chapter 4

Ten minutes later, Jack O’Shay shows up. He’s wearing a smart, light blue button-down and casual slacks. His red hair is cut short and gelled within an inch of its life. Jack’s the last of my single friends. The lone wolf. A desperado. He’s still living the life I always thought I’d have. Spontaneous. Irresponsible. Uninhibited. He takes great pleasure in ragging on us about all the great nights—and wild snatch—we’re missing out on.

Not going to lie; I get a kick out of his stories—because I remember how much fun a random hookup can be. But I wouldn’t trade places with him in a million years. The grass doesn’t get any greener then Kate Brooks.

We’re all gathered in the kitchen now, where my mom and sister have laid out a continental breakfast. Jack chews on a fresh-baked croissant and chats with my mother. “You’re looking lovely as always, Mrs. Evans.”

She giggles like a cheerleader talking to the star quarterback. Ewww.

“Thank you, Jack. That’s sweet of you to say.”

“Just being honest. Now tell me—how often do you get mistaken for the nanny when you’re out with these little guys? ’Cause there’s no way anyone would believe you’re a grandma.”

It sounds like he’s coming on to my mom, but he’s not. When you’re a player, this is just how you talk—to all women. Remember that the next time some hotshot is dazzling you with his verbal diarrhea. You’re not special— he doesn’t mean it. It’s just his nature.

My father doesn’t seem to appreciate this fact, however. See how he moves closer to my mom? How he scowls in Jack’s direction? “Don’t talk to my wife, O’Shay.”

Jack instantly sobers and steps back. “Yes, sir.” “Don’t look at her, either.”

“No, sir.”

My old man may be getting on in years, but he still knows he’s at the top of the food chain. The last thing Jack wants is to get chewed up and spit out. He segues the conversation toward something safer.

“So, Mr. Evans, you’re not coming with us this weekend?”

My dad shakes his head, and his tone is filled with regret. And longing. “No, not this time. Though I wish I could go with you boys. So much.”

My mother’s head whips around. “Oh, really, John?”

He coughs. And clears his throat. “Yes . . . well . . . you know . . . for the sports betting. You know how I enjoy sports betting, Anne. And we don’t have that . . . here . . . in New York.”

Nice save, Pops. Nice save.

My mother nods skeptically. “Uh-huh.”

At which point the old man deflects my mother’s negative attention toward a more obvious target. Which would be me, of course.

“You boys have fun this weekend, but be safe. Remember the last time we were in Vegas, Andrew? Let’s not have a repeat.”

When I was seventeen, my father had business in Vegas. He and my mother thought it would just be a wonderful idea to make a family trip out of it. But I was seventeen. A time in a guy’s life when he doesn’t even want to admit that he knows his family—let alone spend time with them. So, while my parents, Alexandra, and Steven were off visiting the Hoover Dam, I was forced to occupy myself with other . . . activities.

“I’ve said it a thousand times, Dad—I didn’t know she was the ambassador’s daughter.” They should make them wear dog tags or tattoos on their foreheads or something. I roll my eyes and say to no one in particular, “One international incident and they never let you forget it.”

Kate appears at my side. Her gorgeous face is contemplative, digesting what she has just heard. “Do I want to know?”

Don’t even have to think about this one. “It’s probably best if you don’t.” She nods. “Good enough for me.”

Next to arrive is Erin Burrows. She’s still my secretary, but in the last two years she’s become much more. At times my schedule is so packed, Kate talks to Erin more than she talks to me. At other times, when clients want both members of the dynamic duo at the conference table, Erin takes over James duty. Even though she’s technically an employee, Erin calls it like it is. In other words, she’s a friend. One of the gang. And cool to hang out with. So when this soiree was slapped together, Kate and I couldn’t imagine not inviting her to come along.

After greeting James, Erin joins the rest of us near the kitchen table. She’s changed her hair. It’s shorter, straight, and has tasteful honey-colored

streaks.

Kate approves. “Your hair looks great, Erin.”

She fingers her tresses. “Thanks. I had it done yesterday. I’m pulling out all the stops—this is my weekend to meet Mr. Right. New York men are hopelessly defective. I think Nevada will offer more suitable options.”

