The Risk (Briar U #2)(80)
Brenna finally relents. “Okay.”
By nine o’clock, the storm hasn’t let up. Power at the condo went out around six, so we lit a bunch of candles and ate cold leftover pizza for dinner. Brooks digs up some board games and the three of us settle in the living room to play one. Brenna and Brooks have been bickering all evening, ragging on each other as if they’ve been best friends for years.
When I first walked into the apartment with Brenna at my side, Weston’s jaw scraped the floor. But the thing about Weston is, he doesn’t care what school she attends, who her father is, or what team she roots for. To him, a hot girl is a hot girl, and he’s immediately on board. At least until we get a moment alone. When Brenna disappears into the hall bathroom, Brooks unfolds the Scrabble board and asks, “Does McCarthy know about this?”
“About what?”
“About you and the bombshell in our bathroom.”
“No,” I grudgingly admit.
“Think maybe you should tell him?”
“I probably should, eh?”
Brooks snickers. “Um. Yeah. You told the poor kid to dump ’er and now you guys are together? Savage, bro.”
“We’re not together, and neither were they,” I point out.
“He liked her, though.”
“He’s with that Katherine chick now.” McCarthy is still seeing the girl he met after the semifinals. Which tells me he probably didn’t care about Brenna as much as he cared about hooking up with someone.
“It’s still bro code,” Brooks argues. “I know the team captain card trumps all, but you should do the right thing and let him know.”
“Do the right thing? Since when do you have a conscience?” I ask in amusement.
“I’ve always had a conscience.” He hops off the couch. “I’m grabbing a beer. You want one?”
“Nah.”
“Jensen!” he shouts. “Beer?”
Brenna emerges from the corridor. “Sure. Thanks.” She joins me on the sectional and reaches for her letter tray. “All right, let’s do this thing.”
A few minutes later, the game gets underway. Brooks gathers a few decorative pillows that his mother purchased for us, and sprawls on the floor. He rearranges the wooden squares on his tray. “Yo, lemme go first. I have the best word ever.”
Brenna grins. “Let’s see it, Wordsmith.”
He lays down the word bang.
“That’s the best word ever?” she mocks. “Bang?”
“Yes, because banging is my favorite hobby.”
“Uh-huh, well, in terms of actual points, that word earned you…” She checks the letter values. “Plus the double-word score… Fourteen points.”
Brooks is quick to protest. “That’s great for the first turn.”
“If you think fourteen points is great, then you’ve never played Scrabble with my dad.”
He laughs. “Coach Jensen is a Scrabble Nazi?”
“Oh, he’s nuts about it. He’s the kind of player who puts down those two-or three-letter words on a triple-word score, and the next thing I know he’s beating me by two hundred points.”
“That’s no fun,” Brooks replies. “I play for the words, not the points. Connelly, it’s your turn.”
Extending vertically from his “B,” I add the word butt.
“As in, ‘bubble,’” I explain innocently.
My roommate flips me the bird. “Oh fuck off.”
Brenna grins at us. “What am I missing?”
“He has a bubble butt,” I tell her.
“I have a bubble butt,” he says glumly.
“Oh. Cool?” Brenna’s amused gaze lowers to her tiles. She rearranges a few of them as she tries to come up with a word.
“Do you want to see it?” Brooks offers.
“Not really—”
“Nah, let me show you. Just be honest and tell me what you think of it.”
Brenna glances at me. “Is this for real?”
“Afraid so. His girlfriend pointed out his bubble butt and now he has a complex about it.”
“She’s not my girlfriend,” Weston objects.
I rephrase. “Fuck buddy?”
“I’ll accept it.” He hops to his feet. “Okay, Jensen. Look at this.”
My idiot roommate shoves his sweatpants down to his ankles, presenting his bare ass to my…girlfriend? Fuck buddy? I honestly can’t fill in that blank.
I see Brenna’s lips quivering in the candlelight, as if she’s trying so hard not to laugh.
“Well?” he demands. “Thoughts.”
Her gaze focuses on his backside. “You’ve got a nice butt, Weston,” she concedes. “I wouldn’t worry about it.”
He hauls up his sweats. “Seriously?”
“Seriously. It’s a great ass.”
A grin stretches his face. “Say that again.”
“No.”
That grin shifts to me. “Your girl likes my ass. She’s into me.”
“Nope,” Brenna says cheerfully. “I don’t know where you got ‘I’m into you’ from that, but I can assure you I am not.” She uses one of the “T’s” to put down the word trolley.