The Time with the Motorcycle

Xander was no stranger to bad ideas. Or unusual ideas. Or the occasional this-is-either-brilliant-or-an-offense-against-common-sense-and-gravity idea. He was, in fact, a connoisseur of ideas, swishing even the most outlandish possibilities around in his mind and taking a delicate little taste.

But even Xander recognized that stealing Nash’s motorcycle was a very, very, extremely, definitely, entirely bad idea. If Jameson succeeded at stealing their oldest brother’s bike, Nash was going to do a murder—in a mostly nonviolent, no-Jamesons-were-irrevocably-harmed-in-this-ass-kicking kind of way.

Xander’s common sense, discretion, and desire for self-preservation were all in agreement: He wanted no part of this.

So of course he had to intervene.

“If not me,” Xander said to himself as he leapt over the railing on his balcony and began scaling down the side of Hawthorne House, “then who?”

He was aided in his climb by two suction cups, an expandable grappling hook he kept on his person for just such occasions, and a blueberry scone. God bless pockets!

Xander landed on the front lawn, polished off the scone in two bites, and started sprinting. Jameson was already straddling the bike. Luckily, Xander’s legs were long, and his post-scone speed was a thing to behold.

The bike roared to life and—wa-bam!

It was a top-three tackle, if Xander did say so himself. They hit the ground rolling, then sprang to their feet in unison. Xander was bigger. Jameson had a habit of fighting dirty. And right now? Jamie was fighting like a person who had nothing to lose.

“Whoa there, Captain Big Feels!” Xander put some space between them and held his hands up in a mea culpa that also—conveniently—doubled as a ready stance. “It’s just your friendly neighborhood Xander looking out for the longevity of one of his top-three favorite brothers!”

“Back. Off.”

Xander did not back off. “You don’t want to do this.”

“This?” Jameson challenged. There was something dangerous in his tone, something wild but contained, unstoppable.

Good thing all Xander had to do was try to stop him!

“This, as in stealing Nash’s motorcycle,” Xander specified helpfully. “Presumably to take off for parts unknown. And it seems you have forgotten your helmet?”

“I haven’t forgotten anything.” Jameson took an ominous step toward Xander.

And there it is, Xander thought. His brother had as good as admitted that the danger—the lack of helmet, Nash’s wrath—was the point.

Jameson was hurting. Just like Rebecca was hurting. Just like Grayson was. Emily’s death the month before was like a black hole, sucking in entire universes around it. But the difference between Jameson and Grayson, between Jameson and Rebecca, was that when Jameson was hurting, he wanted to hurt more.

To prove that he could.

To prove that nothing mattered, when really it all mattered so much he could hardly breathe.

“I feel an aggressive hug coming on,” Xander informed his brother. “Would you or would you not like the bear variety? I can also recommend our daily special, the Manly Snuggle Hug.”

“Get out of my way, Xan.”

“Not going to happen.”

“I will go through you if I have to.”

Xander lowered his hands to his side. No more mea culpa. No more ready stance. “You’re spiraling.”

“I mean it, Xander. Get out of my way.”

“Manly Snuggle and/or bear hugs are still available, though supplies are limited, so you should get one while they—”

Jameson surged forward. Xander lunged sideways, blocking the way to Nash’s bike.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Jameson bit out.

“That’s the thing,” Xander said. He looked Jameson right in the eyes. “You won’t.”

If it came down to a fight, Xander would lose—eventually. They both knew it. Just like they both knew that none of Xander’s brothers would ever hurt him as badly as Jameson would have to in order to win this fight.

“I hate you,” Jameson grumbled.

“And I loathe your face!” Xander replied happily.

“You can’t be everywhere, Xan.” In other words: Jameson’s inadvisable plan had been thwarted for now.

Xander was undaunted. “Or can I?” He wiggled his eyebrows dramatically and threw an arm around Jameson’s shoulders. “Now, be honest: Where did that tackle rate in my top three?”