SEVENTEEN
THE FIRST ORDER of business when throwing an impromptu bachelor party was figuring out who should be invited to said bachelor party. Cylan was an obvious choice, even though he glowered at Alex the moment he brought it up.
“Do you remember his last bachelor party?” Cylan asked.
“No.”
“That’s right. Because you didn’t go. But I did. It involved a disappearing Rolex and a very patient exotic dancer named Peaches and four hours in the emergency room.” Cylan paused. “I’ll come along because he’s my best friend, but I am drawing a hard line at hospitals and police stations. You’ve been warned.”
“Noted.”
Vaughan Barrington was also an obvious choice, being Rain’s big brother and the head of The Seaside’s security, and he proved to be a little more helpful in the bachelor-party-planning department. Vaughan was about Alex’s height, with a medium build, and sleeves of tattoos on each arm—lots of skulls and roses and Celtic knot type things. He had longish hair on top of his head that he tied back, with the sides of his head shaved. His Harley Davidson T-shirt, jeans, and combat boots made it easy to forget he was a former marine with extensive Krav Maga training, but if Sol’s stories were true, the Barrington brother was a walking, talking murder machine who just so happened to work for the good guys.
Or, well, he worked for Sol now, a sort-of good guy.
“Okay, so we’ve got Sol, you, Cylan, me, Darren, Nash, Michael Kell—the new night security manager—and if you want, I can see where my brother Richard is. He’d come along just for shits and giggles. He’s a little dry, but he can hang, especially if Spencer comes,” Vaughan said, looking at Alex’s list, an unlit cigarette clenched between his teeth.
“I’ve been informed Sol’s last bachelor party was unfit for public consumption. You may want to consider that before inviting anyone,” Alex said. “I’d like the families not to hate one another during or after the wedding.”
“Don’t sweat it. Spencer makes Richard fun. They were supposed to come down together on Spencer’s plane. My other brothers won’t be here until tomorrow so they’ll miss it, which is probably for the best. Everyone hates Mitchell, including me.”
“Oh good.” Alex paused. “Wait, who’s Spencer again?”
“Richard’s best friend since childhood: John Spencer. They’re attached at the hip, possibly in other ways, too, but who knows. Spencer owns a media conglomerate. Grew up in Greenwich with the rest of us snobs.”
“Ah.”
That was all Vaughan offered before he slipped outside onto the terrace to smoke and make his call. He, Cylan, and Alex were convening in Alex’s suite, the one Sol perennially kept open for Alex despite Alex not visiting enough. It was in perfect condition, and newly decorated in shades of deep teal and gold with floral prints Alex would have liked to see in The Diamond. Alex paced between the couch and the marble-top kitchen bar. Cylan was comfortably situated in a tufted rocking chair that creaked when it rocked, a copy of the Wall Street Journal open in front of his nose. Whenever he talked, he lowered it slightly, peering at Alex or Vaughan over the top, the overhead lighting blazing off the gold rim of his glasses.
“I’ll call in a reservation at Jilly’s for seven,” Cylan said from behind his paper. “For ten people, just in case. It’s a new piano bar on Iberville. I figure going there will lower the chances of expensive jewelry getting stuck on or in unsuspecting dancers.”
“What dancers? There will be no dancers,” Alex said. If Sol insisted they ogle dancing girls, he could do it without Alex, after dinner and . . . whatever other activity they would be doing postdinner for fun.
Which Alex had yet to figure out. Because he’d forgotten bachelor parties existed.
Cylan shrugged. “Fine, no dancers. I don’t think you understand how little I care about this.”
“Oh, I think I do, and I’m in the same boat. All right. Christ, is this even relevant anymore? It’s his second marriage.” Realizing he’d taken the Lord’s name in vain, Alex flinched. “Pardon. The point stands, though: are we still obligated to do this, since you threw him one last marriage?”
“I don’t know, but if anyone would whine about it not happening, it’d be your brother. Better to suck it up or we’ll never hear the end of it,” Cylan said.
“I suppose.” Alex raked his hand over his hair. “I shouldn’t put this on Sol. It’s my fault. I was supposed to think of it and I didn’t. What should we do after dinner? What do people do at bachelor parties besides stare at women far too young for them? I refuse to do that, by the way. It’s cliché and awful.”
Cylan tipped his head thoughtfully. “We could go to Harrah’s. Sol likes poker and doesn’t get out to play as much with the new fiancée.”
“Done. Fine.”
Cylan went back to reading; Alex went back to wearing tracks in the carpet. Vaughan appeared a few minutes later, the scent of fresh cigarette clinging to his clothes.
“Richard and Spencer are in. What time is dinner? I’ll text him.”
“Seven.”
“Perfect, they’ll be checking in at five.”
Yes, perfect. Swell.
Is it over yet?
“Dinner and Harrah’s is on the docket right now. Do I have to think of something else?” Alex asked.
