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Now this is the kind of Vegas I can get behind.
“Damn, Flynn, you’re up early.”
I glance over my shoulder to find my eldest brother Remy shuffling toward the kitchen, most likely in search of coffee, and jerk my head toward the clock on the wall. He follows my gaze and cringes to himself.
“Shit. It’s already eleven?”
I cover my smile with a sip from my coffee cup and turn back to face the window. I have a feeling the quiet atmosphere outside is compliments of many, many people in a state like my brother Remington.
Compared to the rest of my three brothers, I’m always the early bird who gets the worm, but when it comes to this weekend, it’s mostly because I don’t drink like a fucking fish. A beer or two is about as far as I get. And without me there to keep them in check last night, I can only imagine how close to dead they all came. This morning, of course—well, it’s a whole other story entirely.
Remy sets the Keurig to brew, and a groan escapes his lips as he puts his hand to his head. “I never should’ve agreed to do tequila shots last night. Ty and Jude are fucking assholes.”
Why he’d ever think our youngest brothers would steer him in a good direction when it comes to alcohol is beyond me. Most of the time, he’s old and wise enough to hold himself above their standards, but for whatever reason, this weekend, he’s been caught in the drunken tide with them.
I quirk an eyebrow in his direction.
“Shut up,” Remy snaps, making just the corner of my mouth kick up into a subtle grin.
“I didn’t say anything,” I counter.
“Trust me, your look implied it all. Was it the shots—or the bourbon you chose to keep drinking with the shots?” he mocks in a sarcastic voice that I think is supposed to represent my own. It’s even more ironic that, because of my absence, I don’t have a fucking clue what he was drinking.
A laugh escapes my throat. Evidently, his subconscious sounds a hell of a lot like me.
“Now’s not the time for your fucking logic, man,” he grumbles, holding his head with his hand and stumbling back toward the bathroom.
My phone chimes inside the pocket of my jeans, and I pull it out to find a text from our baby sister, Winnie. A successful physician for the New York Mavericks and married with an eight-year-old daughter, she may be the youngest Winslow sibling, but she definitely isn’t a baby anymore. The pigtailed, knobby-kneed version of Winifred that we all grew up with is a distant memory at this stage in our lives.
Winnie: Anyone in jail?
A small grin raises one corner of my mouth as I type out a quick response.
Me: Nope.
Winnie: Everyone still alive?
Me: Yes. Although, the hangovers Rem, Ty, and Jude are going to be facing today will probably make them wish they were dead.
It takes a special amount of alcohol to make three grown men not even realize they were missing the fourth member of their group.
Winnie: Let me guess…Ty started with the damn tequila shots, and Jude succumbed quickly to the peer pressure.
I might not know the exact details of last night’s debauchery, but after forty-one years on this earth studying these morons, I have a pretty good idea.
Me: Something like that.
Winnie: I’m thankful at least one of my brothers is sane. Taciturn, but sane.
I shrug to myself. What can I say? I am who I am. Still, I wonder what Winnie would think of her one sane brother if she knew all the things about me I don’t tell her.
Winnie: Oh well. I’m just glad it’s your job to deal with them on the flight back home and not mine. I’ve never been good with barf bags. Love you, Flynn!
I shake my head on a soft smile.
Me: Love you too, smartass.
“You texting with that hot blonde from last night?”
I lift my eyes away from the screen of my phone to find Ty looking at me from the large leather sofa in the center of the living room. Jude sits beside him with his head resting back against the big plush pillows and his eyes sealed shut.
With dark circles under both of their eyes and stiff jaws punctuating their faces, it appears my prediction was correct.
Looks like the hangover gang is officially all here.
“What was her name, by the way?” Ty asks.
“Who?”
“The hot blonde who wanted to fuck you,” he comments on an annoyed sigh. “You know, the woman in the tight red dress at that karaoke bar off the Strip.”
Jude quirks one eye open to look at Ty. “We went to a karaoke bar last night??”
Ty’s face morphs from discomfort to hilarity, and a raspy chuckle jumps from his lungs.
Though, it takes Remy to actually answer Jude’s question. “Yeah, bro. And it was your stupid fucking request.”
