Kellan opened the slider to the backyard and waved us through like he was our butler. The image of Kellan waiting on me hand and foot, always at the ready with a tray of beer-a-ritas and pork rinds, snapped into my head. Ha! That would be fucking awesome. I snorted as I walked by him, but he didn’t ask what was funny. He knew better than to ask.
The studio was on the far side of the pool. The cool water looked refreshing, and I considered shoving Matt in as we walked past it. I didn’t though, which made me appreciate myself even more. The guys should really give me more credit for all the shit I didn’t do. If they only knew how many awesome ideas I passed on, they’d be truly impressed by my self-control.
Jenny and Rachel were exiting the studio as we approached it. Rachel had her laptop under her arm, and Jenny was beaming, pleased as punch about something. Evan’s fiancée had been a staple at our favorite bar since almost the beginning. I knew her as well as I knew the bar menu. Speaking of…Pete should really update his menu. He didn’t even have tongue tacos on there. What respectable bar doesn’t serve tongue? If it were my bar, I’d serve tongue with everything. My tongue. To chicks.
“Hey, Jenny. Bagettes, huh?” I said as she walked by me.
The perky blonde turned to point her breasts in my direction. “Yeah…I was going to call it D-Bagettes, but I thought that might turn some customers away, so I shortened it.” She tilted her head, like a confused puppy. “I’m surprised you remembered.”
Giving her a wicked smile, I tapped my skull. “I remember everything. My mind is a steel trap—nothing gets out.”
Matt elbowed me in the ribs. “Nothing gets in either.”
I gave him a glare. His ass might get shoved into the pool by the end of the day anyway, and he’d only have himself to blame. I could only be good for so long, after all. “You’re lucky you look like me,” I told him. “Otherwise I’d have to wipe the floor with you.” Matt looked horrified that I’d just pointed out our similarities. While his face morphed through various stages of disgust, I matter-of-factly stated, “I have too much respect for the genes to kick your ass.”
Kellan and Jenny laughed at my comment. Rachel frowned, and for a minute she looked just like my cousin. As disbelief washed over his face, Matt held up a finger. “Wait a minute…let me get this straight. The reason you haven’t ‘kicked my ass’ yet…is…‘respect’?” He made air quotes with his fingers as he said it.
With a smile, I nodded. “Yep.”
“It has nothing to do with the fact that you couldn’t fight your way out of a wet paper bag? No…a wet newspaper. A lying-on-the-ground, completely flat newspaper,” he said with an I’m so clever smirk on his lips.
A guffaw escaped me. “What are you talking about? I’m a badass. Remember that time I whooped that guy in L.A.?”
“He was blind.”
I lifted my finger in defense. “I didn’t know that at the time. And honestly, he was talking shit. Shit-talking overrides the handicap home base, so he was fair game.”
Matt’s mouth dropped open. “Handicap home base?” Still looking stunned, he shook his head. “Every day, it still surprises me that we’re related.” He looked over at Rachel. “I don’t think I’ll ever truly accept my reality.”
Smacking his chest, I laughed. “Yeah, I know. It’s hard to be related to a godlike creature such as myself. I’d feel the same if I were you…but thank God—otherwise known as me—I’m not you.”
Matt looked about to speak, but Rachel beat him to it. “We’re going to work in the house, babe.”
Looking grateful for the distraction, Matt turned his full attention to her. “Okay. I’ll come find you afterwards.”
Matt gave her a chaste kiss on the cheek while Kellan opened the door to the studio. It had been silent before, but now the sound of drums filtered out to us. Evan was working on a beat for one of Kellan’s new songs. I wasn’t sure how Kellan kept dreaming up stuff, but he was always approaching us with new lyrics. And Matt and Evan went gaga for anything he showed them. But whenever I showed them anything, they turned their noses up. We can’t sing about belching, Griffin…The chorus can’t be about telling people to buy extra copies of our album…You can’t put your actual phone number in a song, dumbass. Prissy bitches. Their sense of awesome was skewed.
I waved at Evan once I made my way to the “pit,” where the instruments were. He spun a stick in his hand and nodded his head up in greeting. With tattooed sleeves on both arms, Evan had the most body art of all of us. He won the most piercings title too, with a brow bar, gauges, and both nipples done. He didn’t have a penis piercing though. I was the only D-Bag with the balls to claim that prize.
While I opened the cooler for a tasty beverage, I heard Matt say, “I’m starting to feel sick, guys.”
Finding a beer amid the pop, I straightened up. “Right before tour? That sucks. Hopefully you’re done blowing chunks before we head out.”
Matt shook his head. “Not sick-sick, nervous sick.”
I felt lost at sea again. I knew Matt didn’t like being center stage, but we’d done this a gazillion times. He shouldn’t be freaking out about it. “Why the hell are you nervous? We’ve been doing this shit for years.”
Matt gave me a dumbfounded look, like I was missing something obvious. I hated that look. It made me feel stupid, and I wasn’t. I had smarts. Smarts, skills, and looks. I was the whole package—a triple threat of awesomeness.