by Colleen Collins - Hearts in Vegas (Harlequin Superromance)
More clapping and a few sniffles.
“Welcome to the family, Richmond.”
“Better learn how to make martinis!”
Then Li’l Bit stood, tears rolling down his face. He raised his Mai Tai, which now had two umbrellas, to Richmond and Glenda.
“You guys,” he said, his voice breaking, “you’re like the bomb, man.”
As he downed the rest of his drink, everyone clapped.
Val started to stand, then sat back down as Li’l Bit continued talking.
“Glenda, I memorized some dialogue from our favorite Inner Sanctum show, ‘The Skull That...’ ” He paused to wave his empty glass at a passing waiter.
Val shot a worried look at Braxton, as though he could stop this downhill train on its flaming collision course to hell.
He had to try. Nobody wanted a quote from the skull. “Li’l Bit,” he said, “maybe you can share this later with Grams.”
“It’s okay, dude, I remember the words.” He focused again on Grams. “Like I was sayin’, this is from that primo show ‘The Skull That Walked’ because it reminded me of you and Richmond.”
He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply.
“‘I know it sounds strange...fantastic...but it’s real, Helen,” he said in a deep, radio-announcer-like voice. “This thing seeks to dominate, to possess me. Lately, I have begun to feel its presence in my sleep, during my waking hours. It controls my actions like a hypnotist controls his subject.’”
He opened his eyes and cast a proud look around the table, seemingly unaware that he’d done anything out of the norm.
Braxton shot a look at Grams. To his astonishment, she was staring fondly at Li’l Bit as though his walking-skull recitation was beautiful. Even Richmond looked moved.
“Of course, that was about the invisible monster,” Li’l Bit said, back to his own voice again, “but I thought those words were right-on ’cause they describe—” his chin trembled “—the awesome power of your love.” He raised his empty Mai Tai glass. “Richmond, I love you, man. Welcome to the family.”
Welcome to the family?
Braxton raised his glass along with everyone else, not liking what he’d heard. Great if Li’l Bit wanted to hang out with his grandmother and Drake, but no way the dude was becoming a permanent fixture at their family get-togethers. He wasn’t flesh and blood. He hadn’t been there when Braxton was nine years old, sitting in the front row with his mom and Drake, bursting with pride as they watched Benedict Morgan accept an award from the mayor of Las Vegas for saving dozens of lives during a gangland shooting at Bally’s.
Li’l Bit didn’t know what it was like to be an outcast, to sit in the dark watching your childhood home that you couldn’t go back into, aching to be part of it again. Why did he get to waltz in when Braxton had had to crawl back?
Life might go on, man, but not with my family.
* * *
A SHORT TIME LATER, everyone at the table was eating, drinking, chatting. As Braxton dug into his rigatoni with eggplant puree, he checked out the other Italian dishes around the table—chicken cacciatore, spaghetti, lasagna—and a thick-crust large pizza smothered with ham, jalapenos and pineapple for Li’l Bit.
“Hey, bro,” Drake said, “did I see you in that dreamdate poster hanging in the lobby?”
“Yeah,” Braxton grumped, “Brad Pitt wasn’t available, so they asked for me.”
Li’l Bit, a chunk of pineapple stuck on his T-shirt, did a double take. “Wow, Brad Pitt’s gonna be in that auction, too?”
“No, dear,” Grams answered. “They’re joking. And that isn’t Braxton in the picture, either.”
“Oh, yeah, I knew that. Poster guy looks a lot younger. Hey, Brax, gonna shave your chest like that dude?”
“No.” He stabbed his fork at his rigatoni. Irked him to be called Brax by anybody other than family. Especially that anybody.
“I think it’s mandatory,” Drake said, fighting to keep a straight face.
“Think again. And by the way, I’m not that much older than poster boy and his fake tan and digitally enhanced six-pack.” He shoved the bite into his mouth.
“Getting kinda defensive, bro,” Drake said.
“Maybe ’cause I’m getting kinda tired of you harassing me, bro,” he shot back. “Like you’d be so easygoing if you had to strut you stuff wearing a pair of your hottie-whitie-tighties.”
“Harassing you? Ouch!” Drake looked at his wife. “You kicked me.”
She smiled sweetly at everyone. “Hormones. I do declare, being pregnant makes my body do the strangest things.”
Ping. Ping. Ping.
Grams, tapping her knife on her water glass, got everyone’s attention.
“Another announcement,” she said. “This time to honor Braxton for being a guinea pig—I mean volunteer—for my fund-raiser.” She waited for the laughs, which she got. “Last year we hosted a silent auction for Keep ’Em Rolling and raised twenty thousand dollars. This year I’m hoping the auction raises at least thirty.”
