Handful by C.R. Grissom
CHAPTER FOUR
Everest
This week has been nonstop. The move, and the wedding preparations. Grams and Gavin are sweethearts. I would have done anything they asked me to do with or without Phoebe’s direction.
I never knew my grandparents. Both sets died before I was born. As far as family goes, I have Mom and my sisters. My teammates are my brothers.
Tonight we’ll hang out in different rooms at La Dama Hermosa, a private club near the Pasatiempo Golf Course in Santa Cruz. Alan, the best man, is a member and arranged for the bride and groom to have separate rooms to celebrate their last nights of singledom.
Alan planned Gavin’s stag party. A poker table will be set up for the men after dinner in the billiard room. Cigars and whiskey will be served on the adjoining wraparound porch. I’m looking forward to it.
Agnes planned the bridal celebration. Who knows what she has in store for entertainment. James, Agnes’s boyfriend, mentioned Alan’s pull with the club allowed Agnes to get away with her shenanigans. I grin at the thought.
James and Agnes are well matched.
Alan arranged for stretch limos to cart us all to and from the venue since drinking will be involved. I hope one day when I’m their age, I’ll remain in touch with my brothers. That time or distance won’t change the way we have each other’s backs.
I’m wearing the only suit I own for tonight’s activities. A navy-blue tailored suit with a pale gray dress shirt and a blue tie with thin, wine-colored diagonal stripes. I’m particular about the suit—it cost a small fortune because of my size.
There are times when Coach requires us to wear suits. It gets dry-cleaned after each use. I take it to Dolores at her dry-cleaning business in Campbell. She does expert alterations and repair, if a seam starts to unravel. She’s an absolute sweetheart and doesn’t overcharge for her work.
When you’re my size, things need to be altered to fit. Of course the tiny woman needs to haul out a stepladder to do fittings for me, but she makes it work.
I have four different dress shirts and ties in my closet to change up the look. When you don’t have a lot of disposable cash, you take care of what you have. I step out of my bedroom.
One of my roommates, Dex, and his girlfriend Kelly, snuggle on the couch watching an action movie. A chain of cars blows up as the hero dodges flying bumpers, bullets, while weaving through wreckage on a Harley.
Kelly turns her attention away from the TV and whistles. “Damn. If I wasn’t with Dex I’d give you a chance to make me happy.”
My lips curve. Kelly happens to be one of my favorite people. “If it wouldn’t risk a knife to the heart, I’d jump at the chance.”
Dex mutters, “Damn straight.”
Kelly snickers and elbows Dex playfully. “Where are you off to tonight?”
“Phoebe’s granny is getting married New Year’s Eve. Tonight we’re heading to La Dama Hermosa for eats, drink, and poker. The ladies have their own entertainment planned.”
“That place is supposed to be amazing and exclusive.” Dex whistles. “You have friends in high places.”
“They’re good people. Grounded, interesting, and often hilarious,” I muse.
“Grannies and grampies?” Kelly exclaims. “I bet it’s one of those paint and wine evenings for the ladies.”
She doesn’t know the cyclone named Agnes. “One could hope.”
My cell pings with a text. I check the screen and see it’s from TJ. His text reads:
We just turned down your street. Meet us outside.
I reply: OMW.
“My ride’s here. Have a good night.” I head out the front door in time to see the limo—long, black, and elegant—swing to the curb in front of my place. Sweet.
The driver exits the vehicle. He wears a black suit, bright white shirt, and charcoal-colored tie. He walks around the limo to the passenger door in the back. “Mr. McBride,” he greets me, pulling open the door.
I climb inside. TJ and CW lift their beer bottles in toast. As soon as the door closes, CW passes me a bottle of 805 beer. I clank my bottle against theirs.
A memorable first—beers in the back of a stretch limo with my best friends—it makes the beer taste crisper, and the experience more meaningful.
We pull into Shades of Willow Glen, the retirement community where Grams and the rest of her friends live. James, Gavin, and the best man, Alan, climb into the car with us. Scotch is poured and passed around to the older men.
We stick to beer.
