Fly Boy: A Friends to Lovers Standalone Romance (Tobin Tribe Book 2)

by Caitlyn Coakley

  Megan smiled across the expanse of limo to the other seat where Deb was trying to teach Pete how to count in French while her grouchy husband, Brian, watched.

  The short, dark, round Brian and the tall, thin, blonde Deb didn’t look like a pair to her. She would never have cast these people as a couple in any movie, except a dark, cult classic about genetic experimentation gone awry or a made-for-TV special about the seventies’ singing duo Sonny and Cher. But somehow, they’d made five of the most gorgeous men she’d ever seen; each younger son was slightly less attractive than the outrageously handsome BJ.

  Temporarily relieved of mothering duties, Megan used her rare moment of freedom to try to figure out BJ’s mood. Or moods. Before the ceremonies, he’d tussled with his brothers on the lawn then strode into the chapel with what she assumed was his usual bravado, but he looked as if he was going to pass out during the baptism, terrified at having to hold Kegan. It probably hadn’t helped his confidence that everyone seemed ready to spring into action if they had any inkling he might drop the baby.

  BJ and a lack of confidence. It didn’t mesh. He was one good looking man, and he knew it. That much was obvious by the way he normally held himself and the swagger in his walk. Inside the church, those qualities had faded, yet once they’d left the church and started loading themselves into the waiting limos, he’d regained his arrogant demeanor. Those indigo blue eyes of his were so dark they were nearly black, yet sometimes almost seemed violet depending on the light. Inside the chapel, they had been carefully veiled, but once outside, they’d sparkled in the sunshine as he’d once again roughhoused with his brothers. There was a Jekyll and Hyde thing going on, but why?

  Stephanie had warned her about all the Tobin boys, especially love ’em and leave ’em BJ, but she shouldn’t have bothered. The Tobins were all so far out of her league, none of them would have looked twice at her, especially with a baby in tow. Eventually, she’d start dating again, but any man worth her attention would have to love Pete and accept the carved-in-stone fact that her son would always come first, at least for the next seventeen years or so. Megan was sure none of the competitive Tobin boys would be willing to accept second place for anything. Especially BJ.

  The last thing she needed was a man who would storm through her world like an F5 tornado and leave a mess for her to clean up while he twisted on with his life.

  Which was exactly what a man like BJ Tobin would do.

  CHAPTER 10

  The limo driver had barely closed the door behind them when BJ lunged for the minibar. Forget the glasses. He grabbed a tiny bottle of whiskey, cracked the seal, and drained its contents. He reached for another.

  “Asshole, save some for the rest of us,” Quinn complained as he cracked his own bottle and slipped a second one into his pocket.

  “Dibs on the gin,” Riley called out as he muscled past Quinn.

  Knox stared at Shane. With the intensity of two gunslingers facing off, their eyes met as each formed a fist and shook it. “Ro-cham-beau...” Shane shot paper; Knox shot scissors. Knox chortled as he grabbed the vodka.

  “Fuck,” Shane grumbled as he scooped up the last two bottles. “Weasel piss again.”

  It sucked to be Shane.

  BJ settled into the plush leather seat and watched out the window of the limo transporting them to Steppie and Ethan’s wedding reception slash baptism celebration. Man, this trip was taking forever, and that was not a good thing. They were a long way from their suburban church where the ceremonies had been held, and farther from the country club where more than two hundred people had celebrated Steppie’s first marriage with a sit-down dinner of endless surf and turf and an open bar. The bottomless pits, also known as the Tobin brothers, had taken full advantage of the meal and the liquor. Good party. Great party. Would this party measure up? Probably not.

  The longer they drove, the worse the neighborhoods got. His lightly clenched fist bounced off his knee in time to the tune weaving its way through his head. The up-beat music did nothing to block the scenes rolling past the tinted limo windows that cocooned them in luxury in the midst of squalor.

  At some point, they’d have to cross a dividing line where the neighborhoods started to trend uphill again, right? But not so far. The bucolic atmosphere surrounding their affluent church had slowly given way to smaller, shabbier homes, then commercial and industrial properties, then neighborhoods that resembled war zones. Vacant lots, burned-out hulks, yards with dirt instead of lawns. Scary and depressing.

