by Max Monroe
Is this guy going to be a fucking problem?
“Have a good night, Trixie,” I repeated out loud disbelievingly. “She’s gearing up to take off her clothes in front of hordes of other men, and you’re telling her to have a good night?”
I closed my eyes tightly and leaned my forehead into the bathroom stall door of Boucherie on Park Avenue, bringing the palms of my hands up to the surface on either side to better support me as I shame-spiraled.
I was counting on Cat and Quinn’s exquisite upscale taste in rehearsal dinner venue to protect me against all manner of disease one could normally find on the surface of a bathroom stall door, but alas, I doubted the fanciness of the restaurant could do anything to save me from myself.
It’d been a week since I’d gotten arrested defending a stripper’s honor, and I still couldn’t get her out of my head. I’d tried common sense, overexertion during my workouts, aversion therapy in the form of loads and loads of “guy time,” and expulsion via, ahem, fantasy masturbation, and still, I couldn’t rid my system of the lingering need to see her again. “You really are an idiot,” I muttered to myself.
With a groan and a deep breath, I wound down from the scolding hour, slid the lock latch loose from its hold, opened the door, and startled like a little fucking girl at the realization that I wasn’t alone.
“Fuck,” I murmured softly, trying to downplay the absolutely unavoidable action of clutching my chest.
Denver, Quinn Bailey’s little brother, smiled big and leaned into the wall directly across from me without embarrassment.
Which was fine, really. I was red in the face enough for the both of us.
“Uh, hey,” I finally managed as I strode to the sink and set about washing the smell of desperation and rock bottom from my hands.
Denver turned toward me, crossed his arms over his chest, and basked in his deepening smile.
“God, I love all things hetero dating.”
I shook my head and bit my lip before giving in to the moment. Obviously, God hadn’t spared me this time.
“So…” I chuckled. “I guess you heard that, huh?”
“Yes,” he confirmed bluntly. “But I’m gay, and I’ve been waiting my whole life to hear the inner workings of a real-life Julia Roberts, Richard Gere, hooker and the hottie situation. Honestly, you’ve made my night.”
I laughed. “Well, I’m glad someone is getting something out of it. I never thought I’d sink to calling a woman at work from the bathroom of my friend’s rehearsal dinner. Let alone having that woman be a stripper.”
“Really?” He winked. “I’ve done it dozens of times.”
“Liar,” I said through a soft chuckle.
“A dozen times. Zero times. Tomato. Tomahto.” Denver shrugged one meaty shoulder. “All that matters is we’ve all been there in some form or another. Maybe not with a stripper, but surely my experience with secretly dating a cheerleader named Rex comes pretty damn close.”
I chuckled again as I finished drying my hands, tossed the towel, and reached out to squeeze his shoulder. “Thanks. You’re good at cheering a guy up.”
“That’s my job. Been doing it for Quinn for years. It’s only since he finally got together with Kitty Cat that he hasn’t needed my services.” I smiled as the warmth of commonality settled into my chest. Other people had gone through this, were going through this, and would be going through this for years to come. As awkward as I felt in the hellish depths of early attraction, I was wandering with a vast crowd of people. Quinn’s brother evidently had a gift for reminding people of that.
“And, really, I’ve been making phone calls from bathroom stalls for years. I don’t know what you’ve heard, but closeted conversations don’t always happen from an actual closet.”
Buried under a layer of humor, realization of the root of his knowledge poked piercingly at my skin.
I’d never really considered the twisted, isolating walk of a homosexual man before. To be honest, I’d never really considered what it was like to be anyone but me.
I think it’s human nature to feel alone in your struggles and surrounded during victories, and I’d been fortunate enough to spend the majority of my life luxuriating in the cocoon of victory.
Going forward, I’d make an effort to open my view to the periphery.
“Thanks, Den.” I’d come into this bathroom feeling alone, left the stall feeling vulnerable, but I was heading back to the rehearsal dinner feeling renewed. “You’re kind of brilliant,” I admitted.
