“Have fun today. I was just kidding about not drinking. Ben will come rescue everyone if necessary.”
“I promise to keep everyone semi-appropriate until later. Once we end up out in the desert, all promises of good behavior expire.”
Meghan hurried him through gathering the rest of his stuff and got them moving downstairs. In the kitchen, she noted the ridiculously large double coolers that Carmen and Ria had dutifully crammed with enough snacks for a small army.
“And I promise”—she snickered—“to burn a hole through your credit card at the spa.”
“Fine with me,” he quipped. “Just as long as my accomplices suffer the same. Well, all except Uncle Ed. He has a note signed by God that gets him out of all sorts of sticky situations.”
She laughed. Father Eduardo Valleja-Marquez. Uncle Ed. He’d had a bit of a rough time health wise in recent months, but she was relieved when he showed up at the Villa wearing his usual smile and looking like he’d gained a few pounds.
“He’s determined to find an old baptismal font for the chapel. Did you hear he located one in Phoenix? Out of a crumbling chapel that was once part of a sprawling manor. I guess it’s true that you can find anything on the internet.”
Alex made a wry face. “Located or already bought?” He chuckled. “Jace is heading down there after the wedding to pick it up. By the time Baby girl Cameron is ready to be sprinkled with holy water, we’ll be all set.”
The mounted security system sent out a tone to alert them of an imminent arrival. She swept her beastly husband with a wifely assessment. He had on socks that didn’t match, and simply no words described the ghastly ancient golf shirt with the ripped button placket that he loved. The man took her breath away no matter how clueless he was.
Besides, she wasn’t about trying to change him. How ridiculous would that be? She fell in love with the messy, unshaven, absent-minded nerd with the highfalutin Spanish name. When she wanted him to suit up and play the suave, worldly gentleman, he was all over that shit, and if she preferred he let the family jewels swing free beneath a kilt, he was game for that too. In her mind, it didn’t get much better.
“Did you eat?” he asked out of the blue.
Twining her fingers together, she lowered her hands beneath her belly and gave him a petulant moue. “Yes, Daddy.”
“When?” he countered. “We’ve been together since daybreak, and I don’t remember you eating after whatever the hell that bullshit was at breakfast.”
She stomped her foot and put her hands on her hips. “Zip it, Major. I ate the damn frittata. Every disgusting bite. Leave me alone.”
“So, what you’re saying is, no, you haven’t eaten since then?”
Oh, poop. She had walked into that one. “What? No. Shut up.”
The arched brow and snicker made her lady parts tingle. He reached into a pocket and withdrew his phone. Tapping and swiping, he finally stopped and held the phone up so she could see.
“Aloud,” he demanded.
She crossed her arms and stuck her tongue out. Then she leaned closer and squinted even though she knew every word of the chart she was peering at.
Sighing with dramatic flair, she read the words in a flat, dry tone. “Double M demerits. To date, one hundred and seventy-three.”
Frowning, he tsked and shook his head. “Even at one point per infraction, you’re running up quite a tally.”
He tapped and swiped then sniggered gleefully. “One seventy-four. When you reach one seventy-five,” he said with a gleeful twinkle in his eye, “maybe you should start working off some of these checkmarks.”
Messing with him about their sexy ongoing scoreboard game was as much a cherished ritual as the yours and mine exchange were.
“Absolutely not.” She pouted with a deliberately exaggerated bump rub. “I don’t want your children to know what an old pervert you are. There’ll be no Stifler’s mom shenanigans while I’m pregnant.”
“Oh!” He laughed. “No, whatever the hell that means, but it’s okay to tie you up and indulge in some flogging fun?”
“Shut up. It relaxes me,” she snapped.
He held up the phone again. “That certainly didn’t take long. One hundred and seventy-five naughty points to the redheaded bombshell with more insolence than sense.”
“There’s a method to my madness,” she taunted with a flirty wink.
Her husband wore a lecherous grin and rather smugly inspected her from head to toe. “Will this be one of those whatever I want scenarios? Because if I recall, the last one worked out pretty well. Kidnapped. Taken into the desert and fucked without mercy.”
