Jumping In (3 page)

He added oiling the hinges to his to-do list.

“I’m here for the—” Clint ground his teeth, “—event.”

“Oh!” The valet looked at Clint’s clothes and shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. “Are you sure because you’re not dressed like—”

“I’m sure.” Clint leaned back into the car and retrieved the invitation from the mail pile he’d tossed onto the passenger seat. “See? I have the golden ticket.”

The valet leaned forward, looked at the envelope in Clint’s hand, and then flicked his gaze up to Clint’s face.

“It isn’t open.”

Looking down at his own hand, Clint remembered that he’d opened the cream outer envelope and, once he’d seen the shimmery gold one, assumed he knew what was inside. But given the if-it-can-go-wrong-it-will day he was having, he suddenly worried that if he looked inside the inner envelope, he’d find something else entirely. Like a letter from the bank foreclosing his truck, even though it was a 1990 he’d bought used for cash.

“But don’t worry about it. I recognize the envelope.” The valet leaned forward and, in a quieter voice said, “I heard other people say they want to keep the invitation in good shape too, sir.” He glanced down at Clint’s hand. “It really does sparkle.”

After carefully examining the valet’s expression, Clint decided the guy wasn’t fucking with him.

“Here.” Clint thrust the envelope at him. “Keep it.”

“Oh, no, I couldn’t do that,” the valet said but he looked at the envelope longingly.

Clint arched his eyebrows and shook his head “Consider it a tip.”

“The valet services are free for guests, sir. The happy couple arranged it.”

At that moment, Clint fully expected someone to walk up and admit that he was being recorded for a reality television show aimed at seeing how much insanity you could throw at a man before he lost his damn mind. Sadly, no such miracle occurred, which meant he was, most likely, experiencing real life.

“Well, I like you and I want to tip you extra,” he said as he pushed the envelope against the valet’s chest. “It’ll be our little secret.”

“Thank you so much, sir,” the valet said in an excited whisper. “I won’t tell any of the others.” He quickly darted his gaze around, presumably to make sure nobody would run over and snatch his prize. “And I’ll make sure to park your—” he glanced at Clint’s still-creaking truck, “—uh, vehicle in a great spot.”

As long as he got his ride back at the end of the night, Clint didn’t care where they parked it but he said, “Thanks,” and even managed an almost-smile before he stepped away from the truck and toward the country club entrance.

The restaurant was in the back of the building, with an attached patio overlooking the golf course. For the last two events he’d attended at there, he’d walked down the green carpeted hallway, passed the dated seating area, turned left next to the doors leading to the restrooms and tiny gym, and then reached the restaurant. The route from the entryway to the restaurant hadn’t changed and if Clint looked carefully at the edges of the hallway, he thought he could see the green carpet peeking through, but otherwise, the space felt entirely different.

The walls and ceiling were covered with a gold and silver balloon archway. A gold fabric runway lined the floor, with rope lights along its edges, highlighting the sparkle in the fabric while silently directing guests in the right direction. The hallway started in one spot and ended in another and the doorways were hidden by balloons, so there was in fact only one possible direction people could go, but logic, like the budget for this party, was apparently irrelevant.

Internally patting himself on the back for not slamming his entire body against the balloons just to hear them pop, Clint put one foot in front of the other and hoped that some dirt, drywall material, and unidentified sticky or slimy substance from his house was on his boots and being smeared onto the runway. He dragged his feet a little to help the cause.

Piano music greeted him as he left the balloon hallway and stepped into the restaurant. Though this space was slightly more identifiable, the decorating had still been taken to an extreme.

A silver disco ball hung from the middle of the ceiling and gold fabric streamed from it to the outer walls in every direction, like a giant Liberace flower. The fabric then slid down the walls in flowy rows spaced at exactly the right intervals to avoid the wall sconces lighting the room. The normally nondescript chairs were covered in a similar silky fabric with thick gold ribbon wrapped around the bases in bows. The tablecloths, of course, matched.

As Clint stood at the entry to the room, his jaw hanging open and his eyes unsure what over-the-top item to focus on, a waiter in a tuxedo walked by holding a round tray of champagne flutes.

