The Buy-In (Graham Brothers #1)(37)

“Maybe we are,” James says slowly. “Why? You want an autograph?”

Chest Hair steps far too close to my short-fused oldest brother. Not a good choice, fella.

I join James so we’re standing shoulder to shoulder, and Collin, muttering a curse under his breath, joins us on the other side. Chase, the smartest of our little group by far, hangs back.

Chest Hair, clearly not possessing the kind of genes that play into survival of the fittest, only smiles wider. “I’d love an autograph. How about you sign my left butt cheek? Or my—”

“Or your chest hair?” I interrupt whatever untoward suggestion he was about to make. “That might be a little difficult, but maybe if we braid it first. Or we could shave our initials into it. What do you think, James?”

My eldest brother does not move, but he does rumble out something between an agreement and a growl.

Chest Hair steps closer. I hate to think this idiot is a representative of the town. But then, I realize nobody has stood up to watch his back. So he might be a party of one.

“You fancy rich boys think you can come in here and swindle the mayor out of the deed to this town? Not on my watch, son. Not on my watch.”

“Is that what you think happened?” I ask, moving a little closer. Not because James needs backup, but I’d rather this guy take a swing at me than the one of us most likely to send Chest Hair to the hospital. “Because we’ve got a contract that says otherwise. All nice and legal. Sounds like you’ve got your stories mixed up. I can see how that would happen though. It’s hard to be both smart and pretty.”

That one takes him a minute, then he scowls and turns his full attention toward me, looking me up and down with a sneer. “Well, you’re all pretty, so you must not be too smart.”

“Guess not, since you and I understand each other so well. Now, do you mind if we enjoy ourselves a friendly game of cornhole?”

“Yeah, I do mind.”

He spits on the ground, and I’m thankful he didn’t hit my boots. Before we left on this little jaunt into dumb idea land, I took a quick shower and changed into fresh clothes at James’s house. Just in case fate made my path cross Lindy’s again. If this guy messes up my boots, this will go a whole lot less peacefully. Harper and the guys always give me a hard time about it, but I am a man who likes my clothes and shoes.

“Are you going to try and stop us?” James speaks, each syllable dropped with a deadly precision. Chest Hair whips his attention back to my dumb older brother.

“Yeah, I am.”

I hear a noise behind me, and I’m pretty sure it’s Chase, sighing heavily. Collin is glancing around discreetly, probably assessing the kind of lawsuit we might be looking at if things get ugly. He’s always the kind to take stock of the practical side of situations.

Me? I’m just the mouth.

“After we’re done here, can I shave a little bit of it? I need a new area rug in my bathroom, and this shade would go perfectly with my floors. I’m happy to pay you by the ounce.” I sniff dramatically, then wrinkle my nose. “Though I might ask you to shower first. A little shampoo and conditioner would go a long way.”

Chest Hair launches himself in my direction but before his body makes contact, out of nowhere, a powerful jet of water knocks him off his feet. Down he goes, and before I can react, the stream—which I have enough time to see is coming from the fire hose—aims our way.

Collin, Chase, and James go down like bowling pins. Last, but not least, a gush of water hits me square in the chest, taking my legs out from under me. I go down hard, getting the wind knocked out of me as I go.

We’re a sopping wet tangle of legs and arms. Somehow, my face gets pressed right into the center of Chest Hair’s most notable feature. He definitely needs a shampoo, and I need a bottle of mouthwash. I’ll be coughing up hairballs for days. I get a solid yank in as I twist away from him, and he screeches.

The spray doesn’t let up but isn’t as bad when it’s not hitting me directly. I don’t know how they even got a water source out here for the truck. Surely, there’s not a hydrant in the middle of the field? Either way, it doesn’t matter. The damage is done. I guess I can at least be thankful we avoided a fight?

There’s laughter, and a few catcalls as the spray comes to a stop. “The Devil Came Down to Georgia” starts playing over the speakers, which seems remarkably apropos somehow. The dirt has already become mud. Scrambling through the wet slop, my hands close around someone’s shoe. It’s impossible to even tell what color it is. When I tip it over, mud glops out.

“Well played,” someone grumbles, and I realize it’s James. I resist the urge to shove his face in a puddle, because somehow, this all feels like his fault.

He must feel the same about me—but with less restraint—because the next thing I know, we’re rolling, swinging fists as we go. The mud dripping into my eyes makes it almost impossible to see. I’m pretty sure I land a blow somewhere, just before he nails me in the jaw.

Someone calls, “Soooie! Here piggy piggies!”

“HEY NOW!” a voice shouts, and it’s the kind of voice that demands respect. The music even cuts out, and James and I pause.

I blink until I can make out a sturdy-looking fellow with a wide, friendly face. He’s around our age, with a barrel chest and the build of a lineman. Maybe one who’s a few years outside of training, based on the way his belly hangs slightly over his belt. He grins down at us, then clucks his tongue, glancing around at the crowd gathered to watch the show.