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And then someone does.

I’m in the dining room when Wrath condenses out of thin air right in front of me. I yelp and pull a Chaplin, arms pinwheeling as I tap-dance backward. Rhage catches me from falling as Butch and V materialize behind the king. Z comes in last, sauntering in from the living room as if he’s been there all along.

Rhage:

(to me) You okay there?

Butch:

We could lay her down on a pair of sawhorses.

J.R.:

Don’t you guys knock—

V:

Oh, please.

Butch:

How about the kitchen countertop?

J.R.:

I’m fine!

Rhage:

There’s carpeting on the third floor.

J.R.:

You mean you’ve been here already?

Butch:

No. Not at all. Us? Trespass? I vote for the third floor.

V:

Or we could hang her ass up in a closet.

J.R.:

Excuse me?

V:

(shrugging) Goal is to keep you from knocking your shit out from the vapors. Come on. Work with me.

J.R.:

I don’t have the—

Butch:

Third floor.

Rhage:

Third floor.

J.R.:

(looking to Wrath for help) Really, I’m—

Wrath:

Third floor.

Chaos reigns during the trip up the stairs in the form of deep male voices arguing with one another. As far as I can tell, the topic is treatment for fainting, and I hope to Christ the remedies aren’t inflicted on me. Somehow I don’t think cold showers, stink bombs, old episodes of Barney (evidently the annoyance factor is supposed to be restorative), shots of Lagavulin (which would serve only to knock me out entirely), or laps around the neighborhood naked fall under the accepted standard of care for light-headed humans. Although the trip to Saks doesn’t sound so bad.

The third floor of the new house is a big, open space—basically a finished attic. Total square feet is only a little less than the first apartment I had with my husband, and the Brothers reduce the place to the size of a doghouse. Their bodies are huge, and unless they’re standing right in the middle of the room, which has a cathedral ceiling, they have to stoop to fit under the sloping roof.

Wrath is the first to sit down, and he picks the spot against the far wall that is the head of the room. The rest circle around. I end up doing an Indian-style across from the king. Z is to my right. They are all dressed as they would for a meal at the mansion: Wrath in a muscle shirt and leathers; Phury and Butch wearing elegantly tailored designer casuals; V and Zsadist in nylon sweats and tight T-shirts; Rhage in a black button-down and dark blue jeans.

Wrath:

What the hell are we supposed to ask you?

J.R.:

Whatever you—

Rhage:

I know! (takes cherry Tootsie Pop out of his pocket) Who do you like most? It’s me, right. Come on, you know it is. (unwraps the thing, pops it into mouth) Come onnnnnnn—

Butch:

If it’s you, I will kill myself.

V:

No, that just means she’s blind.

Butch:

(shakes head in my direction) Poor dear.

Rhage:

It has to be me.

V:

She said she didn’t like you at first.

Rhage:

(making point with Tootsie Pop) Ah, but I won her over, which is more than anyone can say about you, hot stuff.

J.R.:

I don’t like anyone best.

Wrath:

Right answer.

Rhage:

She’s just sparing all of your feelings. (grins, becoming impossibly handsome) She’s so polite.

J.R.:

(prayerfully) Next question?

Rhage:

(wags eyebrows) Why do you like me best?

Wrath:

Enough with the ego trip, Hollywood.

V:

That’s his personality. So it’s a permanent vacation to la-la land, not a trip.

Butch:

Which means it’s actually a surprise he won’t wear that Hawaiian shirt Mary got him.

Rhage:

(under breath) I’d burn that eyesore, but it’s a lot of fun to take off her.

Phury:

Amen to that.

Butch:

You have a Hawaiian shirt? You’re fucking kidding me.

Phury:

No. But I like taking Cormia out of my clothes.

Butch:

Respect. (pounds knuckles with Phury)

Wrath:

Fine, I’ll ask a question. (The Brothers all quiet down.) Why the hell do you still jump when I turn up in front of you? It’s fucking annoying. Like