Two Bar Mitzvahs (No Weddings #3)(17)
Hard to argue logic. Or fight the musketeer code.
Dammit.
“Fine. But I am not listening to Justin Bieber to make the ‘sensitive one’ a soundtrack. He can give me a list of favorite songs. I lay the track unheard.”
“Done.” Kristen nodded.
“Anyone needs me that night? I’ll be with the AC/DC kid…uh…adult.”
And really, for as much shit as I was giving Kristen and the girls, anything that took my mind off annoying exes and the company sabotage bullshit was worth tolerating.
7
Tea Party
Later that week, after I had worked nonstop on both Loading Zone and Invitation Only planning and Hannah had been slammed with the growing orders at her bakery, Kristen dragged us all out for “field research” for our upcoming dual event. Even though this was a sedate lunch at a nearby country club, my guard was up. No suspicious activity had happened since the flower mix-up, but I didn’t think for a second our saboteur had given up. Silent often meant scheming in the business world.
A waiter walked by with mint juleps on his tray. Mint f*cking juleps. Stately columns lined the patio where we sat. Little sandwiches—food no grown man would touch unless nothing else existed—were arranged on a tower of connected silver platters.
And I thought our country club screamed pretentious old-money.
When we strolled through the front doors of Lakemont Country Club, we’d been transported straight to the South. On the surface of Mars. In an alternate universe. I blinked at a teenage girl who walked by on the grass beyond the patio, tennis racket resting on her far shoulder, bright-pink streaks in her hair. And not one uptight head on the patio turned.
Toto, we aren’t on planet Earth anymore.
“Explain to me why we’re here again?” On a hard sigh, I glanced around the table. My sisters and Hannah seemed just fine with tiny cucumber sandwiches. Cucumber.
Kristen stirred her mint julep. The drink was a club special or some ridiculous shit. “The client demanded we hold the bar mitzvahs in their club. They’re new members. We’re doing reconnaissance, plus a tour.”
At least Kiki sipped a hot green tea. Daring Kendall had ordered something stronger: iced tea, of the Long Island variety. And thank f*ck for Hannah, who’d shown solidarity by ordering the same as me: beer, of the all-is-right-in-the-world variety.
I leaned over to my comrade in normalcy. “Wanna see if they have a supply closet?”
Hannah’s shoulders shook in silent laughter at our private joke. (We’d rounded second base for first time in a church supply closet, our mild claustrophobic issues had been trumped by our pent-up sexual frustration.)
She dropped her gaze down to the folded napkin in her lap and blushed spectacularly. I loved putting naughty thoughts into her head, flushing that pink onto her beautiful face.
I nudged her with my shoulder, lightening the mood as I took a pull from my bottle. “You realize you’re gonna need to feed me later, right? Those sad little triangles do not qualify as food.”
Kiki grabbed another miniature sandwich. It was her fourth; I’d been counting. And still, when you added them all together, it didn’t equal a whole sandwich. “Cade, you don’t know what you’re missing. These are delicious.”
I grunted. “Bet they cost north of twenty bucks too.”
Kristen smirked, pretending to read the prospectus of the room rental and add-on costs she’d been emailed by the country club. “Twenty-seven.”
Shaking my head, I set my nearly empty bottle down. “Captive audience, outrageous rates, and low nutrition. Keep the members brain-dead, and they’ll keep spending money.”
Kendall drew another sip of her long island through her straw, sucking up the last inch of the potent liquid from the bottom, her cheeks rosy from a healthy buzz. “You could’ve ordered a salad. Or a burger.”
I coughed, swearing under my breath. “Those weren’t burgers; they were sliders. Three paltry excuses for burgers, designed to give you more bread and less meat. What do their salads look like? Are they served in a pudding cup?”
The table burst out laughing.
That’s right. Tip your event coordinator. He’ll be here all week.
And truly, making fun of the über-rich was the only way I knew how to survive being on the grounds without requiring an oxygen tank. And a keg.
Nothing personal against this country club, just the uptight establishment as a whole. Sure, a few members sought to make a difference with the power of their membership and their wealth; however, the majority sadly belonged solely to gossip and jockey for social standing. And I could think of far better places to have lunch for the day, like a sports bar or a backyard barbeque. But the members around us put on easily recognizable airs. And the bullshit made me cynical just being exposed to it longer than necessary—without the distractions of music and an open bar.
An attractive redhead stepped into my line of sight, making eye contact with me as she approached our table. “The Michaelson party?”
I nodded, watching a smile flirt across her face. She held my gaze a few beats longer than necessary before acknowledging the rest of the group. I dropped my head and stared to my right, sending a pointed look at Kristen with an unspoken request, one I knew she heard loud and clear with her imperceptible nod. Hannah was here. And even if she wasn’t, I had no interest in any other woman on the planet. We needed to douse Little Miss Redhead’s interest with an ice-cold bucket of water.