The Hot Mess and the Heartthrob(8)

“Says Mr. Hasn’t Had A Date In Months. How many cookies have you been baking?”

“I just told you I had a date at the Eiffel Tower.”

“If it wasn’t in People, it didn’t happen.”

“People doesn’t know everything.”

“Nah, but we do.” Wyatt’s had enough whiskey that he’s loosening up and starting to grin. “If you had someone worth us knowing about, we’d know it. And we know you’re in a dry spell.”

“You’re getting old,” Tripp says. “Priorities change. Performance can suffer. It happens. But we’re here for you if you need us.”

“Here for you for sure, man.” Beck returns to the table with the mother of all cheeseballs on a platter that could hold a Thanksgiving turkey, with six boxes of assorted crackers tucked under his arm.

He’s long and lanky and built to carry inhuman amounts of food in creative ways.

“You want a matchmaking service?” he asks. “We’ll get you hooked up. Hollywood type? International? Girl next door? Someone into the freaky stuff? You name it, we’ll find you exactly what you’re looking for.”

Wyatt frowns at him. “You still have contacts for all that?”

“Nah, man. I’m calling Cash to get the hook-up. He’s playboying it up for us boring old married folk.”

“Dude. What am I?” I demand.

“A boring workaholic,” Tripp answers, and he and Wyatt dissolve into giggles again.

Beck lifts his phone, and the screen flickers to life with the fourth of our five-man band from back in the day. When we decided to end Bro Code, Beck turned to modeling underwear and then accidentally became a fashion mogul for people who like comfortable clothes. Tripp retired from it all to get married, have kids, finish the finance degree he started while we were touring, and get into business. Cash Rivers went to Hollywood and is killing it as an actor. Davis Remington, the youngest of all of us, went to college for dual degrees in nuclear engineering and computer science, and now works an hour or so south of Copper Valley. None of us are certain what he does, or if he actually works for the reactor down there like he says he does, but given why we called it quits with Bro Code, odds are good he couldn’t tell us even if we asked.

Or maybe wouldn’t.

I think he likes us thinking he has secrets.

Cash wrinkles his trademark nose at us. He’s either on a movie set or he’s living on painkillers, because his nose is the only thing about him that looks normal. His eye’s bruised, there’s blood dripping off his cheek, and his lip is split. “What the hell? You having a bachelor party without me?”

“Not yet,” Tripp says. “We’ll call you when you’re not invited to that too.”

Cash flips us all off.

Tripp and Wyatt crack up.

Lightweights. They wouldn’t be laughing if they weren’t tipsy.

“What happened to your face?” I ask.

“Marco the makeup man. Want me to book him for Tripp’s wedding? You should see this guy’s zombie work.”

Mr. Serious Older Brother hasn’t had enough booze to let that go. He starts wagging a finger. “I’m not having a zombie wedding.”

“Could he give the whole wedding party dragon horns?” I ask.

Beck pumps a fist. “Oh, hell, yeah. Tripp, dude, you have to wear dragon horns to your wedding. Bring in the baseball mascots too.”

My brother gives us all the shut up eye. “Not why we called you,” he says to Cash.

“Right,” Beck says around a mouthful of cheeseball. “Levi needs a girl. We need you to find the matchmaker.”

I roll my eyes. “I don’t need a girl.”

“Like a reputation-enhancing girl, or a short-term fun girl, or are you looking to join the ball-and-chain club?” Cash asks.

“I don’t—”

Beck slings an arm around me. “Even his mom’s getting some. Poor guy.”

“What?”

Tripp falls out of his chair and echoes my question from the floor.

“Shut up, Ryder.” Wyatt throws a cracker at him.

“No, keep talking,” Cash says. “Ms. Wilson’s getting her freak on!”

“My mother is not getting her freak on.”

Beck shoots a guilty look at Wyatt. “Was that a secret?”

“Yes, you bonehead.”

Now he’s looking between me and Tripp, who’s pulling himself off the floor and looking very, very sober. “Whoops.”

“Who is he?” Tripp demands.

My fists are clenched. “Have either of our people vetted him?”

“Lighten up.” Wyatt tips his chair back and grins at both of us. “Your mom has good taste.”

“And my mom likes him,” Beck says. “So does Sarah, and you know she’s suspicious of strangers.”

“Who. Is. He?” Tripp repeats.

Beck takes another bite of cheeseball. “He’s not the answer to the question of who Levi needs to get laid with.”

Wyatt snorts.

I shove him, and his chair tips over backward.

Tripp’s on his feet, dialing his phone.

Beck dives for him. “You can’t call your mom during poker night. It’s a rule.”