

Urban took another sip of coffee, then picked up a piece of bacon. Bit into it. It was crispy and sticky, sweet and smoky.

“What’d you do to the bacon?” he asked Toby.

“Honey… bourbon… glaze,” Toby wheezed.

It wasn’t easy to talk—or breathe—when your windpipe was being slowly crushed.

A fact Urban knew from experience.

Urban took another bite. “It’s good.”

Miles and Toby both went still and stared at him. Toby in the headlock, glasses askew, hair even messier than usual, a bruise forming on his cheek. Miles’s shirt was wrinkled, his lip bleeding.

Miles’s eyes narrowed on Urban. “Didn’t you hear the royal decree? No one eats until we all eat.”

“That right?” he asked.

Then he took a second slice and bit into it.

Miles let go of Toby and they both straightened. Toby pushed his glasses up his nose, then exchanged a look with Miles. Just over a year apart in age, they’d always had some sort of sixth sense of what the other was thinking.

And they loved banding together against their other brothers.

Not as much as they seemed to love giving each other shit, but it was close.

In silent agreement, they came at Urban from two sides. Divide and conquer. It was a good strategy and one that worked well for them.

Urban sipped his coffee. Kept his eyes on Toby, the sneakier of the two. With Miles, you always knew what you were getting.

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