Page 30 of Bone Deep
Honestly, that’s probably what he needs.
I snort to myself at the thought.
I firmly believe, that if every straight man on the planet got their prostate pegged at least once a month, the world would be a better—and significantly safer—place.
I’m still snickering aloud when I swipe to close the message thread without responding. But before I can, my phone lights up again.
Incoming video call.
The name on the screen flips my mood entirely. I grin and tap accept. “Hey, Cricket!”
Long blonde hair and green eyes like mine fill the screen. Her makeup is flawless, her gray chenille sweater looks soft enoughto sleep in, and a delicate sterling silver necklace catches the light at her collarbone.
“I can't believe you still call me that,” she sighs. “We're not kids anymore, Ry.”
I grin wider. “Oh, would you prefer I use your real name?” I ask innocently. “Hm?”
Her eyes narrow. “Don’t.”
I lean closer to the camera, lowering my voice dramatically. “Maybe serve it up with a side of fava beans and a nice Chianti…Clarice.” I drag out the name and finish it with my best Hannibal Lecter slurping sound.
Cricket rolls her eyes and I burst out laughing.
Growing up, my other sister, Harper, and I had given her absolute hell about her name. We still do.
Suddenly I hear music on her end.
Thatcreepy song.
My brain instantly recognizes it, and I start losing it before anything even happens.
Harper appears in frame.
My youngest sister is dancing dramatically behind Cricket with some flowing floral fabric draped around her shoulders like a robe, phone in her hand blaring the song.
Cricket glances over her shoulder. “Oh, for fuck’s sake, Harper.”
Harper lunges forward until her head is comically huge on the screen. “You wanna fuck me?” she declares in a deep voice. “I’d fuck me.”
Cricket shrieks laughing and shoves her. “Ew! What is wrong with you?!”
Harper just keeps dancing.
Cricket points behind her. “And put my tablecloth back in the hutch!”
At this point I’m laughing so hard tears are streaming down my face. “Morons,” I wheeze. “The both of you.”
Harper finally collapses into a chair at the kitchen table beside Cricket, still giggling.
I wipe my eyes and take a second to just look at them. Cricket is the oldest. Always the responsible one. Organized. Put together. I’m the middle kid.
And Harper…
Harper is pure youngest child chaos.
Cricket is two years older than me and Harper is two years younger than my twenty-five years.
We were tight growing up.It’s how we survived an overbearing, egomaniacal, bigoted father and a socialite mother who only acknowledged she had children when it was time to parade us around at some charity gala.