The drive up the mountain to Santa Cruz doesn’t take long. Gavin entertains us with the story of Alan’s bachelor party held back in the seventies. He’s a good storyteller. The men flew to Vegas to celebrate. He explains how one of the groomsmen dared another groomsman to sneak backstage at Charo’s show to get a pic with the sexy headliner at the Conga Room in the Sahara Casino.
After some fast-talking by Gavin, general pleading by Alan, and promises to stay far away from the property, the stag party participants were shown the door. Charo never posed with the men or gave them her signature move—the cuchi-cuchi.
“Damn Stumpy. He was a harmless, but harebrained bastard.” Alan grins at the memory. “Too bad he chain-smoked for most of his life. I miss his homely face.”
“Aye,” Gavin agrees, lifting his glass. “To Stumpy.” His voice as smooth as the scotch from his homeland.
We leave the freeway at the exit for the Pasatiempo Golf Course. Soon we’re winding through the area on what must be a single-lane road. It’s dark and trees create a canopy, obliterating all else. I don’t know how the driver found the private road that leads to La Dama Hermosa. A discreet iron signpost with a painted wooden placard of a woman wearing a bell-shaped gown offers the only clue to the location of the access road.
We drive another quarter of a mile before the lane opens up and the Spanish mission-style mansion shimmers with light at the end of the drive. Giant redwood trees provide a backdrop for the manse.
The limo pulls in behind another limo already parked in front of the portico. I assume the women have already arrived. TJ, CW, and I fall into step behind Gavin, James, and Alan. We’re welcomed to the establishment by the host who wears formal black. He escorts us to a private room where dinner will be served.
Once seated, our personal bartender, wheels in a vintage bar cabinet. The liquor sits behind two doors. Eyeballing the selections of bourbon, scotch, and aged rum, I notice many of the bottles are older than I am. There’s a bottle of Macallan 25, another of Pappy Van Winkle, and an Appleton Estate 21 Jamaican Rum. Gin, vodka, and high-end tequila bottles fill the cabinet.
Alan must be loaded. Private club. Separate rooms for the men and women of the wedding party and a setup crew for both. Serious money. It’s a freaking privilege to be included.
CW orders aged rum on the rocks. TJ asks for the Whistle Pig Rye, poured over three cubes of ice. When it’s my turn to order I turn to Alan. “Any suggestions?”
He points at the bottle of High West, Midwinter Night’s Dram. “Ice okay?” Alan asks me.
I nod.
“Pour the boy two fingers over a single rock,” he murmurs to our server.
Our server works efficiently. I watch while he builds the old-fashioned for James. Gavin orders the Macallan poured neat and asks for a drop of water to be added to the scotch. The bartender uses an actual dropper to fulfill Gavin’s request.
Once we’re served, Alan raises his glass. “To my good friend Gavin and his lovely Simone. May the most you ask for, be the least you both receive.”
We clink our glasses in the center of the table.
Gavin grins. “Slàinte mhath, my friends. Thank ye for liftin’ a dram wit’ an auld yin.”
My drink is potent. The rye is full-bodied, but smooth. I like the way the spirit warms its way down my throat.
Alan gestures to my glass. “What do you think?”
“It’s perfect, sir. Thank you.”
We’re given menus without prices, which makes me slightly uncomfortable since I’m not paying for my meal. I’m careful with money and prefer not to mooch off the hospitality of others. Checking the menu, I decide to order French onion soup to start and the pork tenderloin for the entrée, guessing Wagyu beef or lobster entrées would be costlier.
TJ orders a salad instead of soup, and the pork as well, while Caleb orders lobster bisque and beef bourguignon.
Over dinner Alan reveals that he and his wife, Molly, founded a private security company. Focused on providing elite personal security to the Valley’s A-list CEOs, explaining the source of his income. Molly was one of the first women hired into the Secret Service back in the early seventies. She’s currently in the other private room along with the rest of the women celebrating Grams tonight.
I’m surrounded by badass men—since James and Gavin are no slouches either. One day I’ll make my own mark in the Valley.
