Epilogue #2
By the time Hunter and Riley return, we’ve got a spread.
He’s dressed a lot differently than he was earlier.
A black silk—I think it’s silk, but don’t really know shit about fabrics—short-sleeved button-up shirt embroidered with bright pink, red, and white flowers.
The shorts match, and hang mid-thigh—he has thin fucking thighs.
His hair’s blown out, and he has lots of it.
It seems to stick wherever he puts it, and no matter how it falls, he looks like he’s shooting runway.
His nose is turned down to all of us, and he’s picking at his juicy burger as if it’s offended him.
Finally, he pushes his plate away. “I can’t eat this, but the wine’s good.”
I want to throttle him for being a dick about Trav’s delicious burgers, but Trav squeezes my leg under the table.
“You said you’d eat them if I got the grass-fed beef,” Hunter says.
“It’s the flavoring. Tastes like I’m eating a campfire.”
Before I can belt off several choice words, I catch something. He looks to Hunter. He says something and waits for Hunter’s reaction. This isn’t about the burgers, or Travis, I think this is his strange way of flirting.
Well, well, well. He’s into my brother, but maybe he hasn’t admitted it to himself yet.
And that’s how dinner goes. Riley complaining about everything, insulting everyone, while Hunter glares, shoveling food into his mouth, not doing a thing to stop him.
Probably in an attempt not to encourage him, but it doesn’t work.
It’s pretty clear to anyone with eyes that Hunt’s annoyed, and Riley’s feasting on it.
At least he’s feasting on something.
I prod and learn that they met through work—the Moretti brothers are building one of Riley’s grandfather’s new hotels. Riley’s super fucking offended that I don’t know who he is after he drops the Madden name.
“How do you not know who I am?”
“I dunno, how do you not know who Wayne Gretzky is?” He doesn’t know shit about hockey.
But it’s worth putting up with Riley to watch my brother. I’ve never seen him like this. He prides himself on having his shit together, but he so does not have his shit together tonight. No one else would pick up on it—my brother maintains his stone visage—but he’s a wreck.
When we’re getting ready to go, Trav says his goodbyes and leans toward my ear. “Take your time, baby. I’ll wait by the bike as long as you need me to,” he says, sensing we need some privacy.
Riley doesn’t give my brother the same courtesy, leaning against the porch rail with his arms crossed, all the vengeance of a fallen angel plastered on his face. He’s wishing I’d disintegrate, isn’t he?
“Riley, go inside. I want to talk to my brother.”
“And I want to hear what you’ll say to him.”
“Go.”
“I don’t take orders from you. You take orders from me.”
“For the love of … remember that thing you wanted me to do?”
A devilish smile spills across Riley’s face.
“Not that thing, the other thing.”
“I want your brother to fuck me, but he refuses,” Riley says, hoping to push Hunter over the edge. “So, I said I’d settle for a massage—it’s a long day wearing heels and being important—but he told me to go fuck myself. It was mean.”
“Do you want the massage or not?” Hunter’s hands clench.
“Want.”
“Then go.”
Riley stares me up and down before his deadly gaze meets mine. It’s a warning. Hunter yanks him by the wrist to get him moving. “Stop eye-threatening my brother.”
“Night, Dirk.” Riley smirks.
Hunter stares after him as if he can’t believe he’s real, and he’s the viper that Hunt’s afraid to let out of his sight for too long.
“Are you sure you wanna date this guy, Hunt?”
“Date him? I can’t date Riley Madden, Dirk.”
Okay, what? I know I’m not reading my brother wrong. “If he’s acting like he’s too good for you, I’ll—”
“No. I mean, well, he does, but Riley’s grandfather wants him to marry an elite. Riley’s got his sights set on some rich business tycoon. He’s just staying here because …” Hunter trails off. “It’s a long story.”
“He wants you to fuck him, maybe he doesn’t like the other guy so much.”
“He doesn’t like the other guy so much. It would be an arrangement. A status thing.”
“Uh, I know it’s none of my business, but why won’t you fuck him? Sounds like a no strings attached kind of thing, and he’s pretty.”
Hunt’s hands ball into fists, and he takes a breath, releasing it slowly, attempting to exhale the tension.
“I…” he trails off.
But he doesn’t have to say it. Riley’s aren’t the only strings that can attach.
“Look, it’s just not a good idea. Anyway, he’ll be gone by the time you get back. Can we have a do-over?”
Hunter’s still watching the door. Hunter’s always watching Riley’s wake.
“We can have a do-over.”
“Okay. Do not get married in Vegas, Dirk. I will lock your ass in a cement cell.”
“Whoa, not getting married in Vegas. Also, Trav and I are waiting till marriage to have sex, you have nothing to worry about.” Yeah, I can’t even say that with a straight face, but he deserves it.