“I’ll take one,” Clint said hurriedly.

The man stopped, turned to him with a smile, and then frowned as he dropped his gaze to Clint’s clothes.

“Make that two.” He snatched two flutes from the tray before the waiter could make a run for it with the alcohol. Speaking of alcohol. “Where’s the bar?”

He slammed back one drink and then the other.

“There’s a bar in the north corner and another on the patio.” The man paused. “Sir.”

“Thanks.” Clint put the empties on the tray and picked up two more flutes. “I appreciate it.”

Before he finished speaking, the waiter rushed off. Good call, really, because if he’d stayed there, Clint would have skipped the bar and downed the whole tray of champagne. Speaking of which, who drank this shit? He was on his third and it wasn’t tasting any better. That didn’t stop him from downing the fourth, but why couldn’t they have beer? It was gold colored, like the rest of the décor and, if the sparkling glitter covered candles on the table told him anything, it was that Ewan had seen that particular decorating decision through to the last detail.

His ex always had been a detail-oriented guy. Clint had actually admired that quality when it came to how hard Ewan worked and how nicely he kept his home. He hadn’t liked it as much when Ewan fixated on any possible way their relationship could be discovered and then used those reasons as excuses to keep from being seen together. In fact, he’d disliked it enough to break up with the now about-to-be groom.

Just then, he heard Ewan’s familiar voice. Clint stepped to the side so he could see around the crowd that was already filling the room and found Ewan, standing next to a table, his arm around a pretty brunette’s shoulders. He was smiling and chatting with the people at the table and he looked…happy.

Fair enough,
Clint thought.
Everyone deserves to be happy.

If he were being honest, he and Ewan had never been happy together. Content sometimes, but not happy. About the only thing they had in common was a mutual desire to get their rocks off. Thinking of their relationship in those terms, Clint wondered if he’d made such a fuss about hiding the nature of their relationship because he wanted to take Ewan out in public or because he didn’t like being told he couldn’t. The wind of righteous indignation blew out of his sails and he sighed.

Coming to this party was a bad idea, but he was there and Ewan had invited him, so the least he could do was wish him well. Then he’d get his truck from the special parking space, stop by the drive-thru liquor store, and go home. He remembered the state of his house and decided a bar might be a better destination. Speaking of bars, he needed to visit the one there to get a little more liquid fortification before he could bring himself to do the right thing and congratulate Ewan.

With one more sigh, Clint dragged his fingers through his hair and made his way to the north corner, weaving through the crowd. The line was half-a-dozen people long but he eventually reached the front and handed the bartender the empty champagne flutes.

“I’ll have a beer, please,” he said. “An amber or a lager if you have them. Otherwise, anything cold’s great.”

“I’m sorry, we don’t have beer.”

Clint blinked a few times, thinking over the sentence and, after coming up with no alternative meaning said, “Is this the bar?”

It looked like a bar, there were wine bottles and glasses behind the bartender, but a bar meant beer.

“Yes.” The bartender smiled at him.

“Oh.” He furrowed his brow in thought. “Did you run out?”

“With the amount they ordered, we’re never running out of anything.” The bartender laughed. “Besides, the guests have been here less than an hour.” She leaned forward and lowered her voice. “The customers wanted to portray a certain
atmosphere
and they felt beer didn’t fit.”

Huh. That sounded quite a bit like Ewan, actually. Clint had never fit in the atmosphere he wanted to portray either. At least he was in good company. Him and beer.

“Tell me you have something other than that champagne,” he said pleadingly.

She tilted her head toward the bottles of wine and raised her eyebrows in question.

Clint sighed in defeat.

“I’ll tell you what,” the bartender said, chuckling. “You keep this on the down low and I’ll make you something special.” She bent over, shuffling underneath the bar, and then stood, holding a bottle of Scotch. “I found this Dewar’s when I was unpacking.” She picked up a tumbler and started pouring. “Guess it was leftover from the last job.” She set the bottle down and reached for the small refrigerator behind her. “I can add in soda water and you’ll have a decent drink.”

“If you can skip the soda, that’d be perfect.”

