collective breath. Justin high-fived Tony, so I knew one of them threw it. I think if I’d failed to catch the damned thing, Tom would’ve had a massive coronary on the spot.
“Do you mind acting a little older than high school, you two?!” he scolded them, his normally deep voice carrying a shrill edge. “I doubt either of you make enough in a month to pay for a window if that had ricocheted through Jimmy’s grasp!”
He pointed to the ornate stained glass panels on either side of the backdoor, while both Tony and Justin shrugged and quietly mouthed ‘sorry’. Such feigned remorse, though they both had a ‘oops’ look on their faces. They turned their attention to the cooler, reaching in to grab a pair of longnecks.
I can see why he’s protective of his place. The property reminds me of a park setting, with lots of trees and such. And the house…it’s really nice. Built in the late 1920s, it looks like the Craftsman homes you sometimes see in movies, with lots of handcrafted oak paneling and millwork throughout. Frigging beautiful work, man. Of course, as my wife points out, it’s why they call this type of home a ‘Craftsman’ in the first place. Named after some homebuilder magazine from yesteryear.
“What? Better not be any Heinekens in there,” I said, feigning irritation. “Hording the good stuff is totally unacceptable, you guys!”
I hoped it’d take the edge off the morgue-feel suddenly permeating the air around us, since I could tell Tom was still fuming a bit. I’m not one for dull parties, and I definitely can’t tolerate a sour-puss gathering. The hell with that shit, I’d be just as happy getting an early start on rehearsal before the wounded puppies and Foghorn Leghorn turned tonight’s paranormal review into a pissing contest.
“Hell, I’ll take a Heiney if there’s some extras in there,” said Angie, sauntering over to where the guys stood guarding their treasure chest.
Like a pair of tin soldiers from Candy Land, they stepped aside to make way for her, so obviously intimidated by the pretty girl’s moxie. Sure enough, once she fully opened the cooler’s lid, a dozen green bottles peered out through crushed ice. She grabbed a handful and began her strut to the picnic table.
“Throw me that can of cow pee and I’ll bring you a real beer, Cracker Jack,” she taunted, playfully, to which I immediately tossed the can without thinking first.
More gasps—this time from nearly everyone including me. But Angie smiled naughtily, balancing the bottles between one arm and her bosom while she effortlessly caught the can and flipped it back toward the open cooler. The can careened off the lid and into the ice. No harm, no foul—unless Tom’s labored breathing counts for anything.
While the rest of us marveled at Angie’s party trick, she moved over to the table. Tom hurriedly motioned for Tony to help him carry a platter filled with burgers and weenies to the table. Justin picked up the condiments from a small table next to the built-in grill on Tom’s deck, while Jackie grabbed a bowl of potato salad to go along with another one filled to the brim with baked beans.
That left Fiona, who paused by the cooler until she fished out a bottled Coke, since a sinus headache’s onset was upon her. She joined me near the end of the table, and everyone else found an open spot. Jackie and Tom joined us on the side closest to the grill, while Tony and Justin hesitated for a moment on the other side, as if silently debating between them who’d get the frightful pleasure of sitting next to Angie. Justin won the honor, as Tony found an excuse to revisit the grill.
“So, where’d you learn the over-the-shoulder bank shot, Muscle Mutt?”
Hoping to further lighten the mood, I voiced the first thought that popped in my head. Angie really hates my pet name for her, since it brings to mind some muscle-bound body builder—which she’s not. ‘Body sculpting’ is the way she likes to
“Do you mind acting a little older than high school, you two?!” he scolded them, his normally deep voice carrying a shrill edge. “I doubt either of you make enough in a month to pay for a window if that had ricocheted through Jimmy’s grasp!”
He pointed to the ornate stained glass panels on either side of the backdoor, while both Tony and Justin shrugged and quietly mouthed ‘sorry’. Such feigned remorse, though they both had a ‘oops’ look on their faces. They turned their attention to the cooler, reaching in to grab a pair of longnecks.
I can see why he’s protective of his place. The property reminds me of a park setting, with lots of trees and such. And the house…it’s really nice. Built in the late 1920s, it looks like the Craftsman homes you sometimes see in movies, with lots of handcrafted oak paneling and millwork throughout. Frigging beautiful work, man. Of course, as my wife points out, it’s why they call this type of home a ‘Craftsman’ in the first place. Named after some homebuilder magazine from yesteryear.
“What? Better not be any Heinekens in there,” I said, feigning irritation. “Hording the good stuff is totally unacceptable, you guys!”
I hoped it’d take the edge off the morgue-feel suddenly permeating the air around us, since I could tell Tom was still fuming a bit. I’m not one for dull parties, and I definitely can’t tolerate a sour-puss gathering. The hell with that shit, I’d be just as happy getting an early start on rehearsal before the wounded puppies and Foghorn Leghorn turned tonight’s paranormal review into a pissing contest.
“Hell, I’ll take a Heiney if there’s some extras in there,” said Angie, sauntering over to where the guys stood guarding their treasure chest.
Like a pair of tin soldiers from Candy Land, they stepped aside to make way for her, so obviously intimidated by the pretty girl’s moxie. Sure enough, once she fully opened the cooler’s lid, a dozen green bottles peered out through crushed ice. She grabbed a handful and began her strut to the picnic table.
“Throw me that can of cow pee and I’ll bring you a real beer, Cracker Jack,” she taunted, playfully, to which I immediately tossed the can without thinking first.
More gasps—this time from nearly everyone including me. But Angie smiled naughtily, balancing the bottles between one arm and her bosom while she effortlessly caught the can and flipped it back toward the open cooler. The can careened off the lid and into the ice. No harm, no foul—unless Tom’s labored breathing counts for anything.
While the rest of us marveled at Angie’s party trick, she moved over to the table. Tom hurriedly motioned for Tony to help him carry a platter filled with burgers and weenies to the table. Justin picked up the condiments from a small table next to the built-in grill on Tom’s deck, while Jackie grabbed a bowl of potato salad to go along with another one filled to the brim with baked beans.
That left Fiona, who paused by the cooler until she fished out a bottled Coke, since a sinus headache’s onset was upon her. She joined me near the end of the table, and everyone else found an open spot. Jackie and Tom joined us on the side closest to the grill, while Tony and Justin hesitated for a moment on the other side, as if silently debating between them who’d get the frightful pleasure of sitting next to Angie. Justin won the honor, as Tony found an excuse to revisit the grill.
“So, where’d you learn the over-the-shoulder bank shot, Muscle Mutt?”
Hoping to further lighten the mood, I voiced the first thought that popped in my head. Angie really hates my pet name for her, since it brings to mind some muscle-bound body builder—which she’s not. ‘Body sculpting’ is the way she likes to
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