He’s not wrong either.
Paula is like a cat. She loves to sleep. She covets that shit like it’s gold. My mom made the mistake of trying to wake her once and almost lost a finger.
“So…” My uncle pauses, looking out toward the lake. “You guys just planning on standing on my lawn and clucking like a bunch of hens, or you want to take the boat out for a spin?”
“You’re going to let us take the boat out?” Ty asks. “Without you?”
“Yeah, right,” Uncle Brad retorts. “Like I’d let you assholes take my pride and joy out on the water in the middle of the damn night. I’m coming with. Give me a minute, though.”
Brad Robinson is a man of his word, because not even a minute later, he’s locking the back door and walking down the stairs with a twelve-pack of Budweiser tucked beneath his arm.
I smile at the sight of it. There were a lot of summers when we were teenagers, after Mom and Winnie and Aunt Paula had gone to bed, he’d sneak us boys out onto the lake to share some beers. Still, to this day, Wendy Winslow has no clue that her sons learned how to shotgun beers from her brother.
“Let’s hit it,” he says and proceeds to walk down the stone steps that lead to the dock.
Mind you, the man is still in his robe and slippers but gives zero fucks about it.
Once we reach the dock, Remy and I make quick work of the ropes tethering the bowrider in place, and it’s not long before we’re all packed in the boat and cruising away from the house.
Water ripples around us as we slowly glide across the water. The sky is still dark, and only a crescent-shaped moon and a smattering of stars are visible within its clouds.
For the first time tonight, all is calm.
I don’t have to worry about Jude getting our eldest brother castrated by a stripper. Or some crazy fortune-teller spouting shit that’ll push Remy over the edge.
Just peace and calm and family.
And the lake.
Once we’re a safe distance away from the coastline and there’s no chance we’ll wake up Paula, Brad switches on the radio and fifties’ crooners’ music adds a relaxing soundtrack to the ride.
Jude opens the twelve-pack, tossing each of us beers and handing one off to my uncle, who is too busy with driving to focus on catching a can.
Cold beer popped open, I lift it to my lips and take a hearty gulp.
Damn, this really is kind of perfect.
Remy does the same, and for the first time since we left that strip club, I see his face start to relax. The wrinkles between his brow no longer present.
Thank fuck.
Ty and Jude do their typical Ty and Jude shit, alternating between fighting with each other, laughing, and tossing insults toward the rest of us.
Though, it’s easy to ignore them when you have a beer in your hand, chill music filling your ears, and a warm breeze brushing across your face.
At first, I figure Uncle Brad is just taking us for a short ride around the lake, but when he takes a slight right and heads toward a very familiar alcove, I realize he has some plans.
“Okay,” he announces as he brings us to a stop right beside an old, rickety dock that everyone on the boat knows fondly as The Plank. “It’s time to vote.”
The Plank was the go-to place for our uncle after our father took off and left my mom to deal with us wolves on her own. Anytime we rowdy boys were fighting or disagreeing or wreaking havoc, he’d bring us here. To get shit settled the old-fashioned way.
“No way, Uncle B,” Jude comments, his face lighting up in amusement. “Aren’t we a little old to walk The fucking Plank?”
“Nope.” Brad shakes his head. “So, let’s decide. Who was the biggest asshole of the night?”
There it is. The big question—Who’s the asshole? Because, as our uncle always used to say, You Winslow boys are going to bring glory back to the last name your father tarnished. And to do that, you have to be man enough to admit when you’re an asshole and apologize for what you’ve done.
I grin.
Rem chuckles.
Ty just sits there, completely unaffected.
And Jude rolls his eyes on a big sigh. Though, his response is a direct result of being the one brother who has been voted to walk The Plank the most.
“Who says it’s Remington?” Brad questions, and the only one to raise his hand is Jude.
Remy laughs. “Yeah. I knew that one was coming.”
“Pretty sure it was the fifty bucks’ worth of Taco Hell you made him buy you,” Ty adds, a shit-eating grin covering his lips.
“But seriously?” Jude questions. “Who the fuck eats that much Taco Bell?”
Remy just shrugs. “What can I say? I was hungry.”
“You weren’t hungry. You were just being a spiteful douche.”
“That, too,” Rem responds, completely unbothered. “But my torn boxers are proof that it was valid. No one deserves to have a stripper’s fucking shoe that close to their dick.”
Our uncle just sits there, semi-listening to what is being said, but not questioning anything.
The man is purely focused on counting votes.
It’s safe to say after helping to raise four crazy boys, nothing fazes you.
“Looks like one vote for Rem,” Uncle Brad comments. “Who says it’s Ty?”
Jude tries to raise his hand again, but Brad is quick to respond. “Don’t be a little bitch, Jude. Your vote is already in.”
When no one raises his hand, he moves to the next. “Any votes for Flynn?”
Still, no one.
And when Brad says Jude’s name, three hands are raised.
Instantly, Jude groans, then proceeds to lift his middle finger and wave it around at all of us. “You guys are such dicks.”
“Three votes for Jude,” Uncle Brad says, not even trying to hide the fact that he’s loving every minute of this. “Well, Jude, looks like it’s time, buddy.”
“What the fuck?” Jude bitches, but he stands up and proceeds to hop off the boat and onto the rickety dock.
“Down to your skivvies!” Ty exclaims with his hands cupping his mouth.
Jude just glares and proceeds to shrug off his shirt, shoes, socks, and jeans.
“Looking good, Jude,” Rem teases and lifts his phone in the air, pretending it’s a fucking video camera and fake-recording Jude’s every move. “How about you give us a little model walk? Really strut your stuff.”
Jude flips him off, but being too fucking playful for anyone’s good, he doesn’t hesitate to get into it. His face morphs into his version of a serious model face, something more akin to Derek Zoolander than David Gandy, and the bastard walks up and down the dock with terrifying precision.
“I don’t know whether I should be impressed or horrified that that boy shares some small vestige of DNA with me.”
My uncle’s words spur a laugh to pop from my lungs.
But it doesn’t take long before even Brad Robinson reaches his limit.
“Okay! Okay! Enough of the bullshit. Get to the edge of the dock and do the damn thing.”
Jude doesn’t hesitate, walking straight to the end of the dock until his toes just barely hang off the edge.
“Who’s the asshole, sonny?” Uncle Brad questions, and Ty cracks up.
“Say it!” Ty cheers. “Say it! Say it!”