  Was the limo bulletproof? He regretted locking his handgun in the safe under the front seat of his car before entering the church. He hoped at least one of his brothers had something strapped to his ankle because judging by the look of things, they might need it.

  “Where the hell are we?” It was a rhetorical question he didn’t expect his brothers to answer. He wasn’t disappointed when they didn’t. As usual, they were ignoring him.

  But it didn’t matter where they were, a better question was why they were going there. Of all the places they’d passed that would have provided a perfectly acceptable place to celebrate, why had Steppie and Ethan rented three limousines to caravan fourteen people more than an hour from Our Lady of Sorrows, the church considered the jewel in the Archdiocese’s crown, to a church in a neighborhood that looked as if the National Guard should be patrolling?

  It didn’t make sense, but love made people do crazy things. No thank you. BJ loved, in no particular order: sex, flying, and his family. He looked across the limo at the ragtag crew he called brothers and shook his head. Yeah, he loved his family. Most of them most of the time. But a woman? No, that was never going to happen. And his parents would have to get over it.

  What bothered him most was the look he’d seen on his mother’s face. The hope and longing he’d read in her when he had finally been able to hand off the bundle of pink and lace had made him want to dissolve into the floor. It broke his heart that he would never be able to give her the grandchild she so dearly wanted, but he had four brothers. One of them would have to fill the void that he wouldn’t. Couldn’t.

  “S’posed to be going to Ethan’s church. Forbes says the last company he and Steppie added to their empire put their net worth north of two billion, so why is his church in the hood?” Quinn commented without looking up from the game he was playing on his phone. “Damn, cell service dropped. This is a dead zone in more ways than one. How long do we have to stay?”

  BJ snorted. “Quit whining. You’ve been playing that stupid game all day. I didn’t think you had that many friends or knew that many words.”

  Quinn raised a middle finger to him.

  “We all came in the same limo; we all leave in the same limo. I say we eat, drink, and split, hour, hour and a half tops,” Riley, the buffer, the negotiator, the quintessential middle child suggested. “At least we got to leave our cars at Sorrows. No way I’m driving my baby down here; they’d probably steal the paint job.”

  “Dipshit,” BJ shook his head, “the paint job goes with the car, but in your case, they’d take the oil stains under that hunk of junk.”

  “Hey! Don’t dis the Fifty-seven. She’s a parts-match which makes her worth way more than that soulless block of metal you drive. She’s a grand lady, not a hunk of junk! She’s a classic! So she has a little problem with... incontinence; she’s... mature. It happens.” Riley crossed his arms over his chest and pouted.

  “Ooooohhh...” three voices blended into one.

  BJ shook his head. “Someone’s been reading the dictionary again. Damn it, man, do you have to be such a nerd?”

  “Nerd is so pejorative. I prefer to think of myself as smarter than all of you combined.” Riley flipped his brother a double bird.

  The infamous bird. Their old man was allergic to most animals, so over the years, it had become the Tobin family pet. It flew early and often every time the brothers were together.

  Taunts, jabs, and humor that usually involved bodily functions or fluid
s were also common. Boys will be boys. But they were hardly boys. Chronologically, anyway. They had the uncanny ability to turn any mundane occurrence into an opportunity for a contest, a game, or a wager. And their favorite target had always been their youngest brother.

  “What’s up with Insane Shane?” BJ pointed at the snoring heap tucked into the corner of the backseat. Weren’t the babies of the family supposed to be cute and cuddly? Not Shane. The kid towered over his brothers. Plus, he was always angry about something, making him about as cuddly as a cactus.

  “What a lightweight. Two shots and he’s out. It’s embarrassing,” Quinn snipped.

  God, his voice was annoying. And so damned loud.

  “You know he can out drink all of us,” Riley said.

  “The asshole probably hasn’t slept in days. He’s been working on that stupid game of his and the energy drinks finally ran out. He’ll sleep for a day or two, then get back at it,” Knox, quipped. “More than likely, Big Bird will snooze through this whole miserable thing, the lucky shithead.”

