Chapter One
Graham
Fun fact about me:
I have been arrested exactly seven times- well, eight I guess after tonight- and each time is no less humiliating than the last. Tonight is no exception. In fact, I think it might be the worst one yet.
I’m so fucking lucky to have Eli. If I didn’t have him…
Well, I’d actually have been dead a few decades now. But he’s always there for me, ready with a charming smile, a quick word, and five-thousand-dollar checks…
The drive back to the hotel is excruciating. The silence is deafening. The rage emanating off my two closest friends- my only friends- shattering body, heart, and soul.
I used to wonder where the line was- you know, the invisible you’ve fucked up for the last time line.
Over twenty years that fucker has evaded me, but this…
This might have been it. There’s a glimmer of that line every time I blink.
Funny enough, it’s the color of Rowan’s suit, the one he wore to Clara’s performance, and his proposal, and their subsequent wedding.
That I missed. Because I’m a fucking asshole.
“Was there an Elvis?”
“Qué?!” Rowan snaps.
“You know, an Elvis? They do Elvis weddings here—” Rowan turns to glare at me in the back seat. I sink back, shoulders hunching beneath my shirt. I undid the top buttons and the tie while I sat in the cell, but it still feels too tight when I yank at the collar. “Nevermind…”
He turns back to the road, and the driver earns his five stars by ignoring all of us.
Glancing at Elias, I clasp my hands between my knees to keep them still. “Gracias, Eli. For coming to get me. For paying.”
Again.
Elias releases a breath. “Don’t worry about it.”
I’m used to it.
Neither of us have to say the words, but they sit between us like a loaded gun, waiting to see who will be brave enough to break the tension first. But I’ve played enough roulette to know when to opt out or when to pull the trigger.
Tonight, I’m opting out, and even though Elias keeps throwing me pitiful looks, I know he isn’t going to reach out either.
At least not yet.
We ride the rest of the way in silence. When the car pulls up to the Bellagio, I thank the driver alongside my friends, grabbing my jacket on the way out.
The doorman greets Elias on his way inside, as does the manager and several other members of staff.
Rowan’s presence keeps any fans lingering in the lobby from coming our way.
The look on his face is anything but welcoming, but it doesn’t stop the flash of several cameras.
I trail behind them, shoving a hand in my pocket, keeping my head down.
This isn’t the first time I’ve been photographed with Elias, nor is it the first time they’ve caught me clearly disheveled.
At least this time I’m sober?
Bonus points.
With the help of the hotel’s security, Rowan manages to get us all into the elevator with little issue.
Because of the occasion, Elias made sure to get us all the best suites.
Except, while he has Poppy to share his bed, and Rowan of course has Clara, I got a private room.
So did Naomi, but I’ve been trying not to think about that little factoid.
Or that her room is right next to mine. Or that I heard her moaning in her shower last night.
The elevator opens and rather than either of them heading toward their own rooms, they both follow me. As I’m unlocking the door I catch both of them texting out of the corner of my eye. A fresh wave of guilt washes over me, nauseating in its ferocity.
“It’s your wedding night,” I remind Rowan in Spanish, cracking the door once it unlocks. “You should go be with your wife.”
“Yeah, I should.” Taller and stronger than me to cowering degrees, Rowan shoves the door open with a hand above my head, making room for Elias and me to enter. “Inside, pendejo.”
I- the pendejo- go inside without another word.
Rowan closes and locks the door while Elias goes straight for the mini bar- he’s paying for it anyway- pouring himself a double tequila on the rocks and a scotch for Rowan.
Surprisingly, he also pours a drink for me.
Vodka, lime, neat, but I don’t reach for it immediately.
Pointing a thumb over my shoulder I ask, “Can I least take a shower first?”
Elias opens his mouth, but Rowan beats him to the punch. “You can splash water on your face and change your shirt.”
I glance down at my collar where a few drops of blood have dried. Unfortunately, I think it’s my own. I didn’t get nearly enough punches in, and my nose feels broken which is awesome.
"Dalé.”
Saluting Rowan is probably too cheeky, but I’m an asshole and I do it anyway, leaving the room before he shatters the Bellagio’s ornate glassware.
Once inside the bathroom, I allow myself the first deep breath I’ve been able to take all night.
I lean back against the door, burying my face in my hands and suppress a groan.
The urge rises as it always does on nights like this to curse myself and my family and every awful thing that has ever happened to make me the immense fuck-up that I am.
