Epilogue
One Year Later
Odd
We’re out at the vineyard, celebrating my father’s success. Dead Bastard, the wine he created for the Guardians who saved his life, was a hit among local vintners and spread like wildfire in the Central Texas wine scene. This week he brokered a deal with a larger grape provider and a popular regional wine distributor to sell Dead Bastard statewide.
Never mind the fact that when we arrived, we had to wait in the driveway while my parents put themselves back together. Anders and I roll our eyes at each other, more than a little familiar with this particular habit of theirs.
That said, the apple didn’t fall far from the tree, and DeShaun and I nearly showed up late after taking advantage of a little overlook Rafi told us about.
“See, look how disheveled they are. I told you they were getting hot and heavy at our overlook,” Rafi says, knocking his elbow into Everett’s side, looking smug.
Everett crosses his heavily tattooed arms, laughing at us. “Get your own overlook, you two.”
DeShaun, looking unfazed by the ribbing, plucks an invisible piece of lint from his shirt. “I regret nothing.”
The resulting laughter around the room shows how much has changed. I love that he’s more relaxed in front of our friends and that, even though we started as his subordinates, we’re all on even footing now. I’m looking forward to seeing them all again at Rafi and Everett’s wedding, which is next month. At my parents’ insistence, they’re having it out here at the vineyard. They’re keeping it simple, using a couple of marquee tents for the occasion, but Dad’s considering putting up a structure and making weddings a more permanent offering. Either way, the old gang loves a get-together, and since Anders and Omar snuck off to Vegas to get married, this might be the last big to-do for a while.
Jake and Jean-Pierre join us fashionably late, looking unaccountably beautiful, as usual. Jake is wearing leather breeches and a sheer top with a leather harness, all black, of course. Jean-Pierre is wearing two-thousand-dollar jeans and a vintage Gaultier T-shirt along with a pair of custom-designed tennis shoes from his line.
Jake walks up to DeShaun, giving him a big hug. DeShaun’s business has grown by leaps and bounds, in no small part to Jake’s security skills. And, perhaps, due to my consultative offerings.
“Have you two finally decided on a wedding date?” DeShaun asks Jake.
“No, but we did finally decide on a location in Montreal. It’s bigger than the place Celine Dion got married in. It’s ridiculous.”
Jean-Pierre, holding a glass full of Dead Bastard, walks up to the group, towering elegantly above all of us. “Is he complaining about the size of our wedding again?”
“I’m glad we’re already married,mon ange. We may perish before the family wedding.”
“You are my forever love,mon corbeau. Our paper wedding was lovely, yes, but our love requires a bare minimum of spectacle. Designer tuxes take time. Bespoke floral design takes time. And Celine isn’t available until next year.”
Honestly, I can’t tell if he’s joking about the Celine part or not. All I know is that we’re gonna enjoy the hell out of it, and I’m looking forward to seeing my man in a suit.
Thane and Ronan arrive twenty minutes late, which is an improvement but understandable, considering that Amelia is only four months old.
Ronan, looking tired but happier than I’ve ever seen him waves at us. “Sorry, y’all. ‘Melia urped up all over Thane’s shirt right as we got into the car.”
Anders lights up. “Is that my precious niece?”
Thane shrugs. “She’d be a little more precious if she didn’t always aim right for me. She could just as easily throw up on Ro.”
Anders ignores Thane’s good-natured grumbling and throws open his arms. “Amelia!”
Amelia hears her favorite uncle and starts giggling uncontrollably. He rushes over and relieves her of her car seat, spinning her around and singing her favorite song, ever. “Bodies” by Drowning Pool.
Omar stands by me and DeShaun, shaking his head. “There’s gonna be a day when he finally decides we’re done with murder, and he’s gonna go straight from that to diving headfirst into diapers.”
DeShaun surveys the situation in front of us and nods in agreement. “I’d say that’s a near certainty. How do you feel about that?”
Omar bites his lower lip and sighs heavily. “There’s no other serial killer I’d rather have children with.”
“That ain’t right,” Parker says, joining us in the living room.
Omar points at Abigail, his brow perfectly arched. “Pot, kettle.”
“Yeah, but my serial killer is way prettier.” Parker kisses Abigail’s cheek for emphasis.
