Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
DAVE
“Well, yes. But I’m not the one having the stroke.”
“If she says that damn rooster is the patient…” Brecken mutters under his breath. Sadly, it wouldn’t be the first time she’d dialed the emergency line for something related to that chicken. I secretly think the poor fowl has been trying to fly the coop for quite a while. Literally.
Taking a fortifying breath, I push on, already knowing I don’t really want to hear the answer to this. “So, who are you concerned is having a stroke?”
Mildred points toward the fence line at the perimeter of her property. “You need to check on Earl. I felt it was my civic duty to call you. The man has lost his damn mind.”
Matt, Brecken, and I turn and squint into the summer sun to find old Earl Jennings atop his riding mower.
He’s minding his own business, cutting his grass with his headphones on.
Sure, in Mildred’s defense, he appears to be buck-ass naked.
Yet he’s in his yard, pretty far from the road.
Not sure how she even noticed he was landscaping in his birthday suit unless she had her binoculars out. Again.
Mildred scratches Purdy’s head. “Ever since Ginny passed away, God rest her soul, that man’s been acting a fool. He has to have had a stroke. It’s the only excuse for it.”
Word on the street is that Earl’s been on the prowl. Not sure if he’s been hitting the local watering hole looking for Ginny’s replacement or simply sowing some overdue wild oats. What do you call a midlife crisis that arrives twenty years late?
As if on cue, the motor to Earl’s riding mower goes quiet. He stands to dismount, and the three of us all wince in disgust.
“What is that? A cheetah thong?” Matt whispers, looking horrified. Earl is not exactly built like Jack LaLanne. Hell, he isn’t even built like Richard Simmons. He’s more of a Fred the Baker, the “Time to Make the Donuts” guy.
“It’s an abomination, I tell you. Ginny’s probably rolling over in her grave.”
Earl takes this opportunity to bend over, retrieving something from the grass. “Oh. My eyes!” Brecken wails. His forehead wrinkles from the force of keeping his lids clamped shut.
“Gotta keep the family jewels cool on a hot day.” Matt snickers.
Blinking rapidly to purge the sight of his geriatric bits from my memory, I turn back to Mildred. “We’ll have someone pay him a visit.” It’s sure as hell not going to be the three of us. “We’ll get someone to do a welfare check. I appreciate your concern.”
“That man’s got three brain cells, and I think two of ’em are on vacation. Thank you, boys, for coming so quickly. Can I get you a glass of lemonade before you go?”
“No, no,” we all say in harmony, waving our hands in the air.
I, for one, haven’t quite recovered from the punch she made the last time we were here.
She’d initiated an emergency call for backup in case a fire broke out from the birthday candles during a party she was hosting.
For Purdy. That damn rooster. I think she just wanted a bigger crowd for his party.
Turns out, the punch was spiked with Captain Morgan. Crazy old bird.
And I don’t mean the chicken.
Two hours later, we’ve managed to hand off Mildred’s concerns about Earl to the police department and are now rewarding our efforts with lunch in the great room of the firehouse.
I’d made a double batch of my famous four-alarm chili for game day recently, so placed the frozen portion on to simmer at the beginning of our shift.
It’s been going most of the morning, and now the whole building smells incredible, if I do say so myself.
Sprinkling a few cubes of avocado into my bowl, I lick my lips in anticipation.
“Isn’t that right, Smoke?”
I must’ve been so engrossed in my bowl of chili I hadn’t heard the conversation until that ridiculous nickname got my attention. “Isn’t what right?”
“The four weddings celebration. It’s going to be a great day,” Brecken says.
Hell, no. Is he trying to kiss up to Matt and the other grooms?
I mean, I love my friends. They’re great guys who are all engaged to phenomenal women.
But what man alive would be looking forward to sitting through four wedding ceremonies in the same day?
For fuck’s sake, let’s be for real. “Nothing personal, Matt. I’m happy for you and all.
