by Max Monroe
“Wait a second,” Uncle Joe said, raising one hand in the air and redirecting his gaze to me. “Cam Mitchell was at Skins?”
Oh God. Well, that’s that. My life was over. My uncle, father, and their closest friends were going to spend the rest of the night talking about me stripping for an apparently famous guy, and there’d be nothing I could do to stop it.
“Apparently, it was Quinn Bailey’s bachelor party,” Steve informed everyone, the helpful rat bastard.
“How in the hell do you know that?”
I mean, I’d known Quinn Bailey had been there for a bachelor party, but that was because I was the one working undercover inside the damn club. I just hadn’t realized Cam was also a player. I should have, of course. His size and physical prowess spoke for themselves.
“Oh, come on, Lan, you know how shit gets around in the force. I’m honestly surprised you didn’t know the guy you were entertaining for the night was Cam fucking Mitchell.”
“You were entertaining Cam Mitchell?” Buddy asked. “As in, giving him lap dances?”
I tried to shrug off that awkward as hell question, and my cheeks heated in slight embarrassment.
Someone shoot me. With all the cops at this table, someone could probably oblige, right?
“Well, I’ll be damned!” my dad exclaimed and slapped his hand onto the table. “My daughter gave the famous Cam Mitchell a lap dance.”
“Oh God, Dad,” I muttered. “I’m pretty sure that’s not something to get excited about.” His eyes glowed with proud tears. “It’s also confidential.”
“Sure, it is!” I swear to God, he looked like a man who’d just found out his daughter got into medical school. “It’s not every day you get to meet a New York Maverick, much less get up close and personal with one of ’em. Talk about exciting, Lana!”
“Not to mention, he was also the big hero of the night. Defending her honor and shit,” Steve kindly provided.
Fucking Steve. If he said big hero one more time, I’d chuck my plate at his big, stupid head.
My dad grinned like a loon. “My little Lana is famous.”
Famous? For giving a lap dance to a professional football player?
When it came to sports, men were so weird sometimes.
“Jesus, Dad. I’m not famous,” I retorted. “And, for the love of God, can we please drop this?”
“Did you talk to him?” my dad asked, completely ignoring my request.
“Damn, you should have gotten his autograph,” Uncle Joe added. “You can guarantee if I’d been giving Cam Mitchell a lap dance, I would’ve at least asked him to sign my underwear.”
“I think it’s safe to say Cam Mitchell is thankful you weren’t the one giving him lap dances, Joe,” my dad said through a chuckle.
“I’ll have you know, Ant, I give great lap dances,” Joe growled, actually offended by his brother’s suggestion otherwise, “and if Bethie were still alive, she’d have agreed.”
“Let’s not bring Mom into this, Dad,” Steve said, and his face looked equal parts amused and horrified.
You fucking deserve it, tattler.
I stuck out my tongue at him as he went on, “May God rest her soul, of course.”
Uncle Joe smiled. “I miss that woman every fucking day.”
“Me too,” I said and one hundred percent meant it. If she’d been here, she’d have found a way to end my suffering way before it’d gotten this far.
My dad raised his glass of iced tea. “This is for you, Bethie. We miss you. We love you. And we hope you’re enjoying your time with the Big Guy upstairs.”
Everyone at the table followed his lead, raising our glasses and offering our love up to the woman who would always have a place in our hearts.
The table grew quiet for a long moment, everyone a little lost in their own thoughts while still enjoying my uncle’s version of an Italian buffet spread across the table.
But that silence came to a screeching halt when Uncle Joe said, “You know, Lan, I think you need to call Cam Mitchell and thank him for the other night. He stepped in for you, right? Seems like the mannerly thing to do.”
“You just want her to get an autograph for you,” Vinny teased, and Joe just shrugged.
“Well, if there’s an opening, that wouldn’t be a bad idea either.”
Steve laughed, and I nearly choked on my lasagna.
“That can’t happen.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m undercover, Uncle Joe. I don’t know how many times I have to explain this to a bunch of goddamn cops, but you can’t talk about this!”
