No Good Mitchell - Riley Hart Page 0,11

as I could tell.

It was no surprise that I hadn’t thought twice about kissing him, because if I was going to kiss a man, it should be one as hot as Cohen.

Hate ’em or not, there was something to these Mitchell genes, which was probably why I couldn’t help but return that beautiful smile.

“You guys sure are tall,” his friend piped up, extending a hand to me. “I’m Isaac.”

I barreled right through my not-so-brilliant plan and said, “Hi. Brody. This is my brother—”

“Walker,” he jumped in with.

“This is a sight,” Murray said. “Didn’t imagine I’d be present for the first run-in between the Mitchell boy and the O’Ralleys.”

“It’s not our first run-in,” I noted, and that made Cohen’s smile broaden, and damn, why did that excite me?

“Well, I guess if we’re sworn enemies or whatever, we should at least be formally introduced,” Cohen said. “I’m—”

“Cohen Mitchell. Yeah.”

I felt the need to explain last night, but this definitely wasn’t the moment, and before either of us had a chance to say more, the bell on Murray’s door chimed.

A knot twisted in my gut.

“Well, whatda we have here?” Dwain’s voice practically echoed through the whole damn store as he approached the register.

“Oh my God. Do they have steroids on tap in this town?” Isaac said, his eyes widening with concern as Dwain started through the narrow aisle, which admittedly made him look much bigger than he already was.

I took a step toward the aisle opposite the register, blocking him from getting near Cohen and Isaac, if only to keep him from freaking them out.

“Dwain, get back in the truck and turn on some crappy pop music. We’re almost done.”

“We’re not done with anything here yet, Mitchell boy.”

It felt insane to see my brother expressing this hostile attitude toward a total fucking stranger over some dumb family feud. This wasn’t fucking 1935…or ’31…or whenever the hell all this shit started up. Surely, a Mitchell who hadn’t even spent his life in Buckridge wouldn’t know enough about any goddamn feud, nor have to get roped into it just because of the tenuous connection to the Mitchells Big Daddy grew up around.

Dwain went on, “Walker, Brody, whatdaya think? Maybe we should take these city kids out into the woods, strip them down, hogtie them, and let them know what we do to rivals.”

“I’m willing to adapt parts of this plan,” Walker said, winking at Isaac, who gave him a strange look, clearly not detecting my brother’s interest, since Walker was pretty much always that awkward about hitting on guys.

“Holy shit,” Isaac whispered to Cohen. “They’re gonna torture us like those inbred guys in Wrong Turn.”

“Who the fuck are you calling inbred?” Dwain shouted.

“No, no. That’s not what I meant,” Isaac spit out. “I meant the torture part. They just happened to be inbred, and it was the first descriptor I thought of for the movie…and…”

“It’s probably safest if you stop talking now,” Cohen told him. “Also, you should probably work on your whispering skills.”

Isaac pressed his lips together.

“My name’s Cohen. Dwain, right?”

He extended his hand to my brother. Dwain eyed his hand, leaving him hanging, so I took it. “Nice to officially meet you, as we were saying before being so rudely interrupted.”

I looked to Murray, surprised he hadn’t already kicked us all out, when I noticed him holding his phone up.

“Are you recording this?” I asked, slightly mortified. “Just finish ringing us up.”

He lowered his phone and told Walker the total, and I had to urge Walker to hurry up and pay, since he seemed rather absorbed in checking out Isaac.

“How long do you guys plan on being in town?” I asked Cohen, eyeing his basket.

There was more than a few days’ worth of stuff in there, which didn’t leave me much hope that Big Daddy’s fears would be easily soothed.

“Playing that by ear,” Cohen replied. “Just grabbing enough stuff to get me through next week.”

“Don’t make small talk with the enemy,” Dwain muttered.

“Dwain, get back to the truck. We’re almost done.”

“Oh, did you guys want some privacy so you could make out again?”

Cohen eyed me, his smirk expanding. “I mean, there are certainly worse things I could see myself spending my time doing.”

Fuck, my cheeks were hot like fire.

What the hell? I. Do. Not. Blush.

No, that was not me at all.

But God, my face must’ve been red as a tomato under the store lights.

I figured Cohen might have just been trying to grate on Dwain’s nerves, which had clearly worked by the way