Page 21 of Make It Burn

Gunner points a finger in his face. “Damn straight.”

“But you’re not telling the whole story,” Frankie mumbles under his breath.

Evan punches him in the arm. “Not cool, dude. Don’t narc.”

Frankie nudges him with his elbow. Evan doesn’t flinch. The guy is granite.

“What? Don’t tell me,” I say, grabbing the marble counter for support. “You violated your parole.”

Gunner’s cheeks turn red. “Well, about that.” He scratches his stubble, pausing for effect.

I cover my eyes with my hands. “Please don’t tell me you’re going back to prison?”

Gunner sighs. “No, what?” Shaking his head, brows furrowed, he goes on. “I’m not going back. Damn, relax, will ya? I’m finished with parole. I got the okay last week when you were in New York. That’s why I can change jobs. I’m done cooking food at the bowling alley,” he says, making a disgusted face.

“The Pinewood isn’t that bad,” I tell him.

“No, it’s not. But after you’ve been serving dinner for a bunch of country hipsters for hours on end, let’s have this conversation again,” he jokes.

“Why can’t you make dinner at home?” I ask, trying to keep a straight face.

He sticks out his tongue at me. “That’s your job, sis.”

I punch him in the arm and he roars with laughter.

“Tell the whole story, lover boy.” Frankie hums, resting his chin on his hands.

“What story?” I ask, glancing from my brother to Frankie.

Gunner continues giving Frankie the stink eye. “I did sort of get arrested, but only because my taillight was out. And I checked the fucker before I went out riding. So she pulled me over and I ...”

“She?” I drawl.

“Uh-huh.” Frankie grins, handing me an Oreo cookie and bumping his butt into mine.

I chuckle, popping it in my mouth. “This is getting interesting.”

Gunner ignores us. “Well she let me off with a warning, which was fucking weird because I was wearing my colors, but she wasn’t fazed at all.”

“Um ...” I hesitate.

“Ughumm.” Frankie waggles his eyebrows.

Gunner gives us both the finger. “Screw you guys.”

“She probably recognized you from your last advertisement in some girly magazine or the L.L. Bean spread. Girls go nuts for shit like that,” Frankie says with a sly smile, pointing to the stack of magazines with my brother’s editorials in them.

I was making a scrapbook for his birthday with pictures from all his modeling gigs that he would hate and love at the same time.

“Fuck, you guys, that editorial paid for the bail money I still owed Dad,” he grits out, taking the last slice of the pizza and putting it in the microwave before slamming the door shut.

“But didn’t leave enough money to buy the groceries,” Austin jokes from the living room, holding up his beer in salute.

I snicker.

“Suck it. I haven’t gotten around to doing the shopping; been busy working. You should try it sometime. Not everyone can take time off and head out to New York to see a pretend dickwad boyfriend.” He opens another beer and washes the last piece of pizza down.

“Max is not a dickwad.” I tell them.

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