Page 26 of Rafferty's Rules
Outside, it’s still raining, though it has slowed to a misty kind of drizzle, the air cool and fresh, a perfect respite to the heat of earlier.Meat.I turn to the concealed fridge. It would be crass of me to say that the kind of meat I want to give her doesn’t come from the local butcher, so I’ll just think it instead. I pull out a beer and the tray of ribeye my housekeeper, Magda, always makes sure is in the fridge when I’m home, then fire up the grill. I crack the lid and pour a little amber nectar onto the hotplate before beginning to scrub the iron mindlessly when a familiar voice causes me to turn.
‘Looks like I came just at the right time!’ In four lanky treads, my youngest brother, Roman, envelops me in a manly hug, thumping my back as he pulls away.
‘You have got an uncanny knack of turning up when there’s food on the go.’
‘Or beer,’ he answers, snagging my beer from the worktop behind me and downing half of it in one go.
‘Thirsty, were you?’ I shove it back at him as he tries to hand it back to me. ‘Piss off and get me a new one.’
‘Nag, nag, fucking nag,’ he grumbles even as he smiles, pulling us both a fresh beer from the outdoor fridge. ‘Feeling hungry, were you?’ Roman nods at the tray of steaks as I begin to season them. ‘Four are a bit much, even for you, you fat bastard.’
‘Ah, I forgot for a minute you’re all about the model life now.’ Roman recently signed with a high-profile modelling agency and spends his time hopping between Europe and the States, though, like me, he’s here for Byron’s wedding. ‘Been to the gym this morning for your gentle four-hour Cross-Fit session.’
‘Just because the only Cross-Fit session you know is pronounced likecroissant.’
‘I’m surprised you managed to even speak the word. Isn’t there, like, two hundred calories in just the name?’
‘Fuck off and pass me another beer,’ he grunts, dropping himself into a chair. ‘Rub a bit of garlic on mine, would you?’
‘Nup. No steak for you. You’re not staying. I’ve got company.’
‘Here?’ he asks, swinging his head behind him as if expecting someone to be behind him in the manner ofsurprise!‘In this place?’
‘Yeah.’ I answer as though talking to one of Byron’s five-year-old twins. ‘The very one you’re sitting in.’
‘I thought you were off chicks, especially after that psycho bitch wrecked the air con in this place. The same mental case who, for reasons of your safety, had you staying in the Four Seasons last time you were in town?’
‘Ah, she’ll have gotten over it by now.’
‘You reckon?’ he asks sceptically. ‘And is that over it or over you?’
‘Would anyone get over all this?’ I reply, using the barbecue tongs like a conductor directing the symphony of me.
‘You have the worst taste in women, Tee. No offence.’ He takes a long swig from his beer. ‘You’re like a magnet for the beautiful crazies.’
I think about the girl upstairs, probably still naked as she showers in my bathroom. She’s beautiful all right, but she’s not crazy. I don’t think. Crazy hurt, maybe. As I look back at my brother, it occurs to me that this is going to be one of those situations that’s hard to explain. Harder even than explaining to a large Samoan man that you think your drunken lady friend might’ve been short-changed last night. Nah, there’s no point in me turning up to Ruby’s Room to try to get her money back. I’ll just have to help her out some other way. My mind sets to the task of how when Roman burps loudly.
‘Fucking charming. Dragged up, were you?’
‘Yup, in the same barn as you, crazy magnet boy.’
‘It’s not that bad,’ I grunt, turning back to the steaks and slapping them on the grill.Lissa isn’t crazy, and I’ll break his teeth if he makes any such fucking reference tonight.‘There’s a certain kind of satisfaction in the sizzle of flesh hitting hot metal,’ I muse. Okay, I say, hoping to move the conversation along. ‘Must be a caveman thing, though I doubt our early ancestors would’ve marinated their meat with a splash of garlic and rosemary-infused olive oil.’
Roman snorts. ‘According to the History Channel, the Romans were big on marinating their, er, meat in olive oil. Apparently, it works as well as any lube.’
‘For fuck’s sake,’ I mutter, turning to face him. ‘The History Channel?’
‘What can I say? I love a bit of education.’
‘You’re all about the theory, eh? You know what they say, though; those who can, do. Those who can’t, watch it on Porn Hub. Or in your case, the History Channel. You must prefer a PG rating. I get it. You’re working up to the big boy stuff.’
‘What do you know about big boys?’
‘Ah, so boys are your thing? I’ve long had my suspicions.’
‘Fuck off,’ he snorts, rolling with the banter.
‘You’ve been watching about the ancient Greeks on the History Channel, haven’t you? You know you can get gay porn, too?’
