The Thunder Beneath Us by Nicole Blades

Author:Nicole Blades [Blades, Nicole]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Kensington
Published: 2016-08-25T04:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 15

“You know I didn’t invite you over to rummage through my fridge, right?”

“What I know is that you did not just say rummage, May. Because, Miss Ma’am, this fridge never, ever has a thing in it, but today specifically? Listen, sis. I could stretch out all of my six-foot-three-ness in there on my fainting couch while playing dominoes and be chilling, literally.” Tyson closes the fridge door, leaning his shoulder on it. “You don’t even have a single, struggling, sweaty bottle of vodka in the freeze box like these regular day bitches out here. Now that is some sad shenanigans.”

“Don’t do me like that, Ty. I’ve been at home sick, remember?”

“You lucky I come prepared for all things. Look in my wine bag, boo.” He grabs two tumblers from the cabinet. “At least your glassware game is tight.”

Of course Tyson’s wine bag is fine leather and label. Inside there are two bottles. None of them are wine. “Hold on, you walk with your own minibar?”

“Sweet May, your fridge always looks like heartbreak and country music. I know my audience. Now bring them bottles over so we can clink and drink.”

“The worst. You’re the worst husband yet.”

“Jesus knows my heart.”

“Seriously, thanks for going with me tonight. The Singh sisters and I . . . it’s still a little bumpy.”

“Behind that disappearing act you pulled for turkey day? Girl, please, that was basically four years ago. They need to move along.” Tyson slides open several drawers near the sink until he finds the coasters. He motions with the open vodka bottle to follow him into my living room. The light—even the manufactured kind—is better in there.

“Well, wait. In their defense, it was a bit more than the no-show thing. They said I was selfish, self-interested, and maybe I was.”

“Do you have anything on or are we working fresh here?”

“Fresh. I washed my face just before you got here. No moisturizer, nothing. Clean canvas.” I take the seat Tyson set up for me by the window. He’s meticulous about his art and I know the rules. “I should have told them what was really going on with Nik and the blowout with Grant. I was being stupid, not selfish.”

“You know you’re my boobee, my top May. Your skin is that creamy peanut butter, these cheekbones be calling out to me in my sleep, and the wig is always laid, right down to the slick baby hairs, plus you crack my shit up—like, for real, have me rolling—but them twins ain’t lying: You are all about yourself.”

“What? You think I’m selfish? I’m not selfish.”

“Oh, because you say it’s not true, then it’s not true? Hmm. My mistake.” He folds his lips and arches his brow as he works on filling in mine.

“No, really, Ty, what makes you think I’m selfish?”

Tyson splashes more ginger beer into his glass. “Listen, you asked me to accompany you to this li’l holiday function.” He walks his fingers along his brush belt and reaches for the one with the longest handle.

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