But I think I’d rather have a colonoscopy. ”
Matt snorts. “Awe, c’mon, Dave. It’s not going to be that bad. Besides, at least you won’t have to endure four separate days of this. It’ll be a one and done.”
“An all day, one and done,” I grumble.
“Jeez, Smoke. You allergic to relationships or something?” Breck asks.
I roll my eyes. “Basically. And you’re not?” This rookie is nothing if not an overzealous playboy. He’s the last guy I’d expect to be excited about attending a multi-couple wedding.
“Are you kidding? I’m referring to that day as the Get Lucky event of the century.” He slurps a spoonful of chili into his mouth, his blond hair practically spilling into his bowl as he leans forward. “There will be four times the opportunity to get laid.” He gives a cocky grin.
“Only if they’re from out of town and haven’t heard what a tool you are,” Matt responds flatly.
I throw my head back, laughing out my agreement.
Matt is one of the nicest guys I know. And one of the best firefighters I’ve had the opportunity to work with.
He’s very much a build them up, not tear them down, kinda guy.
So, it cracks me up that of all the fellas here, he’s the one that seems to have the least amount of patience for Brecken and his egotistical antics.
From what I know of Matt’s background, he and his brother grew up in a small coastal town in Florida.
Unlike my so-called life of privilege, they came from more humble beginnings.
Matt has worked damn hard. Not only for his current position in the fire department, but also the life he and his soon to be bride, Ellie, are cultivating.
She’d gone to high school with him back in the day and later reconnected when he’d returned home to care for his mother.
Now she’s here in Sycamore Mountain. With Matt’s help on his days off, she runs Elliot’s Hot Chicken, one of the most popular restaurants for miles.
The two of them should be a beacon for all that’s possible.
The same could be said for each of the betrothed couples: Trevor and Addison, Alex and Tuesday, and Jason and Quinn.
While I’m not as close to Alex as the others, I know for damn sure that Jason and Trevor had no interest in finding love when their girls put a hex on them.
But my circumstances are different. They didn’t watch their father virtually destroy their mother as mine had.
They weren’t raised to believe everything has a price.
And to say the women I’ve met are shallow bitches would be an understatement.
I can’t risk letting anyone get close enough to discover I need an accountant to manage my financial holdings.
Placing my trust in a future with someone else… not happening.
Not that it matters. I doubt I’ll ever find anyone worth risking ending up like my mother—rejected, heartbroken, and alone. Or worse, treating a woman like Brecken or my father sees them.
Expendable.
Either way, a relationship is something I plan to steer far, far away from.
Especially at this twenty-four-hour wedding marathon.
Shouldn’t be an issue anyway. Since Addison and Trevor started dating, I rarely dance with women at social gatherings anymore, much less spend any quality time getting to know one.
It was easier with Addison. Until she met Trevor, Addy made no bones about the fact that she had absolutely no interest in any of us.
She’d placed us all firmly in the friend zone.
With her, it was easier to let my guard down and have a good time.
There was no worrying she’d misinterpret my actions as wanting more.
Now, I take up residence at the bar or a corner table where I can mingle with like-minded people.
Okay, like-minded curmudgeons. Hell, old Earl Jennings used to hold court at the bar, sharing anecdotes of life with his ball and chain to remind me of my plight.
Guess he and the rookie will be out there putting their not so smooth moves on any damsel giving them a second glance.
I inwardly chuckle. As revolting as the thought might be, I should turn their escapades into a drinking game. Well, stopping short of actually picturing Earl back at his farm, modeling his cheetah thong for someone. Gross. At least it’d be something to pass the time.
Because the very last thing I plan to do after a day suffering through four wedding ceremonies is spend the evening in the company of a woman. All of that love in the air mixed with the gong of biological clocks ticking.
Hell to the no.
I’ll be keeping my ass parked in my seat far, far away from that nonsense.