Erin dates a lot, but as far as I know, she’s never been in a serious relationship. Las Vegas isn’t exactly the smartest place to find a stellar boyfriend, however. Might as well try your luck at AA or Gamblers Anonymous.

Sex-addict meetings are always a safe bet.

Steven wanders over. “Take my advice, Erin—stay single. Life is less complicated that way.”

Alexandra flinches. Even though he’s one of my oldest, dearest friends, I have the urge to reach into his mouth and rip out his tongue. That’s not wrong, is it?

I let it go. For now.

Matthew offers sagely, “Keep your head up, Erin—it’ll happen. When the time is right, when you least expect it.”

“Yeah—I’m staying optimistic. You have to kiss a lot of frogs before you find a prince.”

Alexandra responds, “They’re all frogs, Erin. Just try and find one with the least amount of warts.”

I elbow Jack. “If we’re talking about the genital variety, you should talk to O’Shay. You’re kind of the in-house expert on those, right man?”

He flips me the bird.

Then the last member of our traveling circus arrives. Care to hazard a guess?

“Yo, party people in the house! Who’s ready to rock?!”

Yep—it’s the douche bag. For Kate’s sake, I try not to hate him as much as I used to—but some things just can’t be helped. It’s like when you have the tail end of a cold and one loogie hangs on to back of your throat. You cough, you hawk, but no matter what you do, you just can’t fucking get rid of it.

That’s Billy Warren. My personal, annoying ball of phlegm. Kate and Dee-Dee squeal and hug the dumbass.

He hugs them back. “I’ve missed you guys.”

Kate says, “But you didn’t have to fly all the way out here. You could have just met us in Vegas.”

“And miss the preparty? No way.”

I was hoping his plane would get hijacked by bloodthirsty terrorists. The kind that like to cut off body parts and FedEx them back to the family, one by one. Oh, well. There’s always the return flight. It’s important to stay positive about these things.

His attention turns toward me. His eyes look me up and down stiffly. “Evans.”

I raise my chin. “Warren.”

He turns around and zeroes in on James. Warren scoops him up and exclaims, “What are you feeding this kid, Kate? He’s so much bigger than the last time I saw him.”

Yeah. Shocking. ’Cause babies don’t usually grow or anything.

Moron.

“I brought you presents, tadpole. A shiny, noisy set of drums. You’re gonna freak when you see it.”

James giggles. To the casual observer, it might seem that my son is actually fond of the fuckface. But I know better. Animals can sense when a person’s a few cards shy of a full deck. When they’re on the lower end of the bell curve. Kids can do that too. James doesn’t like Warren—he pities him. Because he knows that, even at two years old, he’s smarter than Jackass can ever hope to be.

As the small talk builds to a crescendo, Kate and I look over the seating chart one more time. I put my arm around her just because she’s mine. Her eyes are soft and her voice is velvet as she sighs, “Seven more days. About this time next week, I’ll be putting my dress on.”

It’s the one thing that’s been kept confidential. Strictly off-limits. “Can’t I have a hint? Will there be cleavage? Is it satin? Lace?” I wiggle my eyebrows. “Latex?”

She shakes her head.

“Just tell me you didn’t pick some old-fashioned, frilly getup that makes you look like a yeti.”

She chuckles. “I’ll never tell. But . . . feel free to try and torture the information out of me. By any means necessary.”

Several ideas come to mind. Each with the potential of earning me a front- row seat in hell. Possibly a jail cell. “God, I love the way you think.”

My sister’s voice drags me from my sinful musings. “Oh—I’ve been meaning to tell you two—we have a problem with table forty-five. A guest hasn’t responded yet.”

She picks up her trusty clipboard. “He’s . . . Brandon Mitchell . . .

Delores’s stepbrother. He may or may not be bringing a plus one.”

Delores’s mother got married last summer to some cop from their hometown. It figures that only a man professionally trained in firearms and self-defense would be brave enough to tie the knot with Amelia Warren.