He winked again. “I know, right?”
As I left the bathroom and Denver behind, I stepped away from something else too—the urge to feel self-conscious.
From here on out, I was going to feel what I felt and let the rest come naturally. I had plenty on my plate to fill my schedule and mind, and for the rest of the time, I’d let my heart do the talking.
The knot on my tie was half tied when Lucky, my little fucking meatball of an English Bulldog, started barking crossly and making noise downstairs.
I glanced toward the door of my bedroom quickly, waited for the barking to abate, and then went back to work on following the steps I’d printed off the internet.
Two days in a row of wearing a self-imposed noose around my neck and I was already over it. I didn’t go to that length often, and the gaps in between were always long enough to forget what I was doing—hence the internet directions.
But today was Quinn’s big day—the wedding of the century, according to him—and certain sacrifices had to be made.
Had to.
No, really. He’d typed up a memo and handed it out to the whole team two weeks ago, explicitly stating that a tie was required, and after the headache I’d given him at his bachelor party last week, I wasn’t about to be the one who didn’t follow orders.
Lucky’s bark renewed and turned rabid, and I froze. Dialing my hearing up to immortal, I strained to hear the object of his wrath.
I was already running behind getting ready for Quinn’s wedding thanks to the extra workout I’d thrown in today in the interest of being the kind of player my boss respected, so stopping the process to check on my dog seemed ridiculous.
Being on time was also at the nucleus of the memo.
However, past experience told me it was in the best interest of everyone to check on Lucky when he got going, whether it made me late or not.
The one and only time I’d left him to his own devices, convinced whatever had him in a snit could wait, I’d gone downstairs to find my couch and love seat in shambles, his eyes manic, and a bird fluttering erratically in the corner of the room as it tried to beat a hole through my wall to get back outside.
Ten grand in property damage taught me not to repeat that mistake again.
Son of a bitch.
Abandoning the knot and skidding out into the hardwood-lined hallway in my socks, underwear, and untucked shirt, I booked to the end of the hall and bounded down the stairs two at a time.
I jumped over the gate I put up to keep him out of the living room—and off the new sofas I’d bought to replace the old ones—and bounced in the kitchen just in time to see him knock over the stool at the end of the island and make my cell phone go flying.
I looked on in horror as it sailed, hearing the woofing growl of Lucky as he galloped in the same direction, and moved entirely too late to stop the worst from happening.
With the surprising agility of a pro player, my chunky, out-of-shape bulldog leaped and chomped, biting down with premier precision as the iPhone landed directly in his mouth.
“Lucky, no!” I shouted, charging belatedly to my phone’s defense.
He, of course, became immediately territorial, tugging at the electronic device with the strength and will of a dog two times his size until the slobbery screen slipped painfully from my fingertips.
“Jesus Christ, buddy,” I shouted. “This thing cost almost a thousand dollars!”
Why on God’s green earth do I have to be a technology
snob? Why couldn’t I have just settled for last year’s model?
I went down on a knee and swiped for the phone again, using the floor as leverage as I tugged with renewed strength.
Lucky growled and sat back on his haunches, and I nearly wept as one of his sharpest teeth finally put too much pressure on the glass screen and cracked it. The sound of the shatter was enough to make Lucky release his hold, but the damage was more than already done.
Slobber-soaked and permanently disfigured, my brand-new iPhone cried out in pain as I picked it up from the tile floor and rushed it to the towel by the sink to attempt triage.
“Dammit! No!” I scrubbed at the screen and wiped at the slobber, but the shatter cracked wide and large like a spider web of expensive proportions. “Lucky! What the hell is the matter with you? Why?” I cried. “Why the phone?”
Just then, as if to taunt me, the screen lit up with a single message. A message I’d received five minutes earlier, which had no doubt set off the annoying lilt of my chirping text alert tone, driving Lucky into a fit of bird flashbacks.