Why? Why did it all have to happen to me? Do I deserve it? My friends sure fucking don’t and yet I can’t stop burdening them with my bullshit.
Dragging my hands down my face, I brace them on either side of the sink, finally meeting my reflection in the mirror.
A mess of golden-brown curls, a crooked nose, and green eyes turning a dozen shades of purple.
There’s blood dried around my nostrils. I splash my face three times, raking back the strands of hair that fall in my eyes.
Grabbing a hand towel, I wipe away the blood and sweat.
I throw off my button down, peel off my t-shirt and use a fresh, damp cloth to do the same with my arms and chest. There’s a nasty bruise forming around my right side, tender to the touch.
Luckily- I test the movement of my shoulders and elbows and wrists- nothing else feels out of place.
Which is a small consolation. Healing is a much slower process heading into my forties than it was in my twenties.
Rowan knocks sharply at the bathroom door. “Times up, cabrón!”
With a sigh, I toss the cloth into the sink, crack my neck to relieve some of the building tension, and walk back into the room.
I avoid looking at either of them until I’ve pulled a fresh t-shirt out of my duffle.
Only then do I pick up my drink, squeeze the lime into the four ounces of clear liquid, and take two deep sips.
I take one of the remaining armchairs, setting my glass on the side table.
“What do you want to know?”
Rowan and Elias exchange a look, the former exasperated as he throws out his hands. “How about we start with where the fuck you went tonight, and end with how you wound up in jail? Again!” Rowan rakes a hand over his shaved head. “Asere, qué pinga es esto! I thought we were past this, Graham—”
“We are- I am!” I grab fistfuls of my hair, turning to Elias with what I hope is the sincerest expression I can muster. “Eli, I swear to you, I didn’t mean—”
“You never mean to!” Rowan spits, grabbing his drink from the table so violently a few drops hit the marble top. “That’s your fucking problem, isn’t it? That you never mean to but can’t seem to stop fucking things up—”
“Enough!” Elias shoots to his feet. He shoves Rowan’s shoulder, pointing to the balcony. “Go cool down—” He holds up his hand before his cousin can protest. “Before you say something you regret.”
Jaw ticking, Rowan turns, sliding open the balcony door to face the chilly night.
I open my mouth to… I don’t know, thank Elias I guess, but he silences me just as swiftly.
“The next words I’m going to hear from you will be an explanation, cabrón.
So, I’d advise you to get your story straight while you have the chance. ”
Why am I such an asshole?
Why does his reprimand make me want to nod and say yes, Daddy?
Because I’m a fucked up, masochistic, twisted little bitch that’s why. I only just bite back the retort, swallowing it with vodka and guilt.
He’s right, I need to get the story straight.
I need to tell the truth from beginning to end.
It’s what I’ve always tried to do, at least for them.
For my only friends. They deserve nothing but honesty.
Unfortunately, this time I think that truth might go back a lot farther than any of us want to explore.
Certainly, much farther than I’ve chosen to think about for many, many years.
There’s a light knocking at the door and I turn to watch Elias answer it.
Poppy is on the other side, crossing her cardigan closed over her pajamas.
They speak in hushed tones, too low for me to hear, but when she peeks through at me her eyes are filled with concern I don’t deserve.
Bowing my head, I wait as Elias pacifies his fiancée.
Eventually he says something that seems to work and closes the door between them with a soft click.
“She’s too good for you,” I tell him, only joking a little. Truth be told, Elias deserves every ounce of love in Penelope Hastings’- soon to be Santos’- body. And then some.
I hope they have children. I hope Elias gets the chance to be a dad the right way. I hope Rowan and him get to raise beautiful blue-eyed babies together, cousins who will be best friends just like they were growing up. Clara and Poppy will make that happen for them. They’re both perfect like that.
“They’re all too good for us…” I finish off my drink as the balcony door opens and Rowan reenters, calmer, but no less furious.
“Todo bien, primo?”
Rowan nods, retaking a seat on the couch. Elias steals the armchair opposite mine, propping one foot on the marble coffee table.
“Good. Graham?” I raise my eyes from his polished shoes. “Are you ready to tell us what happened tonight?”
Tonight? Two years ago? When I was seventeen? It’s all the same isn’t it? It will all lead to the exact same place. This night. That jail cell. A cold, empty bed.
With a sigh, I set down my glass and nod, “Sí, but you might want to get another drink,” I tell them, dragging a hand through my hair. “We could be here a while.”