Translation? I’m over-fucking-joyed for me. And that he married a woman who looks freakishly identical to Kate?
Nope—don’t even care.
I give his back a congratulatory smack. “You and . . .” I . . . pat her head. “Both of you. Congratulations.”
Then I realize I still have no idea where the hell Kate is. I hook my thumb toward the door. “I gotta go.”
As fast as my feet can carry me, I dash out the door.
Stepping out of the bedroom into the living area feels similar to when Dorothy stepped out of her dilapidated house into Oz. Everything is too bright, too colorful . . . too loud.
Matthew and Delores sit close together on the couch, under a beige blanket, sharing a bowl of cereal and watching Gilligan’s Island on TV. Matthew chuckles at the television before Dee feeds him a scoop of Froot Loops.
As I step into the room, Matthew’s attention turns to me. “You’re alive.”
Delores is disappointed. “Damn it. I was hoping we’d have to get your stomach pumped.”
Matthew tugs her strawberry-blond ponytail and tells her firmly, “I told you to be nice from now on. Cut that shit out.”
When he turns back to me, Delores sticks her tongue out at him.
The ecstatic adrenaline rush from learning I did not actually put my dick in a pu**y that wasn’t Kate’s is starting to wear off. My head and stomach resume the nauseating symphony of a mighty hangover.
I rub my temples and inform Matthew and Dee, “You know Billy got married last night?”
In unison, they respond wearily, “Yep.”
“To a stripper he’s known for less than twenty-four hours?”
Though I think I already know the answer, I ask the third-stupidest question ever: “Did he get her to sign a prenup?”
Delores scoffs, “I’m not sure my cousin knows how to spell prenup.”
They seem way too calm about this development. “Why didn’t you stop him?”
Now Dee glares at me. “Are you f**king kidding me?”
Matthew explains, “Drew, it was your idea.”
My face goes slack. “It was?”
“It was. After you woke up from your nosedive at the strip club, you went on and on about how great marriage is. How everyone should get f**king married. How love is a precious, beautiful flower, and marriage is the water and sunlight that helps it grow.”
I seriously need to never drink again. Ever.
“I said that?”
Matthew nods. “You were very poetic.”
“Shit. We should call Wilson—he’s the best divorce lawyer in New York City.” And an old colleague of my mother’s. “Maybe he can draft something that’ll work retroactively.”
Matthew takes another bite of cereal. “Already left him a message.”
My fingers move from my temples to my forehead, continuing to rub the torturous pounding. “What else am I missing?”
“What’s the last thing you remember?” Matthew asks.
“Um . . . playing poker with you and Steven at Paradise. Warren singing Barry Manilow onstage.”
My best friend laughs. “You’re missing a lot.” He sets the bowl of cereal down on the coffee table and elaborates. “Kate, Dee, Lexi, and Erin decided to crash our party and showed up at Paradise. After we left the police station—”
I cut him right off. “Why were we at the police station?”
“Because that’s where they take you when you get arrested.”
“We got arrested?”
He grins. “Oh, no—we didn’t get arrested.”
Dee raises her hand. “We did.”
My eyes go wide. “Kate was in jail?”
Matthew waves his hand calmly. “Only for, like, twenty minutes. They released the girls to our custody—no charges were filed. I smoothed things over with the strip club.”
Going with the usual-suspect line of thought, I turn on Delores. “What did you do to get Kate arrested?”
She just laughs. “You can thank your sister for that one—Alexandra didn’t appreciate her husband getting so much attention from the strippers. When one of them got in her face, Lexi showed her what was up—and the rest of us had her back. I’ll say this much: for a trust-fund baby, the Bitch has got a mean right hook.”
This is not news to me.
“Jesus Christ,” I sigh. “All right, forget all that—just tell me where Kate is.”
Dee looks confused. “What do you mean? She’s in your room.”
Before I can point out that Kate is not, in fact, in our room, one of the bedroom doors opens. Erin steps out, wrapped in a fluffy bathrobe, her hair wet. “Good morning, everyone!”
“Hey, naughty girl,” Dee greets her.
Erin steps into the kitchen. “Mmm . . . coffee.”
And prepare to have your mind blown—because in the bedroom doorway Erin just exited appears none other than . . . Jack O’Shay.
Shirtless. Wearing only boxers.
He stretches his arms wide above his head with a yawn, then scratches his chest and adjusts his balls. “What a great f**king night, huh? I’m actually sad you’re only getting married once, Evans. I could definitely do that again.”
Please look closely at my face. Did my eyeballs fall out of my head? ’Cause it feels like they have.
I look at Matthew. He just nods and flicks his hand, silently telling me, What are you gonna do?
As Erin sticks her head into the refrigerator behind us, Jack stands next to me. In a low voice I ask, “Did you . . . is this . . .”
“Is this what you think it is?” He grins like a well-fed feline. “It is, and I did.” Then, softer, he says, “Erin’s a wildcat, man. Easily made the top three bangs of my lifetime. I’ll fill you in later.”
If this ends up causing Erin to not be my secretary in the near future—I’m going to have to kill Jack. Seriously. I can always find more friends. Finding a secretary who knows her shit as well as Erin does? That’ll be much more difficult.
Erin comes back into the room sipping her coffee. Jack grabs a newspaper off the table and announces, “I’ll be in the john.” Before he goes, he adds, “Hey, Erin—how about you bring me a cup of coffee for when I get out?”
Erin smiles sweetly. “Hey, Jack—how about you get it yourself? This isn’t the office, and even if it was, I don’t work for you.”