Twisted Read Free

sofa, and very large, very white teeth.
    Mrs. Milbury gave me the once-over. “My goodness, Tyler,” she said. “You used to be four-foot-nothing and skinny as a beanpole. You certainly have grown up.”
    “He’s six-three and one ninety-five,” Mom said. “Growing taller every day, like a cornstalk!”
    Hannah snorted.
    “Ah,” I said, cringing. “Ha.”
    Dad tapped his foot and waited a suave two seconds before he blurted out, “So, where’s Brice?”

5.
    Brice Milbury, CEO of Milbury Brothers Trust (“Trust Milbury Trust!”), was the tall man with the perfect tan and fat gold watch motioning to Mrs. Milbury from the farside of the pool. Three shorter guys were grouped behind him, all wearing lime-green golf shirts with the company logo. As we walked up, his son Chip did, too. Chip Milbury: Bethany’s evil twin brother, four-year lacrosse starter, fairly good offensive linebacker, and all-American jerk who majored in beating the crap out of me in middle school.
    We did more of the fake-polite handshaking thing. Mr. Milbury held on to Dad’s hand an extra moment. “Surprised to see you here, Bill,” he said. “Didn’t know your department was coming.”
    The short dweeb guys looked at each other. I knew in the pit of my stomach that Dad had screwed up. You didn’t crash parties in Hampton Estates, even if you were the new Vice President of Oversight and Compliance. Not cool.
    Dad gripped his boss’s hand harder. “You know me, Brice, always looking out for the company’s best interests.”
    (Yeah, he said that.)
    “So, Nerd Boy.” Chip punched me in the shoulder. Hard. “They let you work out in prison?”
    “Tyler didn’t go to prison—” Mom shut her mouth when Dad shook his head once.
    Mr. Milbury looked me over. “You playing football, Tyler?”
    “No, sir,” I said. “I’ve just been working.”
    “Part of his parole,” Chip said.
    “My job,” I said slowly. “I work at Pirelli’s Landscaping.”
    Mr. Milbury squeezed my bicep. “Maybe you should do some manual labor, Chip. This guy’s made of steel.”
    Chip stood up straight, trying to make himself as tall as me. “How much can you press?”
    “I have no idea.” Two fifty-pound sacks of mulch in each hand, douche bag.
    “You two boys should work out together,” Mr. Milbury said. “Looks like you’d be a good match.”
    “We’re not matched,” Chip said.
    The band broke into “La Macarena.” A few women jumped out of their seats, formed a line at the edge of the pool, and flailed their arms around. Mom and Mrs. Milbury both wiggled their hips. Hannah slunk off towards the food tent. Bethany managed to look incredibly bored and incredibly hot at the same time.
    “You could bring Tyler to the gym,” Mr. Milbury suggested to Dad. “I’ll meet you there with Chip. We’re always looking for someone to push him to the next level.”
    Chip blinked fast and pretended to watch the pig turning on the spit.
    “That would be great,” Dad said. “I’ll tell Linda. Now, if I could just borrow you for a few minutes, Brice. The situation in Omaha is uglier than I thought. The new regulations…”
    One of the dweebs whispered something into Mr. Milbury’s ear. Dad snapped his mouth shut and tried not to frown.
    “This isn’t the place for business. You can call Stuart here on Monday,” Mr. Milbury said. “We’ll set up a meeting.” He turned away from my father and patted my shoulder. “I don’t know, Chipper. I think Tyler might be out of your league.”
    “Let’s find out.” Chip sat down at a small table and placed his elbow square in the middle, palm open. “What do you say, Tyler? Think you can take me?”
    “Knock it off, Chip,” Bethany said.
    “Chicken?” Chip asked.
    “Great idea,” Mr. Milbury said. “I’ll bet you a round of golf, Bill. Your boy against mine. What do you say? You golf, don’t you?”
    “Braaaaawck,” Chip clucked softly.
    “I love golf,” Dad lied. “Go ahead,