Mmm. What a delicious memory.
“I have something much sexier in mind. Now hush with the dirty mouth. You’re stag mates are here.”
“Kiss me.”
So she did. Thoroughly. They were in a desperate clench with someone’s tongue in a throat and a symphony of moans when an entire troop of brawny men came storming through the back door.
“Wolf Pup,” Calder’s voice boomed. “Front and center.”
They had barely separated when she felt almost a dozen pairs of eyes staring at her.
“Do you two ever stop?” Parker sniggered. “You know she’s already pregnant, right?”
Alex flipped him off to everyone’s grinning delight.
Cristián came to her side and gave Meghan a hug. “You’re beautiful as always, my dear.”
She laughed at them and then shooed them to the door. “Get out of my house, you mangy bunch. Go shoot your drones or chase monkeys with paintball guns—whatever it is that you do.”
Pointing at her brother, she issued a stern warning. “No hotdog antics, you! Helmets on and for heaven’s sake, be careful.”
The assembled group of men laughed, waved, and climbed into the big deluxe limo van. Part of her was surprised it wasn’t a tricked-out Hummer. Behind the van was an actual traveling bar resembling an old-fashioned ice-cream truck.
She waved them off as they drove away.
Once left alone for five seconds, she realized Alex was right to harp on her. She should eat something instead of letting all her energy drain away.
“Don’t tell him I said this, kids, but Daddy is generally right.”
Rubbing her belly, she headed to the refrigerator and went on the hunt for something to excite her taste buds.
The drinking started right after a quick lunch break while the drone hunt was in full swing. But the insanely stupid drinking started the second they fell out of the limo van when they reached their stag party destination out in the desert at Vorticé Amore.
Finn knew it was a mistake, but boys will be boys. For a brief second, he considered not imbibing, but he was having too much fun.
When he’d first heard about the drone hunt party, he shrugged it off, figuring it was just another amusing quirk of the Justice gang. However, the professional and very savvy company running the outdoor excursions and wacky hunt parties opened his eyes—big time.
Guys with money to burn found quite inventive ways to part with their cash. Since a saloonkeeper essentially did the same, he paid particular attention to the business side of the outing, especially the quality of equipment and gear.
Was it fun tearing around the woods, slamming full speed into streams and acting like a bunch of yahoos driving sophisticated ATVs?
Fuck, yeah.
And because their party of rabble-rousers was predominantly ex-military, they were challenged by the best drone operators the company had. Instead of nets or paintball guns, they were armed with some highly advanced Nerf ball tube launchers that had amazing accuracy.
Their helmets were outfitted with so much Tony Stark bullshit that the only thing he wasn’t shocked by was the headset and microphone.
Eduard Marquez crapped out after the hunt. There was only so much bachelor party crap he could handle. When everyone else returned to the Villa property and made a spectacle while getting out of the huge luxury van, he was r
elieved to find one of his kitchen guys from Pete’s tending the traveling smoking grill and catering truck. Meghan had made him promise to go all out for Calder’s boy’s night. He had to laugh, thinking about the bill she was gonna get.
Finn checked everything, made sure there was nothing critical to do, and then sent his guy on his way while the rowdy crew abused the porta potty and made the traveling bartender’s life a living hell.
This was his first all-male Justice bacchanal, and he was highly amused by how hard these guys threw down when it was time to party. It almost made it possible to overlook that he pretty much thought Calder was a prick in a league of his own while that evil fucker Parker came in a close second.
Parker. Hmph. He looked at the guy through narrowed eyes. It was bad enough that Brody Jensen so deftly got one over on Finn with the damn dog maneuver. In public, no less. But Parker posting half a dozen videos and a bunch of photoshopped pictures complete with dialogue balloons was too damn much.
He supposed the invitation to be part of the group was because he was Alex’s brother-in-law. I mean, why the hell else would they invite him along? It wasn’t a secret that he and Calder shared a mutual dislike.
