Tied (19 page)

Warren inches closer. “So . . . you need a ride? We’re not serial killers or anything. Just a few guys, hanging out. And we have a limo. You could hang with us or I could give you a lift, wherever you wanted to go.”

Her head turns toward the bar, just a bit nervously. “I’m supposed to wait here for my boyfriend.”

Warren sits beside her on the bench. “I don’t know what kind of man leaves a gorgeous woman like you sitting out on the street. If you were my girl, I’d never do that.”

Good boy
. I feel that I should throw him a treat or pat his head.

And then . . .

“What the fuck did you just say?”

That little tidbit was growled by a beefy, blond-haired guy who just walked out from the side of the bar, with four other equally large men behind him. What they lack in height, they make up for in solid girth—the type my mother would have called “big boned.” They’re probably early to mid-twenties; one has a University of Nevada hat on, another wears a sweatshirt with Greek lettering.

Frat boys.

Although I was one of them once, I never realized how fucking obnoxious and annoying this particular breed can be, until after I graduated. They epitomize the phrase
young, dumb, and full of cum
. Because they travel in groups, they have that mob mentality—emboldened, loud, and constantly trying to impress each other how far up the dick-o-meter their actions are.

And Billy Warren is in their crosshairs. Not good.

Warren begins to respond, “I said—”

I jog over, with Jack, Matthew, and Steven hot on my heels, to make sure Warren doesn’t get killed. Kate would not be pleased.

Blond Ape #1 shoves Warren’s chest. The really strange thing is, it genuinely pisses me off. “You talkin’ to my girlfriend, loser?” He grabs the girl by the arm. “I told you to wait, bitch—I didn’t say you could talk.”

I step in front of Billy. “Hey, fellas—I think there’s been a little misunderstanding.”

“I don’t think this is any of your business.”

I confess, “You have no idea how much I wish that were true. Unfortunately, it’s not. My friend thought the girl needed help. He was looking out for her—that’s all. No harm, no foul.”

“Your boyfriend made a major fucking foul, hitting on my girl. I’m gonna take it out on his ass.” Then he spits at my feet.

Classy.

I no longer feel like resolving this diplomatically. “Well, if you’re gonna be an asshole about it—”

The girl tries to intervene. She puts a hand on the guy’s chest while the other rubs his arm, trying to soothe the savage beast. “He didn’t do anything. Just let it go, Blair.”

I can’t help but chuckle. “
Blair?
Your name is Blair? Christ,
no wonder you’re so angry. You have my sincerest sympathy.” Keeping my eyes on the group of numb-nuts, I motion to Matthew. “You see what happens when parents are careless with the naming? This is your future, man.”

In case you can’t tell—no, I’m not intimidated by the loudmouth frat boy. Because he, like most bullies, is a pussy. Real tough guys? Truly dangerous men? They’re on the quiet side. They don’t need to put on a show or announce all the pain they’re going to inflict on you. They just do it, before you ever have the chance to be afraid. Or see it coming.

Blair steps toward me, but Warren pops in between us—hands raised in submission.

“Hold up. Just wait—this is between you and me, fucker. Keep my friends out of it.”

I look at Warren as if he’s lost his mind. ’Cause I’m fairly certain that’s the case. “Are you nuts?”

He looks back over his shoulder at me. “Katie would never forgive me if you missed the wedding because you were in the hospital. And I grew up with Dee-Dee—if there’s one thing I know how to do, it’s take a beating.”

Right then and there, my opinion of Warren is forever altered. He’s still an idiot—as he just demonstrated. And because of his history with Kate, I’ll never like him. But throwing himself on his sword like this? Trying to protect me and the guys? It takes balls—brass ones. He just earned my respect.

Matthew, Steven, and Jack are lined up behind me, tense and ready. I take a breath and ask, “Matthew—you cool with this plan?”

He answers, “Absolutely.”

“How about you, Jack, you up for it?”

He chuckles darkly. “I’m always up for it, man.”

“Steven?”

“Why the hell not? Screw it.”

Those are the only answers I need. I step around Warren, closer to Blair. “Okay—you can kick the shit out of him, and the rest of us will just sit by and watch.”

Confused shock registers on his face. “Seriously?”

I smile. “No, moron—I’m lying to you.” By the time my words register in his addled brain, my fist is already flying. Right at the fucker’s nose, busting it wide-open.

Then all hell breaks loose.

Typically, I believe a sucker punch is a pansy move. Cowardly. But this is a street fight. A cage match. There are no rules. Fingers in the eye sockets, kicks to the nads—it’s all fair game. A bloodied Blair tackles me to the ground, while the melee rages around us.

I take a blow to the shoulder and the ribs, trying to protect my face. Warren had a valid point about the wedding thing. If my face is stitched up like Frankenstein’s, it’ll ruin the pictures.

I land a left hook to the dickhead’s jaw, close enough to the injured nose to make him howl. It goes on like this for about five minutes, though it feels much longer.

Then the girl that started it all says the magic words: “Cops! Cops!”

Every one of us responds like a high schooler at a beer bash.

We run. We break apart and scatter. The five of us make it back to the confines of the limo in record time, and the driver
takes off. The flashing lights of Las Vegas’s finest don’t follow us. Thank God.

You may not understand it, but believe me when I tell you this was an awesome development to our evening. No matter how old he is, every guy thinks it’s cool to drink, gamble, and then beat the shit out of somebody with his closest friends. We pass around a bottle of vodka and show off our battle wounds, bragging about how great we were.

