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V:

And it suits you.

Rhage:

I like blue, because V does. I want to be just like him when I grow up.

V:

Then you’re going to need to go on a diet and stop wearing lifts.

Rhage:

Bet you say that to all the girls you date. (Shakes head.) You make them shave, too, don’t you?

V:

Better than having to back them out of their stalls, like you do.

J.R.:

I like black.

Wrath:

Score! Now, next question—

V:

How about making this more interesting.

Wrath:

(cocks eyebrow up from behind his wraparounds) In what way?

V:

(staring over at me) Truth or dare.

They all get quiet at this point, and I do not feel comfortable—although not because they are silent. I don’t trust V to play nice—and going by the tension in the room, neither do the Brothers.

V:

Well? What’s it going to be?

If I go for truth, he’s going to hit me with something that’s either impossible to answer or way too revealing. If I go for dare . . . well, he can’t kill me with whatever he makes me do. I’m pretty sure the others would make sure I live through it.

J.R.:

Dare.

V:

Fine. I dare you to answer my question.

Butch:

(frowning) That’s not the way it works.

V:

It’s truth or dare. I gave her the choice. She picked the dare. Wrath: Technically, he’s right. Although he’s fucking around.

V:

Oh, I’m quite serious, true?

J.R.:

Okay, what’s your question.

V:

Why did you lie?

The question doesn’t surprise me, and it’s a private thing between him and me. And he already knows the answer, but he’s asking it here to cause problems. Which it will.

Wrath:

(cutting in before I respond) Next question. Favorite food? Rhage: A Rhage and Butch sandwich.

J.R.:

(turning beet red) Oh, no, I—

Rhage:

What? Like you’re going to want any V in there?

J.R.:

No, I don’t think of you like—

Rhage:

Look . . . (pats my knee, all that’s-okay-dear) fantasies are good. They’re healthy. It’s why Butch’s skin glows like it does and his right palm is hairy—he wants me, too. So, really, I’m used to it.

J.R.:

I don’t—

Butch:

(laughing) Rhage, buddy, I hate to slow your roll, but I so don’t feel you like that.

Rhage:

(wags brows) Now who needs a truth-or-dare?

V:

You know, Hollywood, in the DSM-IV there’s a picture of your ugly mug next to “Narcissistic Disorder.”

Rhage:

I know! I sat and posed for it. It was so sweet of them to call.

V:

(barks out laughing) You are such a freak.

Wrath:

Food, challa?

J.R.:

I’m not a big foodie.

V:

You don’t say.

Rhage:

I like almost everything.

V:

And again, you don’t say.

Rhage:

Except olives. I just . . . meh. Meh on the olives. Olive oil is fine to cook with, though.

V:

What a relief. The whole country of Italy was worried about their national economy.

Butch:

I don’t like seafood.

Wrath:

God, neither do I.

Phury:

I can’t stomach anything with fish in it.

Z:

No way.

V:

I don’t even like the smell of the shit.

Rhage:

Come to think of it . . . yeah, big meh on anything that had a fin on it or comes with a shell. Well, excluding nuts. I like nuts.

V:

Go. Fig.

Butch:

I love me a good steak.

Wrath:

Lamb.

Phury:

Lamb is fabulous.

Butch:

Oh, yeah. With rosemary. Done on a grill. (rubs stomach) Anyone hungry?

Rhage:

Yes, starved. (Everyone roles their eyes at this point.) Well, I’m a growing boy.

Butch:

Which, considering how big your head already is—

V:

Strains the bounds of credulity.

Rhage:

I like all kinds of meat.

V:

(laughs) Okay, I’m so not touching that.

Rhage:

Which is kind of a surprise. (Grins.)

Wrath:

Can we please get back on track? Challa? Food?

The truth is, I’m loath to say anything and am disappointed to have the focus on me again. I love just watching the Brothers take the piss out of one another. Really, this vibe right here is what my days are like. I am among them, but not with them, if that makes any sense,