“Yeah, he’ll love doing that when he’s too hungover to blink tomorrow,” Lauren replied. She glanced toward me, a questioning look in her eye. “Walk with me?”
I nodded, and we departed after another round of hugs. “Any idea where they’ll be?”
“They ate on Berkeley Street, and I’m guessing they either went to M at the Mandarin Oriental or Eastern Standard. Sam’s probably the ringleader, and I bet he’s all about M. That boy is hooked up at all the VIP spots.”
Thankfully, Shannon’s apartment on the southern slope of Beacon Hill was only a few blocks from the Common and Boylston Street, and the trek in nude heels wasn’t treacherous but it did force me to shorten my steps. I gazed at gorgeous brick homes as we strolled, thinking back to the snowy day in January when I hiked these streets after my interview with Patrick and Shannon.
At the edge of the Common, Lauren grabbed my wrist and pointed across the intersection. “Do you see what I see?”
And there they were: four well-dressed, strikingly handsome hooligans stumbling and shoving each other, howling with laughter, and looking like trouble. They crossed toward the park and nearly walked right by us.
That whiskey must have been fabulous.
“Dude, dude, it’s Princess Jasmine and Miss Honey!” Riley yelled, his fist landing on Patrick’s shoulder for emphasis.
Lauren and I glanced at each other, quickly shaking our heads. “I don’t know what it is about these kids and nicknames,” she muttered, “but you’re an official member of the club now.”
“Miss Honey?” I asked.
“You know,” she shrugged. “FromMatilda? That sweet, innocent teacher?”
“Oh yeah,” I replied. “They don’t know you at all.”
“Nope,” Lauren giggled.
Riley wrapped his arm around my shoulder. “You’re like really high priced call girls.”
Patrick squinted, studying me as if he didn’t believe I was standing five feet away before grabbing the neck of Riley’s shirt. “Did you just call her a hooker?”
“No,” Riley replied, drawing the word out. “It’s just funny that they’re standing here, on the corner. And they’re really hot. So hot.”
“Come on, Matthew,” Lauren commanded, grabbing him by the belt and waving for a cab. “Time to put you to bed. And I have cake. Andy, text me tomorrow.”
“Whatever you do, do not eat that cake,” Patrick yelled. “It’s perverted!”
Lauren and I exchanged another confused glance as she poured Matt into a cab. Patrick maintained his hold on Riley’s collar, his gaze dark and unfocused. Against my better judgment, I pried his fingers away and wrapped my arm around his waist. “Enough of that,” I murmured, and he dropped a sloppy kiss on my mouth.
Sam wagged his finger between Patrick and me, a puzzled look crossing his face. “What…?”
Riley clapped Sam on the back and pointed down the street. “Are we going to M or what, man? The night’s young and so are we. And you said you’d introduce me to those actresses who were shooting that film in Southie.”
“Are you going to tell me what’s—”
“Nope.” Riley towed Sam toward Boylston Street. “Classified information.” They walked away, Sam glancing over his shoulder repeatedly before they detoured down a side street.
“Whiskey, huh?” We wandered through the park, my arm anchored on Patrick’s waist to minimize his wobbling.
“Whiskey is great,” he slurred. He was silent for a few moments, the sounds of my clicking heels echoing around us. “My aunt, my father used to say she was a tough old broad, she used to drink whiskey in bed with an alligator every night.”
“Yeah, I’m sure she did,” I replied.
“After my mother died, she came over with casseroles. So many casseroles. Chicken divan. Chicken à la king. Chicken cacciatore. Chicken pie. Chicken and dumplings. Fuckin’ chicken. One time, Shannon left it in the oven too long, Jesus, Shannon should not be allowed in a chicken.”
“You mean a kitchen?”
“That’s what I said. It is a fucking public health crisis when she tries to cook. And she left it in too long, and when she tried to get it out of the pan, my hand on the bible, the dish slipped off the counter and popped Sam square in the eye. That son of a bitch had a black eye for a month, and no one believed it was a casserole. They just assumed a girl beat the shit out of him. But that was a meatloaf.”
My apartment was closer and as we made our way to my floor, it was obvious that Patrick was in no shape for steep, narrow stairs, slipping and knocking his shins against the risers every few steps. “Fuckin’ stairs,” he groaned.
