Bishop Brothers Series: Four Book Complete Set

Chapter 3-1

Chapter Three

ALEX

Dylan and I finally finish up for the day and double-check that we’ve completed everything Dad’s given us to do over the past two weeks. Ever since I asked for two weeks’ vacation, he’s overworked us, but we’ve not complained once. The fence is finished, hay is baled and stacked, and we even dug out a ditch on top of our regular morning duties. We’ve started work before sunrise and stayed out past sunset, but it’s been worth it because I plan to take full advantage of this trip.

“Jackson was volun-told to drive us to the airport in the mornin’,” I remind Dylan as I drive him back to his truck parked near the cattle barn.

“Good. Don’t wanna leave my pickup in the parking lot that long,” he says. “I’ll be here around five, so we’ve got plenty of time to make it to the airport.”

“Just be prepared for Jackson to b***h the entire drive.” I smile, knowing how irritated he is that he has to do our work on top of his own, but that’s payback for the fence incident, so I don’t feel bad about it.

After dropping Dylan off at his truck, I head home, knowing I still need to finish my laundry and pack. I’ve been putting it off because I have no clue what to bring to Florida. My closet is full of Wranglers and work shirts. I have some Oxfords for when I go out, but I’m sure those will stick out like a sore thumb on the beaches of Key West.

For the last few years, Jackson and I have lived together in an old ranch hand house we remodeled. Since then, Friday nights have been known as Whiskey Fridays. He and a bunch of his friends listen to country music, shoot off their rifles into the fields, and drink like it’s the last few bottles of whiskey left on Earth.

As soon as I walk through the door, Jackson strolls over to me and places his arm on my shoulder with a wide, drunken smile.

“Now the fun has arrived,” he shouts to a room full of people who then lift their glasses in the air with a loud round of hollering.

He pours me a glass and hands it to me. “I have to pack,” I tell him with a smug smile on my face, realizing he’s already drunk his limit, and the night is still young.

“Come on, little brother, you can do it later,” he reassures, clinking his glass against mine. “After the s**t show of a day we’ve had, drinks are in order!”

I look down at my clothes and hands that are stained with oil. For most of the day, Dylan and I worked on a damn truck that decided to break down while we were in the middle of hauling hay from one barn to another. Oil was everywhere and made a big f*****g mess. We did nothing but fix s**t all day. Not one task was completed without a mini disaster, which meant we were out way after the sun set to finish everything, but that’s common ’round here.

One thing leads to another, and soon, Jackson and I are sharing a bottle of Jack Daniels. A few of the guys who live in the ranch hand quarters are singing with the radio at the top of their lungs. By the time I drink the last bit of whiskey, I realize I’ve totally screwed myself.

“I gotta go to bed,” I tell Jackson. “Don’t forget you’re driving us to the airport tomorrow, too.”

Alcohol and exhaustion swim through my veins, which isn’t a good combination.

“It’ll be fine,” Jackson says with a wave of his hand, stumbling over his words and not concerned about anything. The words of a true drunk.

I smile, pat him on his shoulder, and tell everyone good night. Even though the music is blaring and everyone in the house is loud as hell, I manage to remember to set the alarm and fall asleep in no time.

The morning comes early, and my head is killing me from drinking way too much. I already know today will be rough. Looking over at the clock, I realize Dylan will be here in about ten minutes. I grab my suitcase from the closet and shove clothes into it along with my toothbrush and deodorant. Procrastination mixed with Jackson’s peer pressure got the best of me again. I’ll just buy whatever I forget at the resort because I don’t have time to overthink it.

Just as I’m slipping on my blue jeans and boots, I hear a knock on the door and know it’s Dylan. I walk through the house and see Jackson asleep in the recliner in the corner of the room. After I rub my hands over my face to try to wake myself up, I open the door. Dylan steps in and laughs.

“Whiskey Fridays.” He knows the aftereffects all too well.

“Unfortunately,” I say with a groan. I walk back toward Jackson and shake him, but all he does is groan and slap my hand away.

“You’re supposed to drive us to the airport,” I remind him.

“He’s probably still drunk,” Dylan says, looking at Jackson who’s still wearing his clothes from yesterday, including his boots.

“Without a doubt,” I mumble, walking to the kitchen to make some strong coffee. I lean against the counter and wait for the coffee to drip into the pot as I grab a few ibuprofen from the medicine cabinet.

“I assume Jackson isn’t bringing us to the airport.” Dylan stares at Jackson who’s snoring loudly.

The coffeemaker beeps as I grab a travel mug. “Mama’s gonna kill him today if she finds out he didn’t drive us down there,” I say, pouring the coffee.