“How was your flight?” my older brother Hank asked in a puff of smoke, looking manly as fuck in a pair of Ray-Bans, a cigar gripped between his teeth while merging his truck onto the interstate. He had picked me up outside of baggage claim and, as soon as I saw the cigar, I knew what he wanted—my lips wrapped around that fat cigar between his legs. “Any turbulence?” he added, checking his mirrors.
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