“What do you need?” I ask him seriously. “A fucking glass of whiskey. One ice cube. Think you can do that for me, big bro?” I glare. I hate the way he calls me bro. It’s with fucking scorn. I can count on my hand the amount of times he’s called me “brother” with affection or admiration. But he usually acts like I don’t deserve the title yet. Maybe I don’t.