Vaughan snorted. “Nah. Sol’s easily entertained. If he wants to do something after Harrah’s, he’ll let us know. He knows everyone in the French Quarter, for fuck’s sake.”
That was true, and it was somewhat ridiculous of Alex to fret about dragging Sol around the city when Sol was far more likely to assume tour guide duty and drag all of them around. Alex picked up his phone and texted Darren and Nash, informing them of the plans. Cylan did the same with Michael, the night manager, and Vaughan took care of his brother Richard and John Spencer. A limo was hired, reservations were made, everything was fine.
It’ll all be fine.
We’re fine.
Just fine.
If only he believed it.
“What is this bullshit?” Spencer asked. “Isn’t he up forty-three thousand dollars?”
“More,” Richard said. “About fifty, I think.”
John Spencer had taken off his suit coat, which left him in a silver paisley tie, a pale blue button-down, and navy blue slacks. His hair—all silver save for a few streaks of black at his temples—was swept back from his face, revealing a pronounced widow’s peak, arched black brows, gray eyes, and good features. A trim goatee and mustache highlighted a broad mouth. He was a handsome man, distinguished looking, and at forty-one, far more youthful than the color his hair indicated.
Richard was about his height—hovering around six feet—but more slender and far more blond, like his sister. He hadn’t removed his suit coat, which meant he was in Harrah’s in three-piece attire, dark green, with a matched tie. His blue eyes were narrow as he watched the blackjack table. Hell, everyone’s eyes were narrowed as they watched the blackjack table.
Nash was a superstar.
It wasn’t really surprising. When Nash put his mind to something, he’d be adept at that thing, no matter what it was. It was probably good he was socially clueless, because that much brain with those good looks was a noxious combination. His humility and boyish charm kept him bearable.
They also kept him in the money. The blackjack dealer hadn’t kicked him out yet, though he probably should have. Alex was fairly sure Nash had a photographic memory and was counting cards even if he didn’t realize he was doing it.
“Blackjack!” Sol shouted as another pile of chips slid Nash’s way. Nash looked pleased with himself, adjusting his bow tie and skimming his fingers over his pile of would-be money.
“Ah. This is quite fun!” Nash said with a smile.
Spencer smirked. “Have you seriously never played before?”
“No, no. I have. Some years ago as a teenager. When people won, someone took their clothes off. I was the only one with pants on as I recall. That obviously isn’t the rule here.”
Obviously, Alex thought.
Darren was sitting to Nash’s left side and stood up, but Sol waved him back down. “No, no. Stay there, Darren. The free drink girls keep circling you like sharks. If we keep the pretty one nearest the aisle, the wine will flow like water.”
“Yeah, well, after six beers, I gotta break the seal, so you’ll have to fend for yourselves a minute.” Darren stifled a burp against his closed fist and sauntered off toward the bathroom. Alex watched him go, his eyes drifting over the party. Richard, Spencer, Nash, and Sol were at the table. Vaughan was talking up a pretty girl with dreads and very red lipstick at a slot machine. Michael was nowhere to be found, and Cylan was . . .
. . . Reading yet another newspaper? The Crescent Times, this time.
What? Why?
Sol didn’t like it, either. He snatched it from Cylan’s hand. “Stop that. It’s my bachelor party. You’re supposed to be entertaining me.” He rolled it up and made to smack Cylan with it, but Cylan caught it and yanked it from his grip before proceeding to beat Sol around the head and shoulders with it.
“Here. Are you entertained? Is this entertaining? I sure am having fun! This is fantastic!”
Sol winced and promptly ducked behind Alex’s back. “Stop, okay, point made. You win. Cylan’s a winner. Alex, defend my honor.”
Alex looked at the tall, thin black man before him with the rolled-up newspaper and frowned.
“I’m sorry my brother’s a moron,” he said simply.
“So am I. I need a drink.” Cylan tucked the newspaper beneath his arm and stalked off just as the dealer called out yet another blackjack for Nash.
“This is unbelievable,” Spencer said, reaching into his suit coat for a cigarette and sliding it between his lips. “Good on you, DuMont.”
“Oh. Thank you, Mr. Spencer. I’m quite pleased,” Nash said.
“Mr. Spencer’s my father. John or Spencer will do for me.” Spencer clapped Nash on the shoulder. He also tipped his head at Alex and motioned behind him, at the chip window. There were three casino management standing there, watching Nash, and they had security in attendance. It looked like Harrah’s was finally cluing in that they had an inadvertent card shark at one of the tables.
“Nash, why don’t we check out?” Alex said, having to repeat himself three times to be heard over the din of the casino. “We probably ought to get going.”
“Oh! Of course.” Nash smiled and stood, promptly walking away from his pile of chips without a second thought. Sol stared after him with an incredulous grin.