Fucking avian nightmares!
And boy oh boy, was this message important. The kind of thing that saved lives, that changed nations, that made the difference in international relations.
A single, middle-finger emoji from none other than my nineteen-year-old sister, Beth.
“Fucking hell, I’m going to kill her,” I muttered under my breath as I glanced down. A giant rip in my dress shirt ran the length of my abdomen and around to the back.
I was officially fucked.
I had to find another shirt, iron it, wash off the dog slobber, and re-dress into my perfect formal attire in the next two minutes or I’d never make it to the ceremony on time.
God, I hope Quinn doesn’t notice when I sneak in the back.
I sighed, creeping along the street for the fifth time in the last half hour. Parking was an absolute bear as always when family dinners cycled back to Uncle Joe’s condo down by the Jersey City waterfront, and choosing to do this on a Saturday night was the absolute height of insanity.
But I guessed that was what happened when you let a bunch of crazy old men do the planning.
Weekly dinners had been a staple of my life since I was a little girl, and they almost always included the same outlandish characters. My dad Anthony, Uncle Joe, my cousin Steve, and Buddy, Tommy, and Vince, my dad and Uncle Joe’s cop buddies from way back.
Years ago, before she passed, they’d also included my aunt Bethie. To this day, I always felt a little twinge of sadness when I entered the room to find no traces of estrogen.
My aunt Beth had been the only female figure in my life. My mom had died during childbirth. Even though I had zero memories of her, it still didn’t make it any less difficult. In fact, if anything, it was even more heartbreaking. Imagine being the reason your mother wasn’t alive anymore—the reason your dad had to go it alone.
It’d taken me years just to get to a point where I no longer felt like I’d actually killed her in cold blood.
Lucky for me, my dad had always been there. Never letting me down, always taking care of me, always putting me first. Even though I hadn’t grown up with a mom, and I’d been surrounded by mostly father figures, I’d still had a good, happy childhood.
And I’d had Aunt Beth.
Besides my mother’s death, losing Aunt Beth to cancer several years ago had been one of the hardest things this family had ever had to endure.
Still, whatever night of the week we managed to fit family dinner in, I always looked forward to the respite of good food, good people, and my comfort zone.
I smiled at the thought.
The instant I stepped through the front door, the delicious aromas of tomatoes and garlic filled my nostrils. I walked down the entry hall and made my way into the dining room where the most important men in my life were already sitting down in front of a mouthwatering spread of food. The spacing was tight—my uncle’s condo was only fifteen hundred square feet total—but the personalities were large.
I took a deep breath just to get ready for the affectionate assault I knew was coming my way.
“There she is!” my dad exclaimed, and a big, jovial smile puffed out his cheeks.
“Hey, guys,” I greeted. “Sorry I’m late.” I made my way around the long dining table and patted Buddy’s and Tommy’s and Vince’s shoulders, and they all squeezed and kissed at my hand as they trapped it there. I yanked playfully to free myself as I moved from one to the next and laughed the laugh I reserved for these nights with my family.
It was carefree and open and developed through years of comfort and interaction with this crew.
The five of them had been thicker than thieves when they’d been active on the Jersey City Police force, and that hadn’t changed in their retirement either.
I gave my dad and Uncle Joe each a hug and kiss on the cheek, and before I sat down in my seat, I slugged a playful punch to Steve’s arm. “Hey, asshole.”
“Glad you could step away from your twenty-four seven work schedule to make some time for us.”
I flipped him the bird. “Yeah, well, I was here over a half an hour ago, but it took me that long to find parking.”
Uncle Joe smiled in the face of my insult and scooped another helping of gooey, melty cheese onto his plate. “You’ll never find a view like this, Lan. Never in your price range, anyway. Just be glad you have family with deep enough pockets to share it with you.”