She snorted. “That kind of night, huh?”

He shrugged.

The bartender picked up the Dewar’s, poured another finger, and handed it back to Clint.

“I have to say, you don’t look like you belong here.” She paused. “And I mean that as a compliment.”

“I really don’t,” he agreed and took a sip, wincing as the liquor burned down his throat. “And thanks.” He raised the glass to his lips again.

“If I write my number on a napkin, any chance you’ll call me?”

Initially surprised and more than a little flattered, Clint kept drinking as he tried to come up with the right words to let the nice woman down gently. But before he thought of an answer, a too-tight squeeze to his arm stole his attention.

“What are you doing here?” hissed Ewan.

Clint raised his glass to the bartender in a silent thank you slash apology and turned around to answer his ex’s not-so-nicely-asked question.

“You invited me, remember?” Clint said. “I wanted to—”

“You’re supposed to be camping until tomorrow! I didn’t think you’d actually show up.”

Until that moment, Clint had never heard a whispered shout. It was impressive. He slammed back the drink, set the empty glass on the side of the bar, and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth.

“Why did you invite me if I wasn’t supposed to come?”

“To be polite!” Ewan rolled his eyes. “And what are you wearing?”

Initially sneering, Ewan ran his gaze over Clint, but when he looked up again, his expression had turned hungry.

“Come on now, Ewan.” Clint threaded his thumbs through his belt loops and let his hands hang down, bracketing his cock. “You know you like me in my jeans and shitkickers.”

“The invitation said black tie optional or business formal,” Ewan said, his voice shaky. He licked his lips. “And you know we can’t be together in public.”

Was he supposed to apologize for coming to the party after being invited, for wearing the wrong clothes, or for talking to Ewan after Ewan had initiated the conversation?

“What’s black tie optional business formal?” Clint asked, because he wasn’t going to apologize to Ewan for shit and flirting with him felt dirty and pathetic.

“You need to leave,” Ewan hissed. He quickly darted his gaze around, gulped, and leaned forward as he whispered. “You can call me later and we can …”

“Call you for what?” Clint asked. “You have a fiancée.”

“Keep your voice down. She doesn’t have to know. We can still …”

No fucking way, no fucking how. He hadn’t been willing to keep seeing Ewan in secret before he knew the man was dating someone else. Why on earth would he downgrade from being a dirty little secret to being the other man after Ewan got married?

“Never going to happen, Ewan,” he said, shaking his head, which might have been a mistake because the entire room started spinning. Maybe downing four glasses of champagne followed by a tumbler of scotch hadn’t been his brightest move. “Best of luck to you on the marriage.” He turned around and stumbled toward the door, muttering, “Fuck knows you’ll both need it.”

“Are you sure about this, sir?”

Was Clint sure he wanted to get the hell out of Dodge? “Yes.”

The valet fidgeted in front of the truck door. “You haven’t been in there very long and you seem a little, uh—”

Though Clint tried to stand patiently and wait until the valet moved, he found himself suddenly tipping sideways. But only his top half. He managed to catch himself by grabbing onto the side of the truck, which left him pressed against the valet.

“Sorry about that,” Clint slurred.

The valet whimpered.

“Did I hurt you?” Clint pushed himself back to a standing position. He gripped the side of the truck bed to help him stay stabilized.

“No,” the valet croaked. “I’m fine.”

“Great.” Clint looked at him meaningfully. When he didn’t move, Clint added, “So, I need to go.”

Still nothing from the valet.

“And you’re blocking the door.”

“You’re really muscular.”

Clint stared.

“I mean hot,” the valet said in a panic, his neck turning red. “Drunk!” he shouted. “I mean you’re drunk.”

“I’m fine,” Clint assured him as he patted his shoulder. He was aiming for the shoulder, anyway. He made actual contact with his chest.

The red moved up the valet’s face all the way to the tips of his ears and he started hyperventilating.

“You look like you’re going to be sick,” Clint pointed out.

“I… I… I…” The guy stopped, took in a deep breath, held it for a few seconds, and then blew it out. “Please, sir. You’re not in any condition to drive and I wouldn’t want you to get hurt.”