  With his height, enormous hands and feet, and the mop of platinum blond hair that tended to stick out at odd angles, Shane had earned the nickname Big Bird when he’d hit his growth spurt and never seemed to stop. BJ’s littlest brother was the human equivalent of the kiddie TV star, minus the sunny disposition.

  BJ shook his head. “Is he ever going to grow up and get a real job?” Probably not. Shane had a lot of talent, but mostly for getting into trouble. He wasn’t a bad kid, but he did have a special knack for rubbing people the wrong way. BJ swore if he and Shane did the exact same thing at the exact same time, he would skate, but Shane would get busted. He’d seen it happen on more than one occasion, especially with the old man. “Dad’s gonna be pissed. A Benjamin says they go at it within fifteen minutes.”

  “Nah, Dad’s mellow today,” Knox argued. “Steppie and Ethan are finally ‘right’ with the Church, although I don’t know why that matters so much to him. My money is on forty-five minutes.”

  “Damn, too slow,” Quinn complained. “I was gonna pick forty-five, so I guess I’ll say thirty.”

  “You’re all wrong.” Riley shook his head. “I don’t think Shane the Pain will get out of the limo. Once he’s asleep, a bomb won’t budge him. I say Dad starts bitchin’ at him the minute we pull up, but we’ll have to suffer through it because baby boy’s in la-la land and won’t hear a word.”

  “Damn, you’re right,” BJ agreed. Would there ever be a family gathering that the old man and his youngest son wouldn’t ruin with their constant verbal warfare? BJ doubted it, hence the wagers. He hadn’t won a pot in months.

  “I’m not worried about Dad; it’s Mom we gotta watch out for. You saw her with Pete. She’s gonna be all over us for grandkids again,” Knox predicted.

  BJ groaned. “You should have seen her face when she took Kegan out of my arms. Damn Steppie for doing this to me.” He had no doubt Steppie was taking great joy in his discomfort. He was also sure she didn’t remember the day he’d held her. He hadn’t been quite three the day she’d been baptized. The trauma and terror of that brief experience, barely long enough for a photo, remained branded into his brain.

  Quinn snorted. “Did you hear the new ringtone she has for you?”

  BJ wasn’t sure he wanted to know. “Okay, I’ll bite. What?”

  “The theme from The Godfather. I’m going to start calling you Don Brian.”

  BJ reached across the limo and slapped Quinn upside the head. “Sorry, it was an offer I couldn’t refuse, and you know better than to call me Brian, Mighty Quinn.”

  Quinn punched BJ back. “Do not call me that! Damn that stupid song! I am not an Eskimo! I’m named after Grandpa Clausen. You crab about not getting your own unique name. I didn’t get my own name either, and I don’t have the privilege of being a junior!”

  “Privilege my ass, more like a curse.”

  “Shut the fuck up.”

  “You started it!”

  “Did not!”

  “You two cut it out, or I’ll tell Mom!” Riley shook his head. He was the shock absorber, the squishy middle that kept them all from killing each other.

  “Snitches get stitches,” BJ reminded him. Damn the little tattletale.

  Riley raised an eyebrow. “Draw blood and Mom will freak out.”

  Yeah, the blood thing. The tiniest drop sent his parents into panic mode. “I’ll figure something out,” BJ threatened.

  “At least today was a three-fer. One Saturday, one tie, three ceremonies.” Knox loosened his tie and unbuttoned the top button of his shirt.

  BJ massaged his neck. He’d ditched his tie nearly an hour ago, but he could still feel it choking him. “I don’t know how other guys stand it. I don’t wear button shirts anymore unless I absolutely have to. I own exactly two: this one and my tux shirt.”

  Buttoned shirts had been a casualty of high school graduation, along with mass and ties. The one thing they’d taken away from their school years was meticulous care of their shoes. With feet as big as theirs, shoes were damned expensive. Sure, they had plenty of money, but there was no need to be stupid about it. Besides, their father had demanded it.

  Father. It was a word BJ didn’t like to use. It always died in his throat. Brian was Dad or the Old Man and sometimes Senior. If BJ was feeling particularly jovial, or pissed, he might call him BS for Brian, Sr. But try as he might, the word father wouldn’t pass his lips.