I turn on Delores. “Again with your fucking family. What is it with you people? You’re like King Midas in reverse—everything you touch turns to shit.”

She argues, “Brandon is not my family.”

For once my sister and I are on the same page. She waves her finger in Dee-Dee’s face. “Oh, yes, he is. His father married your mother—that makes him yours. If we have to claim Great-Aunt Clara, you have to own up to this Mitchell clown.”

Great-Aunt Clara is my grandmother’s stepsister, on my mother’s side. She’s like a thousand years old. The kind of relative we only wheel out of the nursing home once or twice a year for big events. Clara loves to dance, and even for an ancient she can move pretty well.

The things is—since she was born a century ago, when women couldn’t vote or show ankle skin—Clara’s a big fan of women’s liberation. So she refuses to wear a bra.

Ever.

And her breasts are massively huge. Heavy—like dry-cement-stuffed balloons. They should be classified as deadly weapons.

At James’s christening? Clara was getting down on the dance floor to the latest Rihanna song. She lifts her arms, spins around . . . and nails my best client’s teenage son in the head with her left tit.

The kid was out cold for ten minutes. Thankfully, his parents chose not to sue.

Kate steps between us, hands up, into the line of fire. “Okay, everyone, let’s just all take a step back. Dee, call your mom and have her lean on Brandon.”

Delores does as she’s told. But I go on, “Yeah—lean on him hard. Or he’ll be eating dinner in the parking lot with the valets.”

Kate’s hand snakes around my back, tracing soothing lines under my T- shirt. “Relax, Drew. It’s not that big a deal.”

Her touch is soft—skin on skin. It feels like a double dose of Valium: instantly calming. My voice holds considerably less heat as I tell her, “This day is going to be goddamn magical. No way I’m letting an honorary Warren mess with it—even if it’s just the seating arrangement.”

She turns into me, and her arms climb up around my neck. “Are you going to show up at the church?”

I tilt my head back so I can look in her eyes. “Wild lions couldn’t keep me away.”

“And . . . at some point . . . will we become husband and wife?” “That’s the plan.”

She reaches up on her toes and brushes her lips with mine. Once. Twice. “Then it’ll be perfect.”

Dee-Dee closes her cell and announces, “My mother says Brandon’s coming, but he’s not bringing a date.”

Alexandra amends her list and removes the question-mark chair from the model. Then she beams. “There. Crisis averted. I just need to adjust the number of favors and we’re good to go.”

Dee’s eyes go wide. “Oh, I almost forgot!” She rummages around in her shiny metallic shoulder bag, then raises her arms in victory. “Party favors!”

Fisted in Delores’s hands are a dozen lollipops. Each about ten inches long.

In the shape of a dick.

She hands a few to my mother. “Here you go, Anne. Just because you’re not partaking in the festivities doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy a treat.” Then she adds with a wink, “Vanilla and chocolate. Yum.”

My mother turns the confection around with a mischievous smile and playful glint in her eyes. Then she puts it on the counter. “Thank you, Dee- Dee. I’ll save these for after dinner.”

My father grins. Broadly.

Great. Now I’m stuck with the image of my sweet, saintly mother sucking down a cock-pop while my old man watches. There’s an excellent chance I’ll never get a boner again.

Fucking Delores.

Okay, the boner thing is an exaggeration, but still—do you see why I can’t stand her? Her and her whole demon family tree. My best friend couldn’t

marry a normal girl, could he? No—he had to fall for the Bride of Chucky incarnate.

The phone rings. It’s the doorman letting us know the limo’s here. Everyone files out the door as my parents spread around the hugs and well- wishing.

I snatch James back from Warren for a final farewell.

We’re lucky—James is not one of those clingy, whiny little bastards who lose their mind when Mommy walks out the door. Even so—good-byes are never fun.

Kate kisses his cheek and pushes his hair back from his eyes. “We love you, baby. We’ll be home soon.”

I kiss his head. Then I ask the stupidest question ever. “Are you gonna be good for Grandma and Pop?”

He looks at me sideways. And grins. “No.”

I shrug toward Kate. “Well, at least he’s honest.”