I quickly typed back to our wedding planner, the honorable Ciara Moses-Wilmington or whatever her name was.
What about the backup ranuncules...ranunculeses...ranunculi? In case something happens to the first ranunculeese?
There are no backup ranunculus. There are PLENTY of flowers. Please go enjoy your bachelor party.
But what if?—
Christopher. Take a breath. Breathe in the inner peace. And stop texting me.
I hadn’t even finished my text before she sent that reply. Sometimes I thought she was a witch. The magical kind, not the bitchy kind.
I shoved my phone back in my pocket as several bouncers appeared, opening black umbrellas and lining our path to discourage any paparazzi from snapping photos of the Denver Mustangs’ starting lineup entering a mysterious back-alleyestablishment. Inside, the lighting shifted to a dim red glow that reminded me of a darkroom.
A gentleman in a suit appeared and led us up a narrow staircase, through a brick hallway that did nothing to ease my concerns about where we were headed. For a moment, I genuinely wondered if my sweet, innocent brother had accidentally booked us into an underground fight ring.
Then the door at the end of the hall opened, and we stepped into what I could only describe as an old-fashioned speakeasy. Low lighting, jazz playing softly, velvet everything. Okay. This was nicer than expected.
“Welcome to The Siren’s Den.” Another guy in a suit, this one with an accent that split the difference between Southern gentleman and New York cabbie, gestured toward a row of tables facing a stage. “Everyone have a seat. We’ll get your drink orders shortly.”
A stage. With six stripper poles.
Great.
My phone buzzed again.
Ciara
Also, the grounds crew has already rearranged to make room for the second fancy porta potty you requested as a back up.
I hadn’t even texted her about the back up for the back up. She was getting preemptive now.
They are LUXURY TOILET TRAILERS
I’m turning my phone off.
She wasn’t going to turn her phone off. She was a professional. But I appreciated that she wanted to.
The waitresses approached wearing short, sparkly dresses with trays around their necks like cigarette girls from old movies. They offered an array of drinks, craft cocktails, local beers, something called the Green Fairy that was literally on fire. I ordered a pilsner and tried to relax.
This place was actually beautiful, now that I was looking. Restored brick, original woodwork, the kind of vintage details Trixie would love. A touch of vampire, this was New Orleans after all. And it was completely empty except for us.
“Hayes,” I whispered, leaning over. “Is this place even open?”
“It is for us.” He looked pleased with himself. “I rented out the whole club.”
Smart. No random strangers snapping photos of the Mustangs’ QB1line at a strip club. But with fewer people to spread the attention around, that also meant more interaction with whoever was about to come out on those poles. I was not excited about this development.
Don’t get me wrong, I appreciated the effort. Hayes had thrown himself into best man duties with the same intensity he brought to studying game film. He’d read books on the subject. Made spreadsheets. Probably color-coded something. And if he thought this was an essential part of the bachelor party experience, then I was going to sit here and be a good sport about it.
But Trixie Moore had been my every fantasy since I was a teenager. Now that she was finally mine, finally about to be my wife, the last thing I wanted was to look at another woman. The only body I was interested in seeing was currently at her own party somewhere, hopefully thinking about me.
Appetizers materialized on the tables, enough food to feed an army. Crawfish egg rolls, boudin balls, gator bites. Hayes must have ordered ahead. My brothers descended on the spread like locusts. Nothing stood between a Kingman and food.
Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad. Good food, cold drinks, jazz music. Just a nice bar with some poles that I would politely ignore.
My phone buzzed.
Ciara