  “You know guys, we’re going to have to behave ourselves today. We are celebrities,” Riley reminded his brothers. Riley, Knox, and Quinn each struck a pose.

  Yeah, BJ loved his brothers, but right now they were annoying him on purpose. He shook his head in disgust. “Celebrities my ass. Your stupid little internet news station is nothing more than a big pile of rich boys’ toys. You haven’t come up with a decent name for it yet.”

  “Oh, and that helicopter of yours is what, a lawn ornament? And our little brother’s condo full of computer crap is some kind of weird feng shui?” Quinn shot back.

  “Point taken,” BJ said. “We are a family of rich boys, and we like our toys.”

  But BJ’s helicopter was a business—at least that’s what he told himself. It didn’t matter that it had taken nearly four years to turn a profit. Rich boys’ toys could sure put a dent in the old trust funds. He was proud he hadn’t touched the principal and had managed to do what he’d needed to do off of the interest. But barely.

  The limo rolled to a stop. “I think we’re here.” BJ pointed toward Shane. “Someone poke him,” he ordered. As the oldest, he considered it his right to call the shots. It hadn’t worked since he was ten, but it didn’t stop him from trying.

  “Oh, hell no.” Riley rubbed his shoulder. “That freak of nature has the wingspan of a 747. I’ll poke him, but after we all get out. He can break his hand on the door frame this time.”

  Riley was right; the kid did have one hell of a right hook. “Okay, gentlemen, and Shane, if you can hear me, we stay together, eat, and split, agreed?” BJ looked around the limo and watched his three conscious brothers nod. They piled out of the limo as soon as the driver opened the door.

  “Where’s Shane?” Senior’s voice bellowed from behind them.

  BJ jerked toward the angry sound. He had never seen the old man turn so red so fast. In the space of a breath, Senior’s normally pale Irish skin ripened to candy apple on the How Mad is Dad red scale. The danger zone. One of these days, the man’s mercurial temper was going to climb so far so fast, his head would explode.

  Hopefully, today wasn’t going to be that day. BJ absent-mindedly played with the thick MedicAlert bracelet that never left his wrist.

  Today couldn’t be the day they all feared. They were too far away.

  “Dad, breathe.” BJ reached out to grasp his dad’s elbow but barely grazed his sleeve. For an old, out-of-shape geezer, the man was surprisingly agile.

  Senior poked his head inside the limo. “Jesus Francis Christ, h
e’s asleep?” He climbed into the limo to shake his youngest son.

  “Dad, no!” BJ shouted, but it was too late. Shane smacked the old man in the jaw with such force, Senior sprawled on the floor. Shane snuggled back into the leather seat with a sigh. Or at least that’s what it looked like. With Shane, you never could be sure.

  BJ helped his dad out of the limo. BS let out a string of swear words, then remembering where he was, crossed himself and stomped toward the church muttering something BJ was sure he didn’t want to hear.

  Riley held out his hand to collect his winnings with a smirk that made BJ want to pull his little brother into a headlock until the twerp cried uncle. That’s something else that wouldn’t happen today, unfortunately. They were in public, and it had to at least look like they were behaving.

  The brothers piled back in the limo, each one took an arm or leg, carried Shane out, and propped him up under the nearest tree. It was a nice tree, strong and sturdy. BJ was impressed. The grounds were every bit as nice as the acreage around Sorrows. It surprised him that such a peaceful oasis could exist in the middle of poverty and despair. It was quiet. It was clean. It wasn’t what he had expected. He took a deep breath to let the beauty soothe his agitation.

  It didn’t last long.

  “Junior!” his dad shouted from in front of the church. “Pictures, now!”

  Quinn shook his head. “Don’t break the camera with that ugly mug of yours, Burr-eye-annie.”

  BJ cringed at the way Quinn mutilated the name he’d always hated. It should be illegal to name a kid junior. Every boy deserved his own special name. Fulfilling the expectations of being a junior was too much sometimes. It doubled the burden of being the oldest. The one charged with setting a good example for his younger brothers. The one responsible for protecting them and keeping them safe. He’d done his best to live up to his role, not that his asshole brothers had ever made it easy. He shot Quinn another bird and went to immortalize his humiliation.