He cuffs me upside the head and then pulls it in to kiss my crown.
“Love you, kid,” he says, but then he frowns, his gaze zoning in on my hip. Fuck. My shirt’s ridden up just enough. I’m so busted. “Is that a tattoo?”
Crash!
White pieces shatter, spilling across the deck. Riley’s at the bay window, holding a second piece of Hunter’s kitchenware hostage.
“Was that my favorite pie plate?” Hunter growls.
“Don’t know, but if you don’t get back in here, this one loses its life.” Riley holds it over the windowsill.
“No. No! Don’t you fucking dare, Riley.”
But I guess he doesn’t move fast enough for Riley. Smash! “I don’t like to be kept waiting.” He turns heel, probably to find more of Hunter’s prized kitchenware to murder.
“Don’t think I’ll forget about that tattoo, but … shit, I gotta go.” There isn’t a trace of anger on his face. It’s something like the way I look at Travis when I know we’re about to have a game of cat and mouse.
Yeah, my brother’s so fucked.
“I’m team captain!” Sutter says.
“I’m other team captain,” Casey shouts. “And before you say one fucking word, Elkington, this is our bachelor day. I hereby declare that you’re to keep your trap shut about your stats for one fucking day. A penalty for every stat that comes out of your rotten mouth.”
Rhett smirks, knowing Casey’s talking to him and not Maverick, who’s also here.
We’ll be on a plane to Vegas tonight, but these are our last hours in the house, so we organized a final game of street hockey.
Usually, the bachelor party’s in Vegas, but since the wedding is, we went with street hockey.
“Don’t they want to play on the same team?” Trav whispers in my ear.
“That’s not a conversation you wanna start. Trust me.”
“If you try to separate us like you did last time, Sutter, I’m hiding all your bandanas when we’re in the new house,” Dash says.
The vein in Sutter’s forehead pulses.
“Let’s keep the same pattern we had when we played at Meyer Central,” Casey says, before Sutter explodes. “Jack and Mercy, you’re on separate teams. Pick. Stacey, Dash, you can go with Sutter.”
“I’ll also take Rhett, since Logan’s not playing,” Sutter says.
“Yes, please take Rhett. Dirk, you’re my Rachel, and I want the other Elkington.”
Some of the other Meyers are here, but Rachel’s hit that teen era where hanging out with your family isn’t cool.
“What about Trav?” I say.
“You’re gonna play hockey, Dad?” Dash says.
“I’m gonna chase that orange ball and make a fool out of myself, is what I’m gonna do, while you guys play hockey.”
It wasn’t totally my idea. It started in the “brat chat” text convo Dash initiated.
I still say I’m not brat enough to be in a conversation like that, but I maintain that someone needs to keep an eye on them.
Jack and Casey started it, seeing what lengths their men would go for them.
It was a silly little game until they pulled me, Dash, and Logan into it.
I kept ignoring their taunts, but when Casey was able to get Sutter to do a grocery store run in the middle of the night, and then have the guy make him bacon, mac ‘n’ cheese waffles, I got kind of curious.
So I tried a simple, mid-shift coffee request.
“Trav, I know we’re busy, but we got this, and I’d give my right arm for a Morino’s coffee right now.” I don’t serve tables as often as I used to, but I was that day, so I couldn’t leave, but Trav could. I didn’t even need to pull out the eyes.
“I’d hate for you to lose an arm, pretty boy.
I’ll be right back.” And off he fucking went.
Couldn’t believe my eyes. It got kind of …
addictive. And the group chat devolved from there into a series of bets—each of us coming up with something we think someone’s gotta say no to.
So far, our men are just too fucking devoted.
I bet Jack he couldn’t get Mercy to let them get a goldfish, but apparently, Mercy has a rubber arm for Jack.
There’s not much that Stacey won’t do for Dash.
It was hard to come up with something, especially when Stacey’s in sync with Dash’s needs on a premeditative level.
“Get Stacey to let Hunter repair the garage door.” I was gonna get Hunt to do it anyway, but it was more entertaining to have Dash arrange it. Somehow, he got Stacey to allow it, but he was a growly, jealous animal. I know that had to end in hot sex, so I was basically doing him a favor.
Then Dash—the fucker—bet me I couldn’t get his dad to play street hockey. His shock is real, though. I didn’t tell them he’d said yes. Hell, I’m still getting over the shock myself. I thought he’d say no for sure.
“This is probably a once-off, Trav, but I’m curious. Are you in the camp that thinks they should play on the same hockey team, or opposite team as their spouse?” Casey asks.
“There are pros and cons to both,” he says. “I’d say I’m same-team leaning, but not for the lovey-dovey reasons my son has—no offense, Dashie.”
“None taken,” Dash says.