The Bluff (Graham Brothers, #2)(95)

I raise my eyes for just a moment, taking in her soft gaze. She suddenly, more than she ever has, resembles Mom.

“We see you, James. But sometimes we forget that you need help because you’re so capable. I never meant for you to carry so much, son. It isn’t your burden to carry alone. It never was.”

Tank’s words fall over me softly. I am reminded of the one time we went skiing together in Colorado as a family. A storm rolled in, and I paused at the top of a slope, temporarily alone. As the flakes drifted down, it was with a quiet, blanketing hush.

I keep my head in my hands now, remembering that moment, feeling peace settle my restless thoughts like the quiet snow.

“Do you hear me, son?” Tank squeezes my knee.

I nod, because words have escaped me.

“We’ll figure this out. Together. You won’t have to carry this alone.”

“Is that why he’s bigger than the rest of us—because he’s been carrying around so much extra weight?” Pat. Of course.

I shake my head, but my lips twitch with a smile as I stare down at the floor. Some things never change. Like Pat’s big mouth. Even in a moment like this—and there’s comfort and familiarity in that.

“You just don’t know when to shut your mouth, do you, Patty?” Surprisingly, that’s Chase.

“Those are fighting words. I’m shocked.” Collin sounds impressed.

A sigh. “You’ve all rubbed off on him too much,” Harper says.

“Or not enough.” Again, it’s Pat with the big mouth.

I stand, pulling Tank up with me and into a hug. I don’t know why I don’t do this more, because my dad’s hugs have the power to shake everything loose that needs to be shaken loose and put it all back together. It might even squeeze out a tear or two I’ve been trying to hold back.

The sound of a phone taking a picture makes my eyes fly open. I catch Pat, grinning down at the phone in his hand.

“Did you seriously just take a photo?” Collin asks.

“Had to capture this sweet moment for Instagram.”

“Do you mind if I kill him?” I whisper to Tank, giving him a last squeeze.

Dad rumbles out a laugh. “Nah. Chase makes a pretty good replacement.”

“Then with your blessing …” I release Tank and leap over the chair, going straight for Pat.

He screams like the little girl he is and darts to the kitchen, still tapping at his phone even as he giggles. Is he really posting on Instagram? The dogs follow at my heels, barking, as I round the end of the kitchen island, grabbing Pat just as he tosses his phone on the counter.

“Mercy!” he cries as I lift him off his feet, throwing him over my shoulder like a giant sack of rotten potatoes.

“It’s too late for mercy, little brother. You’re getting justice instead. Door,” I order, and without any further prompting, Chase throws open the front door.

I manage to make it down the steps, Pat wiggling and trying to escape. Not this time.

My family follows behind as I cross the street, headed for the warehouse.

“Put me down, you brute!” Pat punches me in the back, and I let go with one hand, long enough to give him a charley horse in the thigh.

He howls. “Tank! Call off your dog!”

Dad only chuckles. “I’d kinda like to see how this plays out. Sorry, son. Your mouth got you into this, but it won’t get you out.”

“Where are you taking me? Why are you so freakishly strong?”

I don’t answer him, because he really is heavy and I’m getting tired. “Collin,” I bark as I near the front gate—and the dumpster. “You get his ankles.”

With a wicked grin, Collin grabs Pat by the ankles just as our youngest brother realizes what we intend to do. His fight intensifies, but now there are two of us on him. Chase steps in to help me get a solid grip on Pat’s wrists.

“On three,” I say, meeting Collin’s eyes. He nods, tightening his hold on Pat’s ankles. We start to swing Pat, who gives up the fight, probably realizing the inevitability of it all. I count, and on three, we let him fly—right into the low, industrial dumpster outside the warehouse. Pat lands with a muffled crunch on top of the banner and all the garbage bags of food from Feastivus.

The orange cat yowls and leaps out, barely missing Chase.

“It smells like rotten turkey in here!” Pat yells. “Ugh! One of the bags broke and I’m covered in … gravy? I really hope that’s gravy.”

Pat’s head pops up over the side of the dumpster. He has brown goop—and I also really hope it’s gravy—dripping down his cheek. He swipes at it with the side of his shirt.

“And these are my favorite jeans. You are officially the worst brother.”

“Thank you.”

“Is anyone going to help me out of here?”

“No,” several voices chorus at once. The dogs are the only ones eager to help, probably because of all the dumpster food.

Harper nudges me. “Did you say something about wrecking things with Winnie too?”

I stiffen, then drag a hand down the side of my face. “I did. I really did.”

“You’re not going to give up that easily,” Harper says. “Are you?” She raises an eyebrow in challenge, and I feel something stirring in me.