CHAPTER 5
Summer
What the Kentucky-fried-fuck did she just say?
I stifle a laugh. I honestly thought I’d hate this chick. But Bryttni keeps getting better and better as time goes on, like a fine wine. In fact, she’s fast becoming my all-time favorite in the crowded parade of Declan’s women.
From my seat behind him, I watch Declan’s neck get all red and splotchy. He coughs, and his eyes catch mine in the rearview mirror.
I give him a big, enthusiastic thumbs up.
Bryttni giggles and smacks his forearm. “No, silly. It’s a cocktail. You know, vodka and white rum in a shot glass with a few dribbles of Baileys plopped in. Yum! I always ask for a teaspoon of sugar, too.”
“I can make that happen,” Declan repeats. They’re the exact same words he said just a moment before, but the tone is a lot less perky.
“Yum!” I yell.
As we head for the private hangar exit, I watch Bryttni reach over and rub her hand on top of Declan’s thigh, then bring her lips to his ear.
I look out the window, trying to catch my breath.
I wish I brought my earbuds. If I did, I’d be cranking some tunes right about now, because I know that whatever she says next will be something I wish I never heard.
“But I love real hot tubs, too, not just the drinks. Hot tubs make my pussy throb.”
“Nice,” Declan mutters.
Cletus, take the wheel.
I keep staring out the window. I will not catch Declan’s glance in the mirror again. Not doing it. Don’t want to be involved. Don’t want to see whatever he’s thinking.
Why are my palms sweating?
Why am I fuming?
What’s wrong with me?
I can’t keep my mouth shut. “Where are we going, MacLaine?” I ask.
My question is a desperate attempt to change the subject. I’m done fighting with myself in my own head. I’m done listening to talk of hot tubs and dribbling. I need something as close to normal as I can get in this situation.
“You’ll see.”
Despite my promise to myself, I pull my eyes from the window and glare at the back of his head.
“I’m totally obsessed with this car. It’s super nice.” Bryttni strokes the black leather of the center console.
“Evander would have gotten us a Bentley,” I snap.
“Evander’s the brother who eloped?” Bryttni asks, turning to me. “The one who’s just a year older than Declan?”
“That’s right. Though he’s a much better dresser and has more degrees.”
“You mean, like, he’s a few degrees hotter than Declan?”
“That too.” I guffaw.
“What Summer means is that he has a law degree,” Declan says. “Which is great and we’re all very proud of him, but I invented a new cybersecurity technology from scribbles on a bar napkin. So who’s smarter?” Declan smirks at me in the mirror.
“Wait. Your brother is a lawyer?” Bryttni seems far more interested in Evander’s résumé than Declan’s bar napkin.
“And married,” Declan says.
“Not if we can help it,” I remind him. “That’s why we’re here. To stop their elopement and get them home where they can have a proper wedding.”
“Yeah, well, I’ve done my part, Summer. I got you here to Vegas so you can do your thing.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means I have no intention of running around town trying to stop a wedding between consenting adults. If those two crazy kids want to get hitched on the down-low, I’m more than happy to let them. It’s New Year’s Eve. Woo-hoo!”
“Woo-hoo!” Bryttni mimics.
“Besides,” Declan says, squeezing his date’s talon-tipped fingers. “I have other plans. And they involve hot tubs and cocktails.”
Bryttni giggles.
I nearly gag.
Soon enough, Declan turns the SUV onto the Strip.
Immediately, we pass gaggles of partiers getting a head start on the festivities.
It’s barely eleven a.m., and already I see women prancing around with their boobs falling out, carrying liter-sized plastic cups with long straws and sipping.
But only when they’re not busy flirting with loud dudes in basketball shorts, muscle T’s, and baseball caps.
I’ve always seen this town as a trap for unhappy people trying to get happy. It’s probably because one of my first memories is coming here with my parents, when they did exactly that. While leaving me alone at a table in a fast-food joint.
For many terrifying hours.
Fun times.
I was seven years old when I learned first-hand how Las Vegas works.
First, tourists drink enough booze to detach from common sense in order to pick up a stranger—or more than one—to have sex with.
Next, they run away from the rando—or randos—at the earliest opportunity so they can do it all over again and then forget any of it ever happened.
If all that fails, they can hang all their future happiness on a winning hand at the blackjack table, even if it means losing everything they’ve ever worked for up until the present moment.
I learned early that this kind of twisted crap doesn’t lead to happiness. In fact, it leads to the opposite. And that’s why I hate this place.
I’ve got all the happiness I’ll ever need waiting for me back at my cabin in the mountains west of Yosemite Ranch. I don’t need anything new. I don’t need to change anything or upgrade anything or replace anything to be happy. I’m already there.
I know, without a doubt, that I won’t find any kind of happiness doing shit I’ll eventually want to forget. I prefer to enjoy every day, work hard and do my best, laugh a lot, and look at myself in the mirror every night proud of the human being looking back at me.
My parents taught me a lot when I was a kid. Most of it was cautionary in nature. And the biggest lesson of all was this: if you’re not at peace with yourself, you’ll never find peace outside yourself, no matter how hard you try.
I thought Declan was the same way. I thought he was a happy dude. But as we continue down the traffic-snarled Strip, I must admit I’ve never seen him this giddy.
He’s happier than a pig in shit because he’s bringing Bryttni to Sin City on New Year’s.
Woo-hoo!
We need to find Evander and Phoebe as soon as possible so I can get out of here. Bus. Car rental. Walk if I have to. I don’t care. But I’m not made for Las Vegas, and I definitely don’t want to watch any more of the disgusting display going on in the front seat.
It makes me angry.
It makes me truly sad.
I’d rather not be either of those things.
“I just thought of something,” I tell Declan as I scan the crowds. “I’m not sure I can picture Evander checking into a hotel in this mess, can you?”
Declan doesn’t answer me. He’s talking to Bryttni.
“Think about it. Your brother’s the kind of guy who’d arrange for a penthouse-mega-mansion-in-the-sky sort of thing. We need to involve your private eyes, the ones you use for StellaR Tech. Tell them to help us track down Evander.”
Declan isn’t listening to me. He’s telling Bryttni about private New Year’s celebrations made for two while she’s telling him about buffets and magic acts.
I slink down in my seat and cross my legs and arms. This is so frustrating. I’m looking out for the family, but Declan’s only looking out for himself.
Or, to be precise, one part of himself.
His joystick.