The group’s dynamic was standard Justice. Alex was in charge whether he wanted to be or not. Cam and Drae tag teamed the supplying and then the stirring of the shit. Parker spent most of the time dogging St. John’s arrogant ass. Hadn’t taken Finn long to figure out those two were embroiled in a duel to the death over which of them was Alex’s one true love.
The two he found most fascinating, though, were Cristián Marquez and Matt Sullivan. They were hilarious to watch and reminded him so much of the troublemaking repartee his dad had with the guys at his station house. You’d think a couple of aging baby boomers would show a little decorum but not those two. And Alex’s dad, in particular, found the Parker–Draegyn rivalry particularly entertaining.
A loud belch sounded over his shoulder. He turned his head in time to see Alex bearing down on him with a crooked grin on his face.
“I’d give you a million dollars if you’d teach your sister how to cook like that. I swear to god, Finn. Your ribs are so good they should be illegal.”
Alex pounded him on the back and nearly sent Finn face first into a pile of potato salad. His brother-in-law sat down next to him. Facing the other way, he leaned against the table, stretched his legs out, and smacked his gut.
“Sorry, Zorro. No can do. Meggie’s hopeless in the kitchen. I’ve tried. So has Ma.” Finn laughed and twirled his fingers next to his head. “It’s like she has a disconnect. Carmen told me she pretended the stove needed a highly technical recalibration in order to keep my kitchen-challenged sister from destroying the whole place with an attempt to make some crazy thing she saw on TV.”
Alex slapped his thigh and laughed like hell. “Do you think she knew Carmen was pulling her leg?”
Finn wheezed with laughter. “No. Of course not. Meggie’s mind doesn’t work that way. She’s always the first one to be shocked and horrified at pranks and practical jokes.”
“Man, I love that girl.” Alex smiled at him with a sloppy half shrug. “She takes on too much, though.”
“It’s her way,” he told him. “My sister thinks she can fix everything with a cup of tea, some yoga, a book of inspirational quotes, and a hug. Isn’t that in essence the mission statement of the family center?”
The conversation might have veered into serious territory if Calder hadn’t yelled at them to get their lazy asses to the booze wagon. It was time to play Duck, Dick, Goose.
“Do I even wanna know what the fuck Duck, Dick, Goose is?”
This time, when Alex slapped his back, he was ready for the thump. “It’s a drinking game me and Unc and Cam and Drae made up a long time ago.”
“Oh, goody,” he murmured.
Seven upside-down wood crates circled the fire pit. Matt and Cris were strategizing the seating as Calder handed out shots. A large plastic bowl, the kind you’d use for punch, sat on the ground next to a bottle of Macallan and a large shot glass.
“The rules are simple. We start with a shot.”
Calder held his glass up and made a toast. “To the best fucking posse an old guy getting married for the first time could possibly have. Thanks, guys.”
They each downed the whiskey and ditched the shot glass.
“Okay. So grab a crate and plant your ass. Since this is my party, I go first. The idea is to walk behind the circle of crates. Duck, Dick, Duck, Dick. When the whim hits you, tap your victim on the head, say goose, and start running. He chases. If he catches you before you get around the circle and take his seat, then you’re out. If you get back to his seat, then you’re safe, and the round continues.”
“The person who’s out has a chance to get back in but first, a shot.” He pointed at the Macallan. “And then a question from the bowl. If you answer, then it’s your turn to tap heads. If you refuse, the penalty is another shot. And then tap.”
“Jesus,” Finn muttered.
Calder heard him and smirked. “What’s a matter, Beantown? Afraid of a little whiskey?”
“Fuck off, you old fart,” he answered with some easily understood gestures.
Cris and Matt found the exchange especially funny.
It went downhill on a drunken tear pretty damn quickly after that. Finn wasn’t sure which was worse—the shot-drinking challenge or the outrageous questions that begged not to be answered.
When Cam got stuck between the shot of Macallan sure to put him on his ass or the question, he had a comical brain fart that spread like wildfire through the inebriated group. Wobbling slightly, he unfolded the paper, took a minute to look at the question, and then frowned with a lopsided smirk.
“Dunnowhatthisfugginmeans,” he slurred while waving the paper.
“Read it,” Matt bellowed. “We’ll help you, son.”
