“What? We all love your mom,” he taunts and throws me off. My body slams into the wall and the two paintings hanging above fall to the ground beside us. I charge him again.
“Boys! Boys! That’senough!” My mom’s stern tone suspends our wrestling match. “What in the ever loving hell has gotten into you boys? So help me, I’ll send you both to your rooms.”
“He started it!” I point at Sean.
Sean puffs and shakes his head, “No way! I was just walking up the stairs. He tackled me!”
“Enough. Apologize.” She glares, hands on hips, and I can’t help but mumble asorry.Sean does the same. “There. Now go wash up for dinner and try to act like grown-ass men! It was bad enough when you were teenagers. I’m too old for this shit.”
“Sorry, Mom.” I say but she just pinches her lips and shakes her head before walking back into the kitchen. She’s the only person outside of the band who lives here year round. Even though she’s my mom, she’s kinda the band’s mom, too. With her being single, and me an only child, we’ve always lived together. She’s right, though; we act like big kids sometimes.
“That was fucking funny. You went from fight club to momma’s boy the minute she yelled at you.” Austin slaps Sean on the back before reaching a hand down to help me off the ground.
“I was defending her honor,” I say. But remembering the scuffle, I can’t help but give in to a grin as we walk toward the succulent smells wafting from the kitchen.
“’Your mom’ jokes never get old. Don’t take it personal, T,” Austin says.
“Yeah, I know. It’s funny, just not with my mom, okay?”
“So damn sensitive.” Sean bumps my shoulder. “And winded, too. You need to hit the gym with me more, instead of the bottle with Austin.”
“I’m an equal opportunity employer when it comes to hitting things. Gym. Bottle. Ass.”
“Yeah, yeah. You hit that and then some.” Sean wraps his arm around my shoulder. “No hard feelings, T.”
“And no more jokes about my mom.”
We step into the kitchen and my mouth salivates at the piping hot trays of lasagna and garlic bread waiting on the counter. My mom looks up with a smile before she cuts the pasta into squares with a spatula and a collective groan leaves all of our lips. Damn, she can cook. And she’s right. We aren’t any better than we were as teenagers.
“Spank me and call me Daddy. With food like that, who needs pussy?” Austin whispers at my right. I sneak a punch to his balls when Mom’s not looking, Sean grabs the plates, and all is back to normal in our house. It may be unconventional, but this right here—this is family. My belly fills with good food, and my face stretches with a smile and laughter that nearly hurts, and I can’t help but feel goddamn lucky. Only I don’t completely agree with Austin’s sentiment. Dinner is phenomenal, but at the end of the night, I’ll still want pussy.