“I do believe he wants his money.” Sol waved at the dealer. “A voucher, please? We’ll donate the winnings to hungry orphans or dolphins in tuna or something. You can be in charge of that, Alex, but don’t be a douche about it.”
Alex accepted the voucher from the dealer and frowned. “How exactly is one a douche about charity, Sol?”
“Oh, I don’t know. You’d probably burn witches on stakes or whatever it is the church does for fun on Sundays. So just be egalitarian about it.”
“Egalitarian.” His eye twitched as he looked at his brother.
I will not pick a fight with Sol.
I will not pick a fight with Sol.
I will not . . .
He took a deep breath and waved at the scattered men they’d been gallivanting with for the better part of three hours. “How about you go round up the rest of your bachelor party and we’ll head out?”
Alex’s before I punch you was silent.
It took ten minutes to find everyone, and ten more minutes to get Nash to fill out a W-9 tax form for the casino and collect his check. They piled into the limousine, crunched together uncomfortably, while Sol dropped the privacy visor to talk to their driver. “Milly’s, on Magazine.”
The chauffeur nodded and the car rolled away from the curb. Immediately, Alex was suspicious.
“I said no strip joints,” he warned.
“Oh, calm your tits, Alex. Honestly, you’re as much of a drag as Cylan. No strippers, I promise. Besides, after the things I’ve done, naked girls are a bit too vanilla for my tastes.”
He grinned, showing off all his pearly whites.
TMI, Sol.
“Okay? So where are we going then?”
“Milly’s, I said.”
It was obvious he had no intention of elaborating, which made Vaughan’s timely interjection all the more appreciated.
“It’s a tattoo place,” Vaughan said. “They do gorgeous ink. Did my right forearm last month.” He flipped over his arm to show off a cornucopia of color. “Best artists in the city.”
“I’m not getting a tattoo,” Alex said.
Sol rolled his eyes. “No one asked you to. Good God. I’m getting one. You all just have the privilege of accompanying me while I do it.”
“What are you getting?” Darren asked.
“A corgi,” Cylan replied dryly. “A giant corgi head on his neck.”
“Ha-ha-ha-ha! No, not a corgi, though Rain would love that. Not on my neck, but—” Sol tittered. “I was thinking something else. Something romantic.”
“Dude, no names. You curse the relationship with names,” Darren said. “Every guy friend I have that’s tattooed a chick’s name on him has broken up with her within the year.”
Richard glanced at Spencer to his left. “Is that what you did with Lucille? You got her name tattooed on you?”
Spencer poured himself some bourbon from the limousine’s minibar. “Something like that.” He glanced up to address the group, but his eyes landed on Alex. “My ex-wife lures children into gingerbread houses for fun.”
Alex managed a smile, though he wasn’t sure what to say to that. Fortunately, Spencer didn’t seem to require an answer, either.
A glance at Alex’s watch showed it was half past ten already. Time flew when you were having fun—or at least, when you thought you were having fun. Everyone else seemed content enough. Spencer and Richard were chatting between themselves. Darren was talking to Vaughan. Sol was taking a selfie, probably so he could send it to his fiancée. Cylan was busy reading his cell phone in the corner, only glancing up when Michael accidentally elbowed him in the side.
Once. Twice. Three times.
Alex’s eyes narrowed.
Michael’s drunk?
Oh, he’s really drunk.
Had Alex realized how bad off Michael was, he’d have intervened sooner, but Alex had sort of forgotten he was there. He wasn’t particularly talkative, and no one was getting a word in edgewise with Sol in delighted chatter mode all night anyway. Michael seemed decent enough, though. He was lanky and tan skinned and had very green eyes, glasses, and a trim beard. When he did bother to speak, it was to Vaughan and Cylan mostly, and in hushed tones, or to order himself a whiskey from a passing waitress.
And then a second whiskey. And apparently a third, fourth, and fifth whiskey when Alex hadn’t been paying attention.
“Should we get him back to the hotel?” Alex asked, waving at the swaying Michael. Sol glanced over, as did a bunch of other people. Michael blinked at them, his eyes huge thanks to the round lenses of his glasses. “I think he’s had enough.”
“Don’t sweat it. I got him,” Vaughan said. “I’ll make sure he doesn’t puke on Milly.”
Sol smirked. “Ahhh, chivalry, thy name is Vaughan.”
“I’ll take him back to the hotel if you want,” Cylan offered.
Sol stretched out his leg to nudge at Cylan’s foot. “Not on my watch, big boy. We’re in it to win it tonight.”
Cylan lifted his head to glance first at Sol and then at Alex. He frowned, adjusted his glasses, and scooted farther away from Michael on the seat, probably to avoid Michael spewing on him if the whiskey decided to make a second, less pleasant appearance.
Alex rubbed his palm over his forehead and shook his head before glancing out the window and watching the brightly lit scenery pass by.
If I click my heels three times, do I get to go home?
No, I’m not that lucky.