I bark out a laugh. “Fuck off.”
I turn back to the waitress, who is waiting with elegant patience. “I’ll have a…”
I pause, again, looking at my asshole teammates.
“Uh-huh. Go on. Say it,” Declan teases.
“Fine. Fuck it,” I mutter. “I’ll have a Sazerac, but instead of straight whiskey, I want a split base of rye and cognac. And skip the Herbsaint. Rinse the glass with Absinthe instead.”
Matteo and Declan exchange a look before bursting into laughter.
“Yes,” Declan says, toasting me with an imaginary glass. “Clearly, I’m the pompous one.”
Since I’m one of the few on the team with a key card, my teammates treat my membership like a golden ticket whenever they want to misbehave without the threat of a lens. The Supper Club has one iron-clad rule: what happens behind the velvet curtains stays behind them. It’s the only place in Georgia where a man like me can actually breathe without someone waiting for me to slip up and fall.
I learned the hard way that falling is expensive, and back in boarding school, one mistake nearly cost Croix and me our spots in the championship game. Croix was the one who had my back then. Being from Ireland, he always said he had a deeper understanding of classism and racism than most Europeans, especially given the history between the Irish and the English. Croix made damn sure the local kids knew I was never standing alone. He was always nearby.
I returned the favor the day four of them cornered him after school. They were claiming Croix had been rude to some kid’s sister—a blatant lie. Croix is the biggest protector of women I’ve ever met. He was raised by a single mother and is the only boy among three sisters. He doesn't have a disrespectful bone in his body.
When I saw we were clearly outnumbered, I decided to go full David and Goliath. I spotted a pile of landscaping rocks and started pummeling the group. I wasn't just throwing pebbles, either. I was aiming to take their heads off for messing with my friend. If one of the bystanders hadn’t eventually corroborated our self-defense claim, I would’ve been expelled. I likely wouldn’t be where I am today. Even if, at the moment, I’m only getting there with a limp.
I promised myself I’d never get into that kind of trouble again. I’m just not sure if my marriage was covered in the fine print of that promise.
Tonight, the music from the lounge is a muted growl beneath the floorboards. I nurse my drink, trying to ignore the fact that in less than twelve hours, my “contractual” wife will be standing in my home.
I’d much rather have her sitting on my face. But we have plenty of time for that.
“You're brooding again, Captain,” Declan mutters, sliding a plate of wings toward me.
“I'm not brooding,” I lie, watching the amber liquid swirl in my glass. “I'm strategizing. And I’m not the captain, yet.”
Matteo’s attention drifts the second two women walk by. They clearly recognize him, flashing the kind of smiles only the most adoring fans can give—adoring and half-naked.
Matteo used to be pathologically shy, but ever since he broke things off with his girlfriend, he’s been making up for lost time by indulging in every distraction that crosses his path. He stands up without a word, abandoning Declan and me as if we’ve suddenly become invisible.
Since Declan is one of the only other men I know who survived a reality TV trainwreck and an accidental marriage, he’s become a necessary sounding board. He seems happily married. Mostly. Even if his wife, Marlow, keeps texting him pictures of machetes, promising a veryshortfuture for him if he so much as looks at another woman. I’ve heard the stories about Marlow Mills. She has a world-class arm and a habit of throwing things. Since I have no intention of pissing off a pregnant woman with a penchant for sharp objects, I do my best to keep Declan occupied.
I glance over just as he’s sliding his phone back into his pocket, the screen likely still glowing with a fresh threat from his wife.
“So. Married life,” I say, a nervous laugh escaping me. “It’s been good to you so far?”
He laughs, his Italian accent thickening, the vowels dragging now that the alcohol has begun to settle in. “It is what we make of it, Luca. Marlow and me, we’re both insanely stubborn people who love fiercely. She is nothing like any woman I have ever met before, but I knew she had to be mine the instant I heard her voice.”
I take a slow sip of my drink, the absinthe-laced cognac burning a path down my throat. “I know the feeling,” I say. “Intimately.”
Movement catches my eye, and I turn just in time to see Matteo begin to drown in debauchery. He’s greedily kissing one woman while her friend takes two of his fingers into her mouth, licking and sucking them with an unashamed hunger that borders on feral.
I turn away, shaking my head. “Téo seems to be having enough fun for the both of us tonight.”
“What are you talking about? I’m having a great time talking to you,” Declan counters.
“Even while getting death threats from your wife?” I joke.
He laughs. “Keeps the sex more interesting.”
I raise a brow. “She’s pregnant.”
Declan laughs. “The sex is even more insane,” he admits.