“All right, all right. Calm down, Lan. Jesus,” Joe murmured. I took in a gulp of air and blew it out as silence descended upon the room. Of course, it didn’t last. “Just keep it in mind for after you’re done with this assignment,” he added. “Surely, you’re not going to be working undercover at Skins for the rest of your career.”
My fork clattered and clanged as I dropped it dramatically to my plate. My dad tucked his head to hide his smile. Too bad you could have seen the intensity of it from the moon. Good Lord, they were relentless.
“I think you’re forgetting the fact that she can’t just call up a guy like Cam Mitchell,” Steve said.
Uncle Joe was unconvinced. “There’s always ways to get in contact with celebrities, Stevie. Remember Barry Luca? It only took three phone calls for him to get Derek Jeter’s autograph.”
“Barry Luca is full of shit. Pretty sure he signed Jeter’s name himself.”
“No,” Uncle Joe refuted. “I saw the ball, Stevie. It was Jeter’s autograph.”
Steve rolled his eyes, and I pushed back from the table and stood. They could keep this conversation going for hours, and I, for one, was done being a part of it.
I tossed my napkin down in the vacated seat, pulled the hair tie from my wrist, and secured my hair into a ponytail. Somehow, the draft of the air conditioning wasn’t quite as strong as before.
My cheeks were hot, and my whole body felt overheated.
“I bet you can just call Mitchell’s publicist or agent,” Buddy offered somewhere behind me. “It can’t be that hard to track those people down. You can find everything on the Google these days.”
“Yeah, Lan,” Steve chimed in, addressing me directly even though I’d made it clear I was done. “Just look up Cam Mitchell’s agent’s phone number on the Google.”
I ignored him and looked out the sliding glass doors to the balcony overlooking the Hudson.
“It’s Google, Bud. Just Google,” my dad said through a laugh.
“You know, I think Buddy’s got a point, Lana,” Uncle Joe added, and it was at that moment, I’d just about had it.
My ponytail arced as I whipped around to face them and lifted a stern finger in their direction.
“I’m not calling Cam Mitchell. Not now. Not after this assignment. Not ever. End of story. Now drop it. All of you.”
Their smiles drooped and melted at my tone, and as bad as I wanted to feel about it, I couldn’t. It was about time they got the seriousness of it all.
Cam Mitchell wasn’t something I could entertain. Sure, he’d called me, but I’d take that little tidbit of information to the grave, and it’d be the very last communication we ever had.
I needed to stay as far away from Cam Mitchell as possible. He was a celebrity, for fuck’s sake, and I didn’t need any liabilities when I was so damn close to shutting the door on Marco Sabella.
Don’t forget, he’s also a very handsome and irresistibly charming celebrity…
Ugh. Apparently, even my brain wanted to jump on board the Cam Mitchell train.
I was just sliding into the seat next to the New York Mavericks’ starting center, Sam Sheffield, when the officiant proclaimed Quinn and Cat husband and wife.
Shouts sounded and cameras flashed, and I raised my voice to blend with the others as I bellowed “Mazel Tov!”
Sam shook his head ruefully but kept his focus on the altar. Th
rough a well-practiced smile, he laid down the truth. “They’re not Jewish, and you’re screwed. Did you not read the memo?”
I shrugged, completely thrown off my game thanks to the disastrous prelude at home. I was normally full of pithy comebacks when it came to my teammates, but it didn’t feel good to have missed Quinn’s entire wedding ceremony. Not only was the guy the leader of our team, a respected colleague, and a good guy all around, he was also one of the best friends I’d ever had. Goddamn my dog and his fear of fowl.
“Whatever, man. Do you think Quinn noticed I wasn’t here?”
Sam shook his head. “Quinn? No way. He only had eyes for Cat.”
I breathed a small sigh of relief at the news that I hadn’t added any unnecessary stress to my good friend’s day. I’d feel bad about missing his wedding for years to come, but the most important thing was that he hadn’t stressed over it.
