More Than Lies (More Than #1)(21)

“Grab me one of those, would ya?” I call out before he slams the door closed. Tonight couldn’t get more perfect. Beer and a great meal will surely only relax me further.

“When do we eat, I’m starving?” Matt directs his question to Tara as he hands me a beer.

“Never, if you come in here with that attitude.” She turns back to the stove and stirs in what looks to be shrimp. That signals me we are minutes away from dinner, so I head over to the sink to wash my hands.

“It was just a fucking question, Taralynn.” I hear him sigh in frustration. I don’t know why, but he and Tara have been off for some time now. “Can you please let whatever’s crawled up your ass lately out?”

I’m not getting into the middle of their shit, so I towel dry my hands and open my beer. The first sip is always the best. It’s cold, refreshing, and smooth as it flows into my mouth and down my throat.

Her back is to Matt, but I can clearly see her profile. Tara’s jaw locks, but she just looks forward without saying a word.

“Go get Mason up, would ya?” I look toward Matt. “She is almost done so we will be eating in a few.”

He nods before tipping his glass bottle up and taking a sip, and then walks off in the direction toward the living room.

“Drama going on in BFF-land?” I lean against the counter top in front of the sink waiting for her reply.

“Hell if I know,” she breathes. “You’d have to ask him that question,” Tara grabs an oven mitt from the drawer next to the stove and puts it on to pull the freshly baked French bread from the oven.

We definitely have it made around here.

“Will you grab the bowls while I slice and butter the bread?” She turns to face me after getting the bread knife out of the knife block.

“Well, I’m not going to say no while you’re holding that thing.” I joke as I push off, twisting to my right to get the bowls as requested. Once I have four in my hand I place them on the counter next to the stove. I go ahead and grab four spoons from the silverware drawer, as well, and place them next to the bowls.

Mason and Matt walk into the kitchen. Mason rubs his palm over his short hair and then down his face to wake up.

“How is your back feeling?” I ask him. He looks in my direction and then heads to the fridge.

“Nothing more than a dull ache. I downed two packs of powdered aspirin when I got home.” He retrieves a beer of his own, twists the cap off and tips it up to his lips.

“Shit, dude that’s over sixteen hundred milligrams.” I laugh out. Damn, the pain isn’t that bad—fucking pansy ass little bitch. Normally I’d call him on that shit, but I’m not in the mood. I want an easy rest of the night. I want to enjoy a delicious meal and kick back with my friends.

“Exactly, which is why I’m not hurting.”

“Let’s eat, guys,” Tara calls out. I’m first in line. You don’t have to tell me twice.

I scoop a hearty amount of seafood goodness into my bowl and grab a piece of hot bread before walking over to the table. My friends do the same. Tara is always the last to fix her plate and the last one of us to sit down to eat.

As soon as her ass hits the cushioned seat of the chair, I raise my spoon to my lips anticipating the contents that are about to slide down my throat. Before I taste victory, I feel a swift kick in the shin.

“Motherfucker.” I turn to look at Tara staring at me. She rolls her eyes.

“Mase, you’re up for grace this week.” She looks back in my direction, cutting her sapphire eyes at me while shaking her head.

Don’t women know not to come between a man and his dinner?

I set my spoon down on the table, lace my fingers together in front of me, and bow my head.

“Thank ya, Jesus. Now, let’s dig in.” Mason laughs at his short, but sweet praise. Now don’t go taking that as an insult to the Lord. We are all God-loving people. We may not show up to church often, but we love and respect the guy.

The first spoonful of my soup is always the best. Sometimes I wonder how I stay in such good shape when I have Tara as a roommate. The bitch can cook and she feeds us well. I’m not calling her a bitch as an insult. It’s just a guy term.

I don’t make it to my second spoon because the ringing of the doorbell interrupts us. Irritation is automatic.

My house is full of life except Sunday through Wednesday—which are off limits to almost everyone. This is a known fact. Wednesdays especially because we have designated it family night, and by family, I mean the four individuals that live in this house. Are they my family? No, they aren’t in the traditional way, but we all grew up together. Mason is damn near as close to a brother to me as my own brother, Shane.

Tara grits her teeth at the interruption. This is actually her rule. She doesn’t ask for much, but when we all moved in, she suggested family dinner night with no interruptions or outsiders. I liked the idea. A year after enjoying those evenings, we added a Sunday night dinner as well.

Her chair skids backwards. Tara rises and walks off to answer the front door.

“Hey,” I call out. “Unless the motherfucker is related to one of us, kick the bastard in the dick.” I go back to spooning more cioppino into my mouth. Next I tear off a piece of bread with my teeth and chew.

Moments later I hear a shrieking voice that I had never planned to hear again.