Finn tried to focus on Cris and Matt, but everything was a bit fuzzy around the edges, and he couldn’t feel his toes. He squinted and frowned as if that’d help. The two older gentlemen were certainly having a good time, and it occurred to him in an alcohol flash that they were playing them quite handily.
“Okay,” Cam barked. He wobbled again and held the paper up. “Um, how … many … tugs.”
Convinced he’d read the words correctly, he nodded and looked at the men. “Whasthamean?”
Alex chuckled and rubbed his fingers through the hair on his jaw. “Ser-oh-see?”
Finn tilted to the side like the leaning Tower of Pisa as laughter wracked his body. “You’re drunk,” he squawked with a less than accurate finger point.
His brother-in-law dismissed him with a wave. “Pfft. Irish bastard.”
“Cut it, you two,” Cam scolded.
Parker took the sharp stone he was writing in the dirt with and tossed it aside. “Tugs, you doofus. How many tugs to get off?”
Drae exploded with laughter. So did Calder.
“Yeah,” Cam muttered. “Not that.”
“Not that, what?” Alex asked.
“Not answering that. Where’s the whiskey?”
Everyone looked down at the ground and searched for the bottle. In the brief silence, for some incredibly insane and very drunken reason, Finn blurted out something that he’d never, ever live down.
“Get you some Stroke 29. Makes counting funner.”
“Funner?” Calder’s eyebrow slowly edged up. “What’s funner?”
“Pretty sure that’s not a word.” Drae crossed his arms and went to lean back only to realize a second too late that he was sitting on a crate. When the normally self-righteous dick tumbled backward off his seat, Parker lost it with laughter.
Shit was getting out of control, but Finn didn’t care. He was having a ball.
Cristián Marquez held up his phone. “Got it. Stroke 29. It’s a premium masturbation cream.”
“Say what?” Everyone looked at Calder when he asked the question at the top of his lungs.
“Yeah,” Matt drawled. “Found it on Amazon. Gets four stars.”
All of a sudden, Alex turned on him. Finn blinked and tried to stifle a laugh when the guy barked, “What the fuck’s the matter with you? Don’t ever tell those two shit like that!”
He was clueless for a good minute, and then he saw Matt and Cris fist bumping and snickering. Aw, shit. He’d just given them ammunition for life.
Finn figured the game was effectively over. They were all shitfaced. All except the baby-booming troublemakers. Everyone was wandering aimlessly—using the loo—lighting cigars—shooting the shit. It was the beginning of the end for a great day and a memorable night.
And then Calder fucking Dane opened his stupid, drunken mouth, and all hell broke loose.
Finn was making a halfhearted attempt to police the catering truck when the man of the hour sauntered over and offered him a cigar. Everything was fine for a minute, and then, for whatever reason, the motherfucker drawled, “Stroke 29, huh? I thought you had a girlfriend.”
It wasn’t a rude comment. Hell, it was barely a crack. Calder was just being his usual snarky fuckface, but Finn didn’t react kindly to what he perceived was a slur on his so-called girlfriend, Remy.
Without thinking, he punched Calder once. It wasn’t even really hard, but the alcohol didn’t help, and the attack sent him to the ground.
Alex grabbed him from behind a second later. Parker helped Calder up and glared at Finn the whole time. Cris and Matt looked oddly pleased while Cam and Drae just looked shell-shocked.
To his surprise, Calder shut down the testosterone and whiskey-fueled brawl about to break out. With his hands in the air, he chuckled. “My fault, men. My fault.”
Alex glared at him and didn’t seem convinced until Calder shook his hand and smacked Finn on the shoulder. “Sorry. Wasn’t implying anything. I’d never.” He shrugged and let his apology end the confrontation.
Finn let it go but inwardly cringed as he imagined Meggie’s reaction. ‘Do you have to hit everyone? Everyone?’
Not long after, he felt a vibration in his pocket and took out his phone. It was Ben calling. He’d be taking care of the desert carnage they created—and considering how alcohol-incapable they all were, it was a good thing.
Everlasting (Family Justice Book 6) Page 7