Good feelings flowing, I wasn’t prepared for Sam to bring down the blade and cut off the current, but he did it all the same. My reprieve on this fuck-up, it seemed, was meant to be brief.
“Sean, though, he definitely noticed. And you know how good he is at keeping his mouth shut about shit like this.”
“Fuck!” I whisper-yelled. I mean, we were in a church, after all. The ceilings were high, the carvings intricate, and the stained glass in the windows had to be hundreds of years old. This place was designed to channel a being of a higher power, and my rude mouth, if I weren’t careful, would carry all the way to the far corners.
“I couldn’t help it,” I went on as quietly as I could. “My phone went off and scared Lucky because of the fucking bird thing, and we got into a wrestling match, and by the time I got it back, it was destroyed and so was my shirt.”
Sam was skeptical. “I’d work on your story before you try to explain to Sean and Quinn.”
“But that’s what happened!”
“You sound delusional.”
“I sound like a man, standing in front of another man, just asking him to understand his dilemma with his dog.”
Sam’s amber eyes crinkled at the corners as he finally turned to take me in in all of my miserable glory. “Get it together, bro.”
He obviously hadn’t seen Notting Hill, one of the greatest romantic comedies ever made, in my opinion, but instead of scolding him for missing out on Julia Roberts’s best movie, I decided his advice was sound and nodded.
I had the drive to the reception venue—Liberty House, a fancy restaurant down on the Jersey City waterfront—to come up with a lie that was a little more believable than the truth.
The chaos of a busy Saturday night in Jersey City faded as I pulled through to the grounds of Liberty State Park and headed for the parking area for the restaurant.
A line of cars sat idling, waiting to enter the parking lot in an orderly fashion, and I took the time to catch my breath.
It felt like I’d been running all day—always a step behind on my list of activities—and I didn’t want to carry that feeling into Cat and Quinn’s reception.
It was obvious by the huge two-story mansion-looking restaurant called Liberty House they’d spared no expense in the celebration of their day, and they didn’t need any of my demons adding to their head count.
Lower Manhattan’s glitz and glam danced its reflection onto the water behind their venue, and the new Freedom Tower seemed to jut endlessly into the sky.
I always felt a tingle when I saw it—what I liked to think of as an emotional tribute to the men and women whose lives were ended or forever changed by the moment of history that led to its creation—and I prayed that never changed.
Sometimes brief encounters are meant to have the biggest impact.
An interaction with a soldier.
A helping hand for a homeless person.
A startling view of the Freedom Tower and all it stood for.
A chance encounter with a woman I never should have met in this lifetime.
None of them was connected, and none of them could be weighted the same by an outsider, but all of them had influenced me just the same.
Finally in a spot, I turned off the ignition on my Tahoe, grabbed my suit jacket from the back seat, hopped out the door, and beeped the locks in what felt like one stream of motion.
A crowd littered the open space between the parking lot and the entrance to the restaurant, illuminating the darkness with the sparkle of their attire like stars in the night sky.
I fell in casually between two groups, and I listened mindlessly as their laughter and conversation rang out into the heavy summer air.
It was cooler than during the day, that was for sure, but I could still feel the first tinglings of sweat forming at the base of my spine.
I sped up my step in an attempt to make it to the air conditioning quicker and preserve my freshly showered smell.
Floor-to-ceiling glass greeted me from end to end and top to bottom as I entered the venue, and lights of all kinds, both indoors and out, seemed to shine for miles in every direction. Swanky was an understatement, and any description I could give to the magic of the feeling it invoked would fall short.
Flowers and candles dotted the entrance as I stepped farther into the lobby and took it all in. People mingled and mixed in the room fifty feet away, the giant doors opened to invite us into the cocktail hour and the spectacular view of the city just beyond, and I could already see there were bars in every corner of the room.
Food ran the entire length of the back wall, and I could see my fucking reflection in the marble floor.
It was a romantic paradise, and holy hell, I was happy for my friend.
