Page 142 of My Brother's Enemy
“Yes, because it’s called karma. You’re due.”
He went back to glaring at me until Little Dylan called out, “If you keep looking at him like that then Mom is going to put you in a time-out, Dad.”
Dane went from glaring to his eyes going wide and a bark of laughter ripped from him before he covered his mouth and stifled his laugh. “Jesus Christ,” he said under his breath so they couldn’t hear. “Their time-outs are where they have to go to bed. My girls hate going to bed.”
Little Dylan was watching her dad, an avid intensity on her face because she was fully engrossed in what the adults were talking about. She began edging our way as if she could spy on us.
Dane shook his head and pointed at the game. “Finish up. Your dad and your aunt have to talk when you go to bed.”
“But—” Her face puckered up. She was going to launch a counter attack except Dane shook his head, briskly. “Nope.”
She glowered back at him, and thatwashereditary, but she was no longer about to start crying. “Dad!”
“I mean it. Finish the game. Your sister looks like she’s winning. The Batmobile seems to be impenetrable.”
She harrumphed at him before going back to her shoot-out.
“Nice,” I said under my breath.
He said under his, “Thanks. Years of experience.”
I paused, side-eyeing him.
He paused, side-eying me.
We were both gripping our beers.
“For the record, this does not make us best friends.”
He exhaled, “Thank God.”
Then the older sister piped up, “Dad, you really need to start going to church.”
I tipped my beer toward her. “Amen to that.”
81
RAIN
Dane looked terrified when he took me to the dungeon, but immediately I relaxed when I saw he had a makeshift goalie set up in the back corner along with two hockey sticks. He picked one up and held it out to me. “You always had a killer slapshot.”
He didn’t use real pucks. I took the stick from him and bent down to assess what I was expected to hit. “Is that a wiffle puck?”
“Lindy made me buy those. She got tired of me trying to fix the wall all the time. I hit a pipe one time too.”
I whistled. “Impressive.”
He sent me a grin. “Thanks.” He hooked one of the wiffle pucks and brought it over to where he was standing before lining up to take a shot. “So.” He hit it and it sank behind the goalie, which looked taped together with pillows, duct-tape, and determination. “You want to talk about anything?”
I gave him an unimpressed look. “What a way to start. You should be a therapist. The skills you have at making people want to open up to you? Topnot-notch.”
He flashed me a grin as I wound up and sank another wiffle puck in the net. “I see you’ve already picked up our ways inthis Connors’ household. We keep it together with dry wit and sarcasm. Lindy already fucking loves you. I can tell.”
I began to swing on a second puck, but then I whiffed it before rounding to him. “What?”
He gave me a cool look, then sank his second puck in the net. “She gave me a look when I came into the living room just now. It was a whole conversation in one look, but she told me that I better make things right with you and insure you come around again and want to be a part of our family or I will be sleeping on that couch for a very long time." He indicated a ragged couch that looked as if it had been the net most of its life. It was more stuffing than couch at this point.
I remarked, “If we were in Minneapolis, I know a good couch person.”
