Heat Stroke (Beach Kingdom, #2)(65)

“Some DFS’s,” Rory responded, shifting the ice pack, and his brothers hummed in acknowledgment, well aware that DFS stood for Down for the Summer. As in, those who didn’t live year-round in Long Beach but showed up for three months out of the year to make hell for the residents. “Don’t worry, he ended up with two instead of one.”

Jamie sighed and finally lowered his worn-in copy of The Grapes of Wrath. “Aren’t physical altercations a violation of your probation?”

Rory winked his good eye. “Only if I get caught.”

Andrew tossed aside the pencil and flattened both hands on the kitchen table. “All right. I tried to give everyone at least one full day off every week—”

“Jesus, man,” Rory deadpanned. “Don’t spoil us.”

“Look. We’ve got a bar to run.” Andrew massaged his eyes with a forefinger and thumb. Not for the first time, Rory noticed the new lines at the corners and the ice pack started to feel heavier in his hand. “I know it’s a lot, lifeguarding during the day and working behind the bar at night. If I could eliminate one of them for us, I would.” He dropped his hand. “Things are different than they were four years ago, though. We should be used to it by now.”

Things were different? Christ, what an understatement.

Rory, Andrew and Jamie traded long looks over the table, before quickly moving their attention elsewhere. A familiar pit took up residence in Rory’s stomach, but he filled it with cement and pasted a bored expression on his face. “Look, all I know is I’m not working Trivia Tuesdays at the bar.” He pointed at Jamie. “You herd the nerds this year.”

“As long as I can still participate in the quiz while serving drinks.”

Rory’s lips twitched. “God forbid you miss a chance to blow minds with your bottomless intellect.”

Jamie turned the page of his book. “What good is being a genius if I can’t make everyone else feel stupid?”

Andrew grabbed their attention with a knuckle rap on the table. “All right, so Jamie, you’re on Tuesday nights.” Their older brother made a notation on one of his clipboards. “I’m taking Sunday and Monday because the sports crowd is belligerent and Rory will knock someone out and end up back in a concrete cell—”

“More than likely,” Rory drawled, taking a few gulps of black coffee.

“We’re all hands on deck Thursday, Friday and Saturday nights—everyone works. So that leaves Wednesday night open.” Andrew speared him with a look. “You got it covered?”

“Sure. Wet T-shirt Wednesdays—”

“Nu-uh. Not happening.”

Rory smiled at his strait-laced oldest brother to let him know he’d been joking. “I think I’ve got it, man.”

With a nod, Andrew penciled in the final details to the Castle Gate schedule, hoisting it up like Moses probably held the Ten Commandments. “The next three months are going to be crazy, but when things quiet back down in September, we’ll have a lot less of Dad’s debt to show for it. We’re almost there. Play our cards right and this could be the year.” He didn’t meet their eyes. “Heads down and plow through, okay?” Finally, he ticked a look in both of their directions. “And let me know if anyone asks about him.”

Rory swallowed. “Will do.”

Jamie set his book down, which was as good as an agreement.

“Next order of business,” Andrew started, trading a not-so-subtle glance with Jamie. “Mom’s birthday is coming up in a few weeks.”

“What do you know?” Rory drawled, his neck itching. “Damn thing rolls around at least once every single year. Same time, too.”

“Are you going to come?” Jamie asked, shifting in his chair. “I don’t think you realize how much she’d like to see you, Rory.”

“You’re right, I don’t.” He laughed without humor and polished off his coffee, softening his tone when his brothers looked disappointed. “I’ll let you know, huh?”

Before anyone could respond, the back door of their kitchen opened and Jiya Dalal, the fourth member of their family, breezed in. “Morning, suckers,” she murmured, flipping her wave of black hair over her shoulder. “Where’s my coffee?”

On cue, Andrew abandoned his almighty clipboards and rose to pour her a cup.

Jiya wasn’t technically related, but Rory loved her like a sister. She’d moved with her parents from India to Long Beach the summer before starting fifth grade. One afternoon, Rory and Andrew were playing catch in the backyard—while Jamie read in the shade of their cedar tree—when they noticed a somber brown eye watching them through a hole in the old, rotted fence. That’s when the yelling started inside their house. Not just yelling. Angry, vile words meant to cause pain, coming from their father. In those days, their mother responded in kind, too. Before things had escalated.

Slowly, the fence board had slid to one side, revealing a girl Andrew’s age, wearing a pink Punjabi suit—although he hadn’t known what to call her outfit at the time. She’d waved all three Prince boys through, leading them without words to her garage where they’d watched cartoons on an old television set, Mrs. Dalal bringing them ice-cold Pepsi cans with straws stuck in the top. Jiya’s English had only allowed them the most basic communication back then, but eighteen years later, there was only a trace of her accent remaining and she could swear like a goddamn sailor.