I’d be happier, of course, when I got a couple of drinks in me to dull the edge of the shitstorm he was going to bring down on me when he found out I’d missed the ceremony. But that really wasn’t the point. I wasn’t the point. Cat and Quinn were.
Still, a little booze lubrication would only help in ensuring I was the perfect guest at their celebration.
Head down and goal-oriented, I charged for the bar—a man unstoppable.
People I knew, and even some I didn’t, nodded and smiled at me as I went, but I ignored them all until the one with the alcohol finally gave me his attention.
He was a ravishing blond young man in a white shirt and black bow tie, and his smile was warm and sincere as he acknowledged me.
I like him already.
“Whiskey, neat,” I ordered without any ado, and his eyebrows pulled just slightly together.
“You have a preference of brand, sir?”
I laughed. Actually laughed.
He frowned. Poor guy. But I was well past brand-snobbery at this point.
“Yeah, no. Just as long as it’s strong.”
He nodded with a smirk and upturned a bottle into a tiny little glass. I glowered at the size of it, and he noticed, clearing his throat to get my attention. “Refills are free, sir.”
Ah. I smiled. Someone has a sense of humor.
“Great,” I said with a wink. “I won’t go far, then.”
Sweet salvation poised at my lips, I stepped away cautiously. I didn’t make it far, however, before I was assaulted from behind, a tiny human monkey jumping up and clinging perilously to my back.
I forced a burning swallow to avoid spewing everywhere and spun. Sean was smiling his signature smile as he waggled his eyebrows.
It didn’t take much thinking to deduce what was happening from there.
I coughed around the rest of the aspirated whiskey and forced my vocal cords into action. “I’m guessing the monkey on my back belongs to you?”
Sean’s nod was proud as little arms wrapped around my neck and squeezed.
I patted one before spinning her off the side and setting her gently on the ground. “Hey, little Sixy. Good to see you.”
Six Phillips, the crazy woman vlogger who’d taken our team by storm and tamed Sean Phillips, the manwhore himself, beamed up at me. She was all bouncy curls and a smile too big for her fac
e, and I was damn happy to see her.
I really loved Cat for Quinn, but their relationship had largely happened on its own time. As a result, he kept a lot of her to himself, and what we knew of her was really no more than the details on the periphery.
Six, though, we knew her. As someone who’d been involved with the team directly, she’d gotten to know all of us on an individual level.
While she’d been falling for Sean right beneath our noses, we’d all secretly been falling a little bit for her. By the time she’d ended filming her vlog series with the Mavs, she might as well have been named the honorary little sister to a pack full of football-playing big brothers.
“I know. I feel like I haven’t seen nearly enough of any of you since the vlog series ended.”
Sean’s smile was illicit. “You’ve seen a lot of me, wife.”
I rolled my eyes and gagged. “Yeah, uh, I’ll be going now.”
“No, Cam, wait!” Six protested, grabbing me by the arm and pulling me back. “Sean will stop talking about his penis now, he promises. Right, husband?”
“Right,” Sean agreed.
And because I was smart, I knew he did it way too easily and far, far too quickly.
“Instead,” he added, “we’ll talk about Cam and his many recent slipups.”
Six clapped with glee, the little enabler. She was just as crazy as he was, but at least I wasn’t completely blindsided. I’d been able to see this coming a mile away.
“What do you think, Cam?” Sean asked with a sarcastic fucking smile. “Should we start with how you missed the ceremony or the whole strippers gone wild situation?”
“Ooh,” Six shouted. “Strippers! Please talk about the strippers.”
I groaned. “Do we really have to talk about the strippers?”
“Nah.” Sean grinned.
My eyes narrowed, but even with as suspicious as I was, I couldn’t stop the air in my chest from expanding. I didn’t want to get into the details of Trixie with him. I wasn’t sure he’d understand the actual intensity with which I couldn’t seem to let go of her.
She was just a stripper, after all.
“We’ve been talking about the strippers all week, and I’m all talked out.”