“Eh, it was just a spot of leukemia,” I say, waving him off. “Typical Dad—always slipping someone a miracle cure before breakfast. He says hi, by the way.”
Way before I was born, our neighbors lost their matriarch to the same virulent strain of leukemia Benji had, and Dad had quietly made sure his company’s research department put their best people on it. Hardly anyone dies from that form of leukemia these days, but Dad never accepts any credit.
Dork, I think affectionately.
As Benji sends me a grateful smile, a familiar voice—stumbling and cursing—filters out from the ballroom doors. Grimacing, I send my buddy a quick salute and start running.
“Uh, hello,” Brant says, his voice like watery gravy. He taps the microphone right as I shove the bags of groceries into Jocelyn’s hands. “Is this thing on?”
I catch Maya’s eye. Brant and I had planned to make a speech later, so I don’t know what the hell he’s doing. This is…not good.
“I just wanted to say”—sniff—“to say thank you for coming tonight. I’m sure the, uh…” His eyes drift up and to the side as if he isn’t sure of his next words. “Uh, the veterans really appreciate your contributions.”
Jesus.
His dad Preston and sister Margeaux are in the audience, and they are mortified.
My chest tightens as he not-so-surreptitiously dabs at his nose, then inhales deeply, as if setting up for a longer ramble. I jog up the stairs and give him a huge side hug, bodying him away from the podium. “Exactly, ladies and gentlemen, this has already been a wonderful evening so far, and I can’t wait to show our beloved veteran organizations how much we love and appreciate our service members.”
Maya sends the signal, and the waitstaff serves half-filled flutes of champagne to our attendees. She snags one and brings it to me, pointedly ignoring Brant.
“So,” I say, plastering on a lazy grin, “let’s raise a toast to Veterans’ Space for their work in ensuring that the phrase ‘homeless veteran’ is eradicated from our language, and the Rainbow Brigade, for supporting our LGBTQIA+ folks in the armed services.”
The attendees seem to enjoy being reminded that they’re eating and drinking for a good cause, so even though I hate champagne, I make a show of lifting my glass and downing the entire thing like a real party boy. Amused laughter sprints around the room, assuring me that I’ve sufficiently distracted them from the fact that my co-chair is zooted out of his fucking gourd.
God, I hope he’s not cutting his blow with fentanyl. Not even his family could save him if his political opposition got wind of that.
In this precise moment—as if I’ve conjured a political nightmare with my errant thoughts—uniformed officers file into the ballroom and up to the podium with the determination of ants at a picnic. I’m pushed aside as Brant is surrounded.
Shit.Did they catch him snorting blow on tape?
The only guy wearing a suit—he’s hot, but God does he need a tailor—pulls Brant’s arms behind his back and starts cuffing him. “Brantley Whitaker, you are under arrest for embezzlement and fraud.”
Wait, what?Fraud?
Also, why do I know this arresting officer?
Considering Brant ran his campaign on cleaning up the corrupt Texas government, this is bad. Really, really bad.
I gesture at the crowd of gasping onlookers. “Uh, couldn’t y’all have done this after?”
The familiar officer in the ill-fitting suit shrugs. “Guess that’s what Mr. Whitaker gets for calling the attorney general a—what was it?”
“A second-rate asshole who enjoys being pegged,” Brant spits out.
Not helpful.
“I mean…who doesn’t like a good pegging?” I say, acting like it’s no big deal that this entire night is crashing down around my shoulders.
The attendees, enthralled by this turn of events, laugh.
“Get my dad,” Brant pleads, struggling against the officers.
“Mm. Daddy won’t be able to help you out of this one,” the officer in the suit responds, a smug grin on his smug face.
I don’t like Brant’s dad for a bunch of reasons, but hot, shitty suit guy has it all wrong. Whoever is responsible for this arrest and ridiculous charges is about to have a very bad day.
Where did Preston go?
