Total pages in book: 121
Estimated words: 114793 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 574(@200wpm)___ 459(@250wpm)___ 383(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114793 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 574(@200wpm)___ 459(@250wpm)___ 383(@300wpm)
Webb leaned heavily against me, swaying slightly, and muttered, “Why am I the only one struggling?”
I grinned. “Because Ira’s a liar and a cheat. He didn’t drink half of what you did.”
Webb blinked at me like I’d just told him Santa was fake. “He what?”
“Poured half of it into the plant and swapped the rest with you guys.”
Webb groaned, rubbing his face. “The old bastard outplayed us.”
From up ahead, Ira called over his shoulder, “That’s called wisdom, son!”
Getting the guys back to the hotel was a mission in itself. Jackson, barely upright, tried to bribe a bellhop with thirty bucks and a novelty dice keychain, begging to be “carried like Cleopatra.” Meanwhile, Marcus made a beeline for a decorative fountain, insisting it was “quieter than the lobby” as he attempted to climb in with all the grace of a sleep-deprived toddler.
Elijah kept insisting we stop for hot dogs even though he already had one. From where no one knew. Jesse lay down in the elevator and declared gravity was “too strong in this building.” And Webb—sweet, sunburned Webb—just leaned his head on my shoulder and whispered, “Never letting Ira host again.”
“Sure you’re not.”
Back in our room, I collapsed onto the bed with a wheezy laugh. My stomach hurt from laughing, my cheeks ached, and my heart felt full in a way I hadn’t realized I’d been missing.
This wasn’t the wedding. That was tomorrow. Tonight had been just us—a chaotic, wonderful, chosen family. And somehow, that made it even more perfect.
That thought left me the next morning when I had to help a very hungover Webb get ready for the wedding without throwing up and then helped the others herd our men into the cars to go to the venue. We ended up putting them in one of the cars on their own while we took the other one so that we had a break from the gagging, winging, and “I’m dying” declarations.
Webb
I was dying. Not in the poetic, dramatic sense—I was genuinely and physically dying.
Every bump the car hit felt like it shook loose another part of my soul, and I was convinced my skull had cracked down the middle sometime between brushing my teeth and collapsing into the backseat of this cursed vehicle. My sunglasses were on, but the light still felt like it was stabbing me directly in both eyeballs.
“Jesus,” Jesse groaned beside me, rolling down the window. The second the wind hit him, he made a sharp, wet gulping noise and leaned out of the car, mouth open.
That’s all it took. Jackson, who had been quietly suffering beside him, immediately recoiled and slid across the seat, smushing into my side like a cat avoiding a bath.
“Dude!” he hissed. “If he pukes, and the wind sends it back in here, I swear to God—”
I didn’t respond. Mostly because I was too busy also trying not to barf. The image of Jesse’s potential backdraft hit me hard, and I swallowed hard against the rising bile.
I glanced around the car. We all looked like death row inmates headed to the execution chamber. Gray faces, dry lips, and the kind of vacant expressions you only get after being emotionally and physically betrayed by tequila.
Marcus, sitting in the passenger seat with his face pressed to the window, finally broke the silence with a pitiful groan. “For the love of all that is holy,” he croaked, “do not throw up. Any of you. If one of you does, I will too, and I don’t know if I’ll stop.”
I closed my eyes. “I have no fluid left in my body to throw up.”
“Same,” Jackson mumbled.
“The old man killed me,” I added, weakly pressing my forehead to the cool window. “Right now, there's a mariachi band in my skull. It's pure chaos.”
We pulled up to the venue, looking like an Uber full of rejected zombies. No one moved for a full ten seconds, and then, like molasses being poured out of a cold jar, we spilled from the vehicle one at a time. I straightened up halfway before groaning and slumping forward again, hand on my stomach. Jesse dragged himself out last, still clutching the door frame like he was unsure gravity would stay loyal to him.
Elijah stumbled up beside me, eyes bloodshot behind his shades. “What are the chances,” he rasped, “that this is a silent wedding? No music. No sudden noises. Just… quiet appreciation and loving glances?”
I looked at him, and we shared a moment of deep, spiritual understanding...and dread.
“Zero,” I sighed, and we all trudged toward the entrance like we were marching into battle.
Inside, the venue was stunning—featuring floral arrangements, soft lighting, and elegant seating—but some twisted soul had chosen an all-white and gold color scheme, and the reflections off every surface were blinding.
Without a word, as if rehearsed, all five of us reached into our jacket pockets and pulled out sunglasses, sliding them back on like the broken, hungover boy band we now were.