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“Are there strippers there?”
“Yeah, but none with an outie.”
Reading over my shoulder, Yvette asks, “What the fuck does that mean?”
“My belly button is an outie,” I explain, and she laughs way too hard as the booze makes everyone loopy and loud.
“Take a picture of the hottest dancer and send it to me,” I text Bear. “I want to know my competition.”
A few seconds later, he sends a picture of Golden dancing on stage with Sync. “They’re both so darned pretty. I can’t choose.”
Laughing, I show Siobhan who rolls her eyes. “Sync never danced with me, even at Carys’s wedding. Now, he’s getting groovy with Golden. I’d be insulted if I didn’t wish him the best of luck growing old with eighteen-year-old sluts taking turns spinning on his dick.”
Hunter changes chairs and comes to hug Siobhan. “It’s only a matter of time before you find someone who sees only you,” she promises our friend. “He’s going to make you crazy like Sync, but he’ll never stray.”
I glance at Yvette who knows we’re all thinking about her situation.
“I tried to be on my own,” she admits. “I even dated other men. After Claw was done with his slut and begging to come home, I said no. But those other men didn’t make me feel like he did when things were good,” she mumbles and then frowns. “Don’t judge me.”
“You’ve got to give your heart what it wants,” Hunter insists, and I notice her slurring her words. “Maybe it’s a cheating man or a guy named after a yummy meat. Or maybe it’s a sweet nanny or a biker who made a terrible mistake. But we can only do what feels best in the time we have left on this planet.”
“You’re so philosophical when wasted,” Siobhan tells Hunter while playing with her red pixie cut.
“You know what?” Bridezilla hollers from the other bachelorette party. She stumbles toward us as her friends try to stop her. “My man might not be a scumbag like yours, dumb bitch! But he keeps your ass safe at night, cunt!”
Before anyone from my group can decipher her gibberish—let alone deescalate the situation—a bottle crashes down next to our table.
“Protect the preggers!” Petra cries and runs to shield Carys.
Siobhan and Hunter block me. “You can’t get bruised up before the wedding,” Siobhan explains.
Bridezilla starts swinging as we back up toward our table. Before I get a black eye for my wedding, Hunter unleashes her Muay Thai and lands a solid punch right in the bitch’s face.
The women from the other party run screeching to their friend’s defense. Threats are made. Drinks are thrown.
Then, before they can reach our table, my security drops them. Tiaras and bad hair extensions fly in the air.
Still on the ground but stuck behind my merciless security, the drunken women fling shoes at us. As we crowd protectively around Carys, she eats the recently delivered quesadillas while texting someone. She also curses loudly when the women’s Mardi Gras beads rain down on us.
“Cavalry’s coming,” Carys finally announces.
Unfortunately, before our backup arrives, the police do. They only listen to Bridezilla—soon-to-be Lizzy Brennan—before rounding up my security team and handcuffing them.
Even sloshed from Jello shots, I’m very cognizant of how the fun is over, and I’m about to end my bachelorette party in the back of a police car.
BEAR
I don’t really want to hang out at a strip club. I’m already walking around sexually backed up and without relief. Why get myself riled up when I can’t be with Natasha for several more weeks? Seems like tonight is a recipe for a painful case of blue balls.
The only reason I agree to the party is because I’m on a schedule. This week, I have this bachelor party and a visit from Natasha and the kids at my place.
Next week is a big fucking party with the who’s who of Banta City. I have to dress up—Backcountry Kings-style—for that event. My people will attend, mostly as security and a sign of alliance with the Kovak Syndicate.
That’s a part of this marriage I hadn’t considered when I agreed years ago. I’m not shy. I don’t shrink under the judgment of others. Yet, the idea of putting on a show leaves me on edge.
“Just take care of Natasha and the kids,” Aunt Fred told me when I voiced my concerns about the engagement party. “Go where you’re supposed to go. Don’t worry about impressing anyone. People know you’re one of us. They won’t expect you to talk about Wall Street bullshit.”
After Aunt Fred broke things down, I felt in control. I’m not even upset about hitting up this strip club since it’s located only a few blocks from where Natasha is having her bachelorette party.
