All of us laugh, except for Jack. I don’t think he’s seen The Princess Bride. It’s Kate’s favorite movie, so I’ve sat through it a few times. Definitely a chick flick-although that Inigo Montoya guy was pretty badass.
“And wuv, tru wuv, will fowow you foweva . . .” Steven grins and clears his throat. “But seriously, being the most married guy here-it’s my job to warn you. Women change after marriage. It’s not all candlelight dinners and lingerie, no matter what Vogue says. And the sex changes too. Sometimes it’s routine, sometimes it’s nonexistent . . . and sometimes it’s freakier than you would have ever thought possible.”
I cover my ears. Because usually Steven keeps his and my sister’s bedroom activities to himself. And I absolutely fucking prefer it that way.
“And when you get married, the most important thing isn’t being in love. It’s making sure you marry your best friend. A partner-the person you want to share the good times, the shitty times, and everything in between with. You’ve found that partner in Kate. You’re my best friend, Drew-and I love you, man. But now? I get to be proud of you too. And I am-damn proud. Congratulations.”
I raise my glass back at Steven. “Thanks, man. It means a lot.” And it does.
Finally, Matthew takes center stage. “I am probably more grateful than anybody that Drew and Kate got together. Because of Kate, I met my angelic wife, Dee. And although sometimes she’s a pain in the ass, more than anything . . . she completes me.” Matthew glances down at his glass a moment, spinning the liquid around, before looking back up. “I’ve known Drew my whole life. We were like . . . best friends before we were born. So I’ve seen him have a lot of successes. I’ve been there when he scored the best grades, landed the biggest clients, nailed the hottest girls. And through all those times, Drew looked . . . satisfied, but unsurprised. Like all those accomplishments were just . . . expected. He worked hard for them-he always deserved them-and he knew it.”
Matthew’s eyes meet mine and he speaks to me directly. “But when you look at Kate? You look . . . grateful. Thankful. Like even though you know you’re the shit, you still can’t quite believe that you get to be the lucky bastard who has her. And . . . it’s a really good look for you, man.” Matthew raises his glass. “I’m not gonna wish you happiness, ’cause you’ve already got that. So I’ll just say, may the road rise to meet you. May the wind be always at your back. May the sun shine warm upon your face. May you live as long as you want, and never want as long as you live. May there be a generation of children on the children of your children. May you live to be a hundred years, with one extra year to repent. And may the saddest day of your and Kate’s future be no worse than the happiest day of your past.”
By the time Matthew finishes his speech, I’m choked the fuck up. I down the rest of my drink to hide it. Then I stand up and hug him. A drunk, backslapping, lift-his-feet-off-the-floor kind of hug.
Good times . . .
Images
After the brandy and the cigars are exhausted, we head outside. Matthew wants a cigarette; apparently the cigars didn’t increase our chances of developing lung cancer enough for his liking. We hang on the corner while he lights up. Across the street is a sleek, trendy-looking bar. Loud, raucous music seeps out through the frosted, neon-framed windows, and its parking lot is filled to capacity with high-end, souped-up sports cars. Next to the bar’s door, on a sidewalk bench, sits a short-haired platinum blonde with a killer body. A black tank top, denim skirt, and ankle-length, black boots show it off well. She’s hot and she’s alone. It’s a prime opportunity for Dipshit to test out the skills I’m benevolently trying to teach him. Maybe wiggle his way under her skirt. Or possibly get Maced.
Either scenario would be a win-win in my book.
“Hey, Warren,” I call. “Check it out. Lonely girl, at night, on the Vegas streets-a regular damsel in distress. Maybe you should go ask her if she needs a hand, strike up a conversation?”
Jack agrees. “The chivalry card works every time.”
“Behaving like a gentleman is actually very important to me,” I tell him.
“Yeah-you’re a regular white knight, dude.” Jack snorts.
With liquid courage flowing through his system, Warren struts across the street. He stops a few feet away from her, which is smart. Don’t want to make her nervous by invading her personal space. He starts with the direct approach. “You’re beautiful.”
She glances up quickly, then giggles and looks away just as fast. “Thank you.”
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.
Images
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.
New Book: Back Home to Marry Off Myself
Loredana’s father left the family for his mistress, leaving them to fend for themselves abroad. When life was at its toughest, her father showed up with “good news” after 8 years of absence: To marry off Loredana to a paralyzed son of the wealthy Mendelsohn family.