“Did you see that guy’s teeth explode? Bam!”

“I had that big son of a bitch on the ropes. He was ready to cry for his ugly mama.”

“Hope that loser likes liquid meals, ’cause that’s all he’s gonna be able to have for a long time.”

I take a sip of Grey Goose, then pour it on my bleeding knuckles.

Warren shakes his head and laments, “My luck with girls is crap.”

No one disagrees. But what I’ve come to accept is this: it’s not his fault.

Really.

Warren is simply more pussy than dick. It’s how he was raised—surrounded by bush. It’s like . . . one of those weird news stories about a baby tiger that’s adopted by a family of pigs. When it’s older, it doesn’t show its claws or pounce or growl.

It fucking oinks.

Unlike the rest of us, who had confident, strong men in our lives, Warren’s only male exposure was whatever specimens Amelia brought home. Obviously, there were no freaking winners in that bunch.

After a minute, he asks, “I really thought you were gonna let them kick my ass. What changed?”

Matthew takes a drink from the bottle. “Fuck that. No man gets left behind.”

I nod. “Exactly. You know the first rule of wolf packs?”

“What?”

“We take care of our own.”

I
think we should step back and take note of just how much alcohol the boys and I have consumed so far. There were the shots and beers at the pool, the Scotches in the room and at the casino, the wine with dinner, the brandy afterward, and now the vodka that we’re passing around like winos huddled near a burning garbage can.

I’m no lightweight—but that’s a lot of fucking booze. We’re out-and-out walking saloons, for God’s sake. Even though it’s been spread out over hours, eventually that shit catches up to you. One minute you’ve got it all under control, then you take that last shot. The scales get tipped, and you find yourself on the floor—unable to walk or form a coherent sentence without drooling.

Remember this fact.

I have a feeling it’s going to play a big part in whatever lies ahead.

Looking out the window at the dark desert landscape, I ask, “Where are we going again?”

Matthew and Jack grin at each other. Jack says, “We’re going to heaven, brother. No lie—this place is like an oasis. Top-of-the-line women who know how to take care of a man. Nothing is off-limits—T and A will be everywhere.” He kisses his fingers. “Like manna from heaven.”

I just shrug, unimpressed. But apparently Warren’s impatient. “Driver dude? What’s the holdup? I can get out and walk faster than this.”

The driver glances back at us in the rearview mirror. “Sorry, fellas. There’s a Lincoln Town Car in front of me doin’ twenty below the speed limit. She won’t let me pass her.”

I sit up and glance out the front window. Yep—it’s a grayhair. A whole clown car full of grayhairs, actually. You remember my feelings about senior-citizen drivers? In case you don’t, I’ll just say this: menace to society.

Steven holds the bottle of vodka and takes a swig. I don’t know if he’s talking to us or himself, but out of nowhere he says, “I’m going to be dead soon.”

All eyes in the limo turn to him. Matthew asks, “What the hell are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about my life is half over. And there’s so much I haven’t done. I’m not going to hold back anymore—I’m going carpe diem on this bitch from here on out.”

I scoff. “You’re just trashed. Don’t go getting depressed on us
now. If you start crying, I’m throwing you out of the car while it’s still moving.”

Steven doesn’t acknowledge my warning. He leans toward the partition separating us from the driver and slurs, “I’ll give you a hundred bucks if you can get up alongside ’em.”

With no oncoming traffic, the driver crosses the double line and pulls even with the Lincoln.

Steven’s words slush together as he gets to his feet. “Crossing this one off the bucket list.” Then he unbuckles his belt and grabs the waist of his pants—yanking the suckers down to his ankles—tighty whities and all.

Every guy in the car holds up his hands to try to block the spectacle. We groan and complain. “My eyes! They burn!”

“Put the boa constrictor back in his cage, man.”

“This is not the ass I planned on seeing tonight.”

Our protests fall on deaf ears. Steven is a man on a mission. Wordlessly, he squats and shoves his lily-white ass out the window—mooning the gaggle of grannies in the car next to us.

I bet you thought this kind of stuff only happened in movies.

He grins while his ass blows in the wind for a good ninety seconds, ensuring optimal viewage. Then he pulls his slacks up, turns around, and leans out the window, laughing. “Enjoying the full moon, ladies?”

Wow
. Steven usually isn’t the type to visually assault the elderly.

Without warning, his crazy cackling is cut off. He’s silent for a beat, then I hear him choke out a single strangled word.

“Grandma?”

Then he’s diving back into the limo, his face grayish, dazed,
and totally sober. He stares at the floor. “No way that just happened.”

Matthew and I look at each other hopefully, then we scramble to the window. Sure enough, in the driver’s seat of that big old Town Car is none other than Loretta P. Reinhart. Mom to George; Grandma to Steven.

What are the fucking odds, huh?

Loretta was always a cranky old bitch. No sense of humor. Even when I was a kid she hated me. Thought I was a bad influence on her precious grandchild.

Don’t know where she got that idea from.

She moved out to Arizona years ago. Like a lot of women her age, she still enjoys a good tug on the slot machine—hence her frequent trips to Sin City. Apparently this is one such trip.

Matthew and I wave and smile and in fourth-grader-like, singsong harmony call out, “Hi, Mrs. Reinhart.”

She shakes one wrinkled fist in our direction. Then her poofy-haired companion in the backseat flips us the bird. I’m pretty sure it’s the funniest goddamn thing I’ve ever seen.

The two of us collapse back into our seats, laughing hysterically.