After dinner, we move to the back veranda where our bartender brings out a humidor filled with a selection of cigars and another round of drinks. Heaters positioned along the overhang provide much-needed warmth since the temperature hovers somewhere in the thirties.
My breath fogs to join the cigar smoke. At the other end of the veranda, movement draws my attention. Kirsty steps outside. She’s alone. Her hair, long and loose, curls into long coils that reach her waist. Twenty yards away I’m able to see the tension in her stance, in the way she holds her body. She’s wearing a mini skirt and sky-high heels. Her creamy-white shoulders are bare. My blood starts to hum, but I ignore it. She must be freezing. The heaters aren’t fired at her end of the veranda.
She’s staring at her phone and takes two shaky steps toward the railing to lean against the wood and stare out at the grounds.
I set my cigar in the block of crystal the club provided as an ashtray. Leaning toward CW, “I’ll be right back,” I utter softly.
When I join her, I pass Kirsty my suit jacket. “Here. Put this on. You’re cold.”
She startles. “Oh. Ha-ha.” She places a hand over her heart. “You scared me.”
Kirsty allows me to drape the jacket over her shoulders. It envelops her, hitting her knees. Hitching my voice low, I ask, “What’s wrong?”
“Men suck.” She tips her face up to meet my gaze. “Specifically my ex.”
Her eyes have a sheen that makes me want to hurt the man responsible for the cat-green of her pretty gaze going glossy with emotion.
She hisses out a breath. “Why are people compelled to put crap up on social media? Why can’t private things stay private?” She pitches her voice low.
I assume she doesn’t want to call attention to herself. Pressure spikes along my nerve endings in sympathy and with the knowledge I probably can’t help. “What did he do?”
She shows me her phone. The KickBack app is launched, and she was tagged in a post. Her ex posted a pic of them with her face scrubbed out, captioned:
Fading all non-essential people from my life @kirsty.durnin #SheDidntListen #HerLoss #TooBadUWontGrad #IWontRescueU
Rescue?Over the past few days Kirsty made an impression on me. She isn’t someone who needs help. She’s an ass kicker with a sharp sense of self and a wicked sense of humor. “He’s an ass, but you already know that.”
She shrugs. “This will sound awful, but I’m going to say it anyway. I’m angry enough to voice it.”
I’m intrigued now. “Go on, I won’t judge you.”
“In the world of desserts and men, Daniel’s tapioca. Not your first pick at the buffet—but once you get used to the weird texture—you don’t notice the bland flavor. That’s on me.”
Ouch.How do my former lovers compare me? An ice cream sundae or dulce de leche? Ego much? “To translate. You cruised along and didn’t pay attention.”
Her dimple pops with her smirk. “Daniel wrongly assumed I’d change my mind about transferring to Fortis. He believed in the—” she curls her index fingers into air quotes “—fairy tale.”
Cinderella? Belle? “Which one? I’m partial to Tinker Bell.”
She rolls her eyes. “He expected us to get married. I wanted a movie buddy.”
“Hmm.” Marriage at our age? Yikes. “In order to save face, he decides to take your breakup to social media to diminish you? He’s a fool.”
“Yeah.” She takes off my jacket and passes it back to me. “I’ve got to get back before Faith sends out a search party. Thanks for the ear.”
“Anytime.” I watch her walk away from me. Her shoes boost her height to about five six. What the heels do for her legs is another thing entirely. An indulgence on my part. I force myself to glance away when she steps through the door and back into the foyer.
I shrug into my jacket and rejoin the others. CW sends me a questioning look. I shake my head. He interprets the move correctly: not now, we’ll talk later. Kirsty didn’t deserve the social media snipe. Her ex is a jackass.
The cigar I left behind went out. I relight it, then lift my glass of whiskey to my mouth. The liquor slides down my throat, warming my insides. Like Kirsty, I wonder why people have to take personal matters to social media. Prick.
CW leans in. “What happened to Kirsty?” he asks in a low-pitched voice.
“Ex posted to KickBack about how he’s moving on.”
CW shakes his head. “Rookie. If you have to post, you haven’t moved on.”
I nod. “Truth.”
