Page 21 of Crash Course
Um, no. Whatever peace Cruz might find in the garage would be shattered by Zeke’s presence. Cruz had spent the better part of two days mentally whipping himself for almost blowing the Randolph gig. Adding Zeke to that chaos? Forget it. Terrible way to spend a morning.
Finished filling the thermos, Cruz tightened the lid and swung to face his brother. "Unless you can bring Dad back, I’m good."
Their father would find that leak in seconds. No doubt. Cruz? It took awhile. Dad always harped on him about that. About focusing and not getting distracted.
"You’re spending a lot of time out there."
Where the hell was this going now? Suddenly his family was keeping tabs on him? "Just said there’s a leak. Can’t drive it until I figure it out."
Zeke cocked his head and narrowed his gaze. "Is that it? I mean, are youevergonna finish messing with that car?"
Point there. The fam often teased him it was lucky he didn’t have a girlfriend who had to compete with the Stutz for his attention. "Probably not," Cruz said. "It’s an old car. Shit goes wrong with old."
He made a show of checking the time on his phone. "Gotta fly. I told Rohan I’d help him with research at ten o’clock."
Zeke nodded. "Everything else all right? Besides the leak?"
What the hell was with his brother today? Yes, Cruz had fucked up, but he’d also flown to Nashville, helped the fantastic Priscilla Randolph locate Daddy’s precious painting, and he’d be helping Rohan in less than two hours. In Cruz’s mind, he wasn’t slacking off.
"Zeke, cut the shit. What’s on your mind?"
"Your drinking."
And there it is.Suddenly, because he got wasted one time on a school night, he had a drinking problem. Totally not having this conversation.
Cruz tipped his thermos at Zeke. "Fuck. You."
He headed toward the back door, hoping his pain-in-the-ass brother would take the hint.
"I see the bottles," Zeke said, his voice quiet and so matter-of-fact Cruz almost shit himself.
What Cruz needed now was what Phin called spin control. He swung back and faced Zeke, who eyed him like a starving bear on the hunt.
Cruz’s temples throbbed. He ignored the pounding and fought to focus his rioting mind. To stay in control and not kick the crap out of his brother. He held up a finger.
Not the middle one, which, yeah, in his mind would have been a better option. "What are you accusing me of?"
"I’m not accusing you of anything. I’ve made an observation that there are a fair number of empty whiskey bottles in the recycling bin."
"Last I checked, I’m not the only one who drinks whiskey."
"Not by a long shot. But it’s the brand you favor."
"Dude, maybe you should quit going through the trash and concentrate on running our business."
"I am concentrating on our business. You’re an employee of that business and my brother, who, for some fucked-up reason, I love. If there’s something bugging you, you’re not gonna find it at the bottom of a bottle."
Well, holy shit. Zeke actually thought Cruz was a goddamned drunk.
He snorted, adding an eye-roll kicker for that extra oomph that would clearly illustrate how ridiculous he found Zeke and his observations. "And what? Is this you doing an intervention? Next you’re sending me to rehab?"
"Didn’t say that. But if we need to . . ."
"Fuckyou!" Cruz thundered, his head slamming so hard he might puke.
"No," Zeke said in his Mr. Rational voice that Cruz despised. "Fuckyou.Do you think this is easy for me? I don’t care if you tie one on occasionally, but when I find you passed out—"
"You didn’t find me."
