Method(58)

“Is it?” I snap, balancing the bags on my leg and holding up my wedding ring. “Does this gain me entry?”

“That’s Walker’s wife, you idiot,” another guy says, stepping toward me with a grin. “Sorry about him.”

“And you are?”

“Lance, I’m one of the crew.”

“Ah,” I say as I attempt to shove through the warm bodies blocking the doorway, the bags getting heavier by the second. The smell of weed wafts into the living room from the kitchen terrace as I set the grocery bags down. A blonde in a bikini top and barely-there shorts raises my favorite wine glass and a bottle I’d been saving for a special occasion. “Would you like a glass? It’s really good.”

“Don’t mind if I do,” I say, snatching the bottle from her hand and hearing “bitch” muttered behind me. Taking the bag I’d waited weeks to pick up down the hall and into our bedroom, I toss it into our closet as I try to talk myself down from murder one to assault and battery. At least Lucas had made our bedroom off limits, and I was relieved to see there wasn’t a soul in sight. Standing in my closet, I fume as I tip the wine back.

What in the hell, Lucas?

“Just a party. Maybe he has a plan. Don’t freak. Be the cool wife. Don’t kill him. Don’t kill him.” The longer I swig, the easier it is to try to relax. That is until I hear a loud roar come from the living room and glass shatter.

“Come on, really?” Sipping more wine, I count to a thousand before stepping out of our bedroom. Lucas loves this house and is typically highly protective of it rarely ever inviting anyone over, especially when he’s working.

Rule two. Go with it and trust.

Swallowing more wine straight from the bottle, I look around the top floor for any sign of Lucas and come up empty. The music stops suddenly and is replaced by the unmistakable sound of an organ, drums, and a guitar. Don Henley’s “Dirty Laundry” blares from every speaker.

It’s then I hear the unmistakable voice of one of my favorite people in the world. “Stop your whining, if I’m going to tolerate this frat party, I’m the deejay. That’s right, bow down, bow down to the King!”

Unable to stop my grin, I land at the stairs of the gym and see Stella on my elliptical with a bottle of tequila in hand.

“Crowne,” Reid corrects from the porch. “That’s bow down to the Crowne. That’s what you meant to say right, wife?”

Stella’s eyes bulge a little before she nods. “Of course.”

“Thought so,” Reid says, chuckling. He watches her with amusement while she picks up her pace on the machine. “Put that tequila down, babe. I’m not carrying you out of here.”

“You so will carry me out of here, and you’ll love it,” she sasses back. “Besides it’s Cinco De Mayo.”

That’s when Rye steps in. “Uh, Stella, aren’t you the one who says every day you aren’t from Mexico?”

She pauses her exercise and takes a sip from her bottle. “It’s complicated.” They both crack up, and I can see Lucas standing behind them on the porch. Reid and Rye spot me first with a wave I return, and Lucas sounds from behind them.

“There’s the lady of the house.” Lucas smiles at me, and it’s genuine, and I’m utterly confused. Narrowing my eyes, I move to go to him when Stella spots me and stops me in my tracks.

“Mila, thank God. If I had to be here one more hour surrounded by this cock fest, I was gonna puke.” Delaying the inevitable fight with my husband, I walk over to where she’s working the machine. Stella is a force of nature, half Latina and stunning in appearance with dark hair, natural beauty and never-ending opinions that lengthen her smaller stature. She’s a fireball to put it mildly and one of the few women I respect.

I met Stella on the set of Drive, where Lucas played the lead guitarist, Rye. Though Stella is a music journalist, she decided to write a memoir of her journey with the band and her relationship with her husband shortly after her wedding. When she submitted the script, it ended up in a bidding war between two major studios. With the ball in her court, she’d made it a stipulation to oversee both casting and production along with her husband’s band, The Dead Sergeants, who wrote some of the music for the soundtrack. The Dead Sergeants were globally known, and the movie made a killing at the box office. Rye had personally charged himself to train Lucas on the guitar, and he’d done a fantastic job, but Stella was the one to suggest Lucas for the role.

It’s all I can do to keep from laughing as she waves me over to her.

“What in the hell are you doing?”

“Cardio and a buzz, it’s the same as dancing. Looks like I’m not the only one with a bottle in hand.”

“True,” I say with a grin. It’s damn near impossible to be pissed around Stella. She’s my only consolation for what the day has turned into.

She steps off the elliptical, and we toast, drink, and then hug.

“What are you doing here?”

She narrows her eyes at me. “If you would have called me back yesterday, you would know.”

“Sorry,” I say. “I’ve been busy.”

“Busy looking hot! You look good, girl,” she says with a wink. “Maybe I should switch to wine.”