He clinks his glass to mine. “Are you going to call dibs?”
What?“Why?”
He shrugs. “I know you, brother. When your gaze lands on her, your face reveals all. You have a thing for Kirsty.”
Maybe. Probably. “Difficult to start something with a woman who lives on the East Coast.”
He takes a mouthful of rum, swallows, then adds, “She’ll move here in August.”
“Last I checked the calendar still reads December.”
He snorts out a laugh. “Yeah, funny thing about time—it flies.”
I drink my whiskey to avoid answering him. I take a pull from my cigar, blow out the smoke. Drink more whiskey to mask the smoky taste in my mouth. CW has a point about time and my attraction for Lilly.
Alan stands, gestures us inside. “Gentlemen, it’s time to play a hand or two of poker.”
I stub out my cigar. Follow the men inside and contemplate whether I should ignore Lola’s friend. The good news is that I don’t have to decide right this minute. I can let it all simmer while I figure out whether I want to put my knuckles on the line to wait for the whistle to blow.
*
Agnes hired strippers.I can’t get my mind around that simple fact. James just dropped that tidbit when he folded his last hand.
CW nearly chokes on rum. “What?”
“Dancers,” James corrects. “Technically not strippers. They’ll do a sexy dance or something. Take off their shirts or what all. Agnes was determined.” He shrugs.
Will they be age-appropriate strippers? Whose age, though—Grams or closer to our age? The thought of Grams, Agnes and the rest being entertained by shirtless men makes me pause. Will they stuff money into their waistbands? Huh.
I bark out a laugh at the thought.
Best not to think about that type of thing. Focus on the cards you’re dealt not the fact that Lilly might be pawing through her wallet looking for cash. The hand I’m dealt won’t win me any money. No bluff would get me far enough into the game to matter. I fold.
I stand, tell the men at large at the table: “Need to find the men’s room. Be right back.”
Heading out of the room and down the hall, I run into Lilly and Lola, the latter with her arm wrapped around Lilly. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
“Yes,” Lilly declares firmly. “He deserves a payback.”
“Maybe you can wait until we think things through?” Faith encourages.
“Nope.”
I hear the succinct pop at the end of the word. “Everything okay?”
“Fabby-marv,” Lilly answers, her voice filled with determination.
Uh-oh. Her expression looks feral. Someone’s going to get it. “Need an assist?”
“I’ve got this.”
Faith shoots me a helpless look. Shakes her head. Hiccups. Which tells me she’s stressed—she only hiccups when she’s anxious.
I direct my question to Lola. “Seriously, I’m handy in times of crisis.”
“I know.” She blows out a breath. “We’re good.”
“What was the highest mountain in the world before Mount Everest was discovered?”
Lola shakes her head. “I don’t know.”
“Mount Everest; it just wasn’t discovered yet. I’ll be playing poker in the next room awaiting discovery.”
“That’s not a riddle, that’s a dad joke,” she groans.
She’s right, definitely can’t use that one again.
Lola opens a door and music blasts out. I get a glimpse of the dancers. There’s about six of them. At a glance, they range in age from midtwenties for the youngest, to midforties for the rest of the crew. Looks mostly harmless, but the guy dressed like a fireman has his gaze fixed on Lilly.
I make eye contact, giving him the same death stare reserved for the defensive line of any opposing team. I’m told it telegraphs my intent to pancake anyone in my path. The dude stands up straighter, but also takes a tiny step backward in retreat. Good.
Back off, buddy, the lady’s off-limits.
The door closes behind Lola and Lilly as they rejoin the other women. Christ. I guess I’ll have to call dibs. CW will love the fact he knew I’d do it before I did.
I stalk off toward the men’s room feeling disgruntled. Too much energy and nowhere to put it. I imagine ramming my fist into the fake firefighter’s face and my mood brightens.
On my way back to the room to rejoin the men, I glance at the closed door and stare imaginary holes through the wood. Can’t do anything about it. Dammit. I blow out a breath. Silly to let my protective instincts ruin a good time. Lilly can handle herself, regardless of what her asshat ex-boyfriend posted about rescues.