Page 18 of Broken Trails
“Fuck me. Two minutes in and I’m already dodging missiles.”
“Language!” Imogen calls from the couch, not even looking up.
“Mick! Uncle Mick!” Joseph’s voice cuts through the noise like an alarm. He barrels toward me, arms flailing. I bend just in time to scoop him up before he takes out my knees.
“Hey, bud. Still giving your old man a cardiac episode every other day?”
Harrison mutters something about ‘doctor visits’ and wings a pillow at my head.
Joseph, ever the mimic, picks up the pillow and does the same—with less aim, but more enthusiasm—and mutters, “F-uck!”
My eyes widen before snapping over to Harrison. No one else seems to notice. I drop to his level. “Hey, wanna mess with your dad?”
He nods quickly.
“Go tell Daddy he’s a shithead.”
Joseph tilts his head. “Shi-head?”
“Close enough.”
He sprints across the lounge with full confidence. “Daddy! Shi-head!”
Harrison chokes on his drink, and Imogen doubles over laughing. “What? Where’d you learn that, Jay?”
Joseph beams. “Daddy. F-uck. Shi-head.”
I’m already halfway to the kitchen by the time Harrison realises. “Michael!”
I try to duck behind Xavier, who just laughs and shoves me forward like some human sacrifice. Harrison gets a few hits in—light punches, mostly to the ribs. I grunt and swat him off.
“Jesus, alright! You gonna hit me in front of your kid now?”
Imogen’s standing now, with little Hope, on her hip. “Real solid parenting, boys.”
“At least he’ll grow up tough,” I mutter.
She ignores me, looking at Joseph, where he stands between us. “And what did we say about copying Uncle Michael?” Joseph hangs his head. “No more bad words, okay?”
He nods his head quickly, and Imogen shoots me a glare sharp enough to peel paint.
I raise both hands in surrender. “You got it, Immy.”
Isla wanders in, just as things cool down, carrying a plate of cut fruit. “What’d I miss?”
Her hair’s pinned up, green eyes sparkling. Xavier smirks, about to say something smug, but I beat him to it. “I got attacked, that’s what. You missed the show.”
Xavier tosses a tea towel over his shoulder. “You better pray my daughter doesn’t start dropping F-bombs, mate. You’re out if she does.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
Harrison jerks his chin toward the back door. “Now go be useful and grab the veggies off the grill.”
“F—” I don’t even get the word out before Imogen steps forward. “Fudge off,” I say instead. “Why don’t you get them? And why’s he”—I jab a thumb at Xavier—“cooking in your kitchen?”
“Because he offered,” Harrison says, lifting his beer like a peace treaty.
“Because your brother can’t cook toast without setting off the smoke alarm,” Xavier adds with a smirk.
