Neanderthal by Avery Flynn
Chapter Twenty-Five
Griff
Nash and Dixon sat on opposite sides of the counter-height kitchen table, beers in hand, and stared at Griff as if he’d grown a second and third head—and all those heads were having a full-fledged argument about middle part versus side part or some such shit. For his part, Griff kept shuffling the deck.
Rummy helped him focus. The shuffling. The dealing. The calculating of odds and options. Grandma Betty had taught them how to play during the summers they’d spent out at Gable House as a way to keep them out of trouble. Now he played whenever he really needed to think. So when his cousins had shown up at his place, he hadn’t said anything until they were sitting down, cards in hand, the score pad sitting on the table next to Dixon. Griff had flipped over the card that would form the beginning of the discard pile and given them the entire situational rundown in the amount of time it took him to organize his hand—by suit in order of ace on down.
Dixon let out a low whistle as he arranged his hand while Nash slid his cards together so it looked like he was only holding one card—he always kept his hand in the same chaotic jumble they’d been dealt—and then took a long drink from his beer.
“So what’s the plan?” Nash asked as he took the top card off the stack.
Griff shook his head. “Fuck if I know.”
He’d spent the time since leaving Kinsey’s in his Lego room trying to concoct the perfect plan and coming up empty. That meant the shower was next, where instead of figuring out how to get Kinsey to fall in love with him, he ended up imagining the way her face had looked after that kiss—her lips swollen and her eyes hazy with lust—so that he’d ended up grabbing his dick and jerking off imagining how good it would have been if he’d gone down on his knees in front of her, spread the wet fabric of her robe, and ate that pussy until she came all over his face.
He shifted in his seat, since whacking off in the shower and then again half an hour ago didn’t seem to lessen his ability to get it up at the thought of Kinsey.
“Why does he need a plan?” Dixon looked from Griff to Nash and back again. “It’s not like this changes anything. He’s not—” He stopped mid-sentence and turned his attention to Nash. “You lucky asshole.”
The bet. For Dixon, who counted winning as integral a thing for survival as breathing, of course the bet would factor high.
“When you’ve got it, you’ve got it,” Nash said, flashing a know-it-all smug grin at their cousin. “But Griff never cared about the bet for Grandma Betty’s last present.”
“Not true.” Okay, kind of true. At the time he’d agreed, really it was just about busting Dixon’s balls. “I just don’t give a shit about it in comparison to winning over Kinsey.”
“Like I said,” Dixon continued, drawing a card and then shucking it straight into the discard pile. “Lucky fucking asshole.”
Time to bring everything back to the ranch or Nash would continue to gloat while Dixon took his revenge by pulling every petty opportunity possible to score shit points in rummy. “Normally, I wouldn’t bring you two into this.”
“Awwwww,” Nash said, going all in on his innate patronizing tone—the one that always got him glared at even when he didn’t mean it. “Our baby is growing up and he needs our help.”
These fucking guys—if they weren’t all ride or die for one another, he’d probably be the one planning the best option for getting away with murder.
Griff took a card and glanced down at his hand, which, just like his life at the moment, was one thing away from perfection. “I just need a plan.”
“You have the dates, numb nuts,” Dixon said, swiping up the four of spades that Griff had discarded and then laying down four of a kind. “That’s your opportunity to make her fall in love with you right there.”
“It’s not enough.” His gut was all twisted up. Usually that only happened when he was face-to-face with the old man, having to bite his tongue as his dad outlined all the many ways his children had failed to live up to his level of success. Griff could listen to the bitter asshole complain about him all day, but when he went in on Morgan, that’s when shit got ugly.
This wasn’t that, though. He knew the truth about himself. He might not look it anymore, but he was still the kid who’d spent most of seventh grade stuffed in one locker or another. So Griff did what he always did—he armored up with a scowl dark enough to get mistaken for midnight. “Because Kinsey’s fun and I’m—”
“About as joyous as dandruff on a black shirt?” Dixon asked, completely immune to Griff’s growly attitude.
“Children,” Nash said, rolling his eyes. “We don’t have time for all this. Griff here is in love, and he needs our help because he’s a loser with women.”
Griff would have argued the point if he could, but it was true.
“The next date is Paint and Sip, right?” Nash asked as he played a straight ace to queen of hearts.
“You picked it,” Griff said before taking a pull of his IPA.
“So not a lot of talking, that’s to your advantage.” Dixon picked up the entire discard pile and started to lay down several sets of three of a kind, knowing full well that limited his opponents’ ability to rummy off his cards and therefore would limit their points. “You need a list of talking points so you don’t clam up.”
“Perfect start,” Nash said, scowling at the four sets of three of a kind laid out in front of Dixon. “We also need to work on presentation.”
Griff glanced down at his Lego Master T-shirt and cargo shorts. “The fuck?”
Dixon nodded in agreement. “You can’t wear that on a date.”
“It’s just clothes.” Was there a dress code to go paint pictures of sunsets and—God forbid—Live, Laugh, Love signs?
“You need a Henley,” Dixon said. “Women love Henleys.”
He plucked the nine of diamonds off the discard pile and used it to lay down a four-card run and throw his cousins off his scent, because he was about to go out on their asses on the next turn. “What is that?”
Nash shrugged. “No fucking clue.”
“And you need a haircut,” Dixon continued, ignoring them per usual.
Griff ran his hands through his longish dark hair. He liked his hair. “Hell no.”
Nash smirked. “And a shave.”
He looked at his cousins, who were both grinning at him like the clowns they were. “Assholes.”
Nash and Dixon didn’t even bother pretending they hadn’t been giving him shit.
“Seriously, though, the talking points is a solid start,” Nash said, throwing away the ace of hearts—a clear sign he was about to go out. “But if that kiss was as good as you think—”
Griff broke in. “I didn’t mention a kiss.”
“You didn’t have to.” Dixon scoffed, picking up and throwing away the same card. “We know you.”
“Pricks,” he grumbled, taking a card from the deck that would serve as his throwaway.
“Anyway,” Nash said. “What you have there is a tool in your arsenal—sex sells, and you want Kinsey to buy.”
Griff paused mid-motion as he was about to lay down the three-card straight, discard, and win the hand. “That’s regressive.”
Nash smirked. “That’s realistic. Attraction leads to more.”
“So your great suggestion is I use talking points you two are going to give me and then hypnotize her with my dick?” he asked, turning the idea around in his head.
“If you can,” Dixon said with a good-natured chuckle.
And there it was. The solution was so simple and so stupid that it just might work. Mutual attraction and desire were the basis for connections between people and chemicals. Keeping the right balance, conducting the dance with the right amount of give and take, and being in the right place at the right time all factored into a lasting bond.
When he laid down the straight and discarded his last card, winning the hand, his cousins groaned and tossed their cards on the table, but Griff barely heard them. He was already weighing the options and coming up with a plan of action to follow through on that promise he made himself—that she was going to fall as hard for him as he had for her.