I rolled my eyes at Uncle Joe’s running commentary but glanced out at the twinkling, never-ending lights of Manhattan as I sat down in my spot at the table anyway. He was the cheapest bastard on this side of the Hudson River, and the only reason he’d laid out the dough for this place after Aunt Bethie died was because she’d ordered him to in the stipulations of her will—but it was definitely one hell of a view.
God, I missed her.
Well aware that food waited for no man—or woman—in this family, I followed the hungry crew’s lead, serving myself a hearty piece of Uncle Joe’s famous lasagna and shivered as a draft from the air conditioning kicked in right above me.
“So, what’s new in the world of Hoboken PD?” Uncle Joe asked just before popping a piece of garlic bread into his mouth.
“Yeah,” Buddy chimed in. “The streets treating you well, Stevie?”
“Just staying busy.” Steve shrugged and kept his focus on the food.
This was typical of this animated group of retired cops. They almost always tried to veer the conversation of our family dinners toward police work. And it always started out the same; they’d ask Steve and me for an inside scoop, and that would eventually lead down a path of reminiscing on what they oftentimes called “the good old days.”
Steve always employed avoidance as his self-preservation technique, whereas I tended to use a much more direct method.
“Oh, come on, guys, let’s try to enjoy one family dinner without talking shop.” I smiled knowingly and took a sip of iced tea.
My dad grinned as I put the glass to my lips, and my chest squeezed. Anthony Simone took care of his little girl in ways most women could only dream of. He paid attention to the things I liked and those that I didn’t, and he went to great lengths to spoil me, even it was something as little as making sure my drink of choice was already poured and waiting at my spot at the table.
“We don’t always talk shop,” Vince refuted, pulling my attention away from my dad and focusing it back on keeping these kooks in line.
I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, you do, Vin. Chases, shootouts…I’ve personally heard you use the phrase ‘deader than four o’clock’ at this very table no less than five times.”
“Last dinner, we talked about the Yankees,” Tommy offered, and I nearly laughed.
“For all of five minutes! And eventually, even that conversation led to you guys asking me one million questions about why I’m working undercover at Skins and if Derek Jeter is secretly a regular.”
Uncle Joe chuckled. “Oh, come on, Lana. We’re just old, retired cops who miss being in the loop. The least you could do is throw us a bone and let us in on all the juicy confidentials.”
I shook my head and mumbled around my garlic bread. “Nuh-uh. Never gonna happen.”
“But last Friday was pretty interesting, right, Lan?” Steve questioned, and I tossed a glare in his direction and gasped internally. The little fucking traitor!
“Shut up.”
“What?” my dad asked and moved his gaze back and forth between us. “What happened last Friday?”
“Nothing,” I said in a quick attempt to nip this path of conversation in the bud, but my asshole cousin apparently had other motives in mind.
“I wouldn’t say it was nothing,” Steve chimed in. “I mean, a New York Mavericks player got arrested after defending your honor.”
“Huh?” I squinted my eyes in confusion. New York Mavericks player? What in the hell was he talking about?
“Cam Mitchell.”
“What about him?” I asked. “And how in the fuck do you know that guy’s name?”
Obviously, I knew his full name because I’d had to file his police report, but why did Steve know his name? He had absolutely nothing to do with that situation.
“What do you mean, what about him?” he asked, and an amused smile crested his lips. “You do realize he plays for the Mavs, right?”
“What?” The Mavs as in the New York Mavericks? Good Christ, this was worse than I thought!
Fuck, fuck, fuck. If the rest of these old bastards were even slightly awake and aware for this conversation, I’d never hear the end of it.
“Are you serious, Lan?” Steve questioned, and a short, barking laugh escaped his lungs. I held up both hands in surrender, but he didn’t even pause. “You didn’t know that your big hero from last Friday was actually Cam Mitchell, one of the best tight ends in the country?”
Stop talking! my mind shouted. Fucking fish sticks, I am going to stab Steve with a shiv at the earliest opportunity.