“Hear, hear!”
“Let’s do it, Grams!”
“Yes,” she agreed, “let’s do it!” She paused. “I’m one of the fortunate ones who can afford to buy an electric wheelchair with all kinds of goodies.” She patted the chair arm. “This baby has a portable charger, adjustable armrests, swivel seat and maxes out at eight miles an hour.”
“You said seventeen,” Dorothy interjected.
“Yes, I did,” Grams admitted, “because I just couldn’t resist that bad-girl-on-wheels reputation.” She sighed theatrically. “But the truth is I rarely go over five.”
Dorothy gave a small smile. “You’re incorrigible.”
“I hope so. Anyway, there are people in Las Vegas who desperately need wheelchairs but can’t buy them themselves, which is why Keep ’Em Rolling is near and dear to my heart. Our volunteers renovate wheelchairs for those in need.” She looked around the table, her eyes shiny. “Makes me proud my family will be here next Friday night to support Braxton as he helps us raise money for this wonderful cause.”
Braxton hadn’t heard about this being a family affair until now.
“No pictures.” He jabbed a finger at Drake. “I mean it.”
Drake held up his hands in mock surrender. “Bro, thought never crossed my mind.”
“Uh-huh.” He glanced at Grams, whose sweet, appreciative look warmed him like sunshine.
Truth was, he’d do anything she asked. During those years when he’d been banned from the house and the rest of the family had treated him like a pariah, she’d called every week to ask how he was doing. After she started dating Richmond, he’d drive her to meet Braxton for dinner, once on his birthday. He’d never forget her singing “Happy Birthday” to him, tears shimmering in her eyes. Knowing how his lousy life choices had hurt her just about did him in. When he’d blown out the candle on the cake she’d brought—chocolate with cream-cheese filling, his favorite—his only wish was to fix his life so he could go home again.
He smiled at Grams, thinking she had to be one of the coolest ladies—young, old or anywhere in-between—on the planet.
She raised her martini to him in a quiet salute.
“Know the kind of car they’re giving away?” Drake asked.
Braxton shook his head no. “Haven’t heard.”
“A cherry-red...Mustang...Shelby...GT500.”
The world shrank to a distant memory.
As a kid, Braxton had a poster of that Shelby on his wall. That slick red ’Stang was the last thing he saw before falling asleep and the first thing he saw when he woke up.
He’d named his hamster Shelby.
Practiced drawing the Shelby, over and over, with red felt pen, putting his best sketch on homemade Christmas cards.
> Begged his parents to let him change his name to...
“Did’ya hear me, Brax?” Drake asked.
“That’s no car,” Braxton murmured. “It’s a road-eating monster.”
Drake laughed. “So you still want one of those, eh?”
“Want? Bro, I covet. What does a guy have to do to win this thing? Because now that I know it’s the giveaway prize, I’m ready to lose every ounce of dignity I’ve ever had and win that baby.”
“Be like one of those strippers you used to manage at that club,” Val offered. “As naked as the law allows and flashing moves that’ll make those ladies hotter than a bunch of June brides.”
He thought about those strippers at Topaz who’d lie on their backs and scissor-kick their legs in the air, or hang upside down on poles by the sheer strength of their thighs, doing contortions that were probably illegal in most states.
He, on the other hand, could barely keep time doing a two-step.
“I’ll, uh, need to work on my moves.” He looked at Grams. “How naked are guys getting?”
“You can’t show your...” Searching for an appropriate word, she looked at Richmond.
“Hampton,” he suggested.
She frowned. “Who calls it that?”
“It’s a euphemism that originated in London, migrating to the states in the early twentieth century, I believe.”
“Eighty-six years old,” she muttered, “and I’m still learning new things.” She looked back at Braxton. “You can’t show your Hampton, dear.”
“I have a G-string,” Li’l Bit offered out of the blue.
Followed by a moment of stunned silence that lasted longer than the one after his Inner Sanctum speech.
“No, thanks,” Braxton said.
“No, dude, I’m not offering it to you. I’m thinking of entering this gig myself. Helping people get wheelchairs, man, that’s copacetic. Already got a car, so don’t care if I win that Shelby. It’s just...ever since Xela—” he swallowed hard “—broke up with me, I haven’t had a date. It’d be nice to meet someone....”
He carefully folded a piece of pizza like a sandwich and wolfed down a bite.
Braxton had heard about Xela, a massage therapist Li’l Bit had met five or six years ago while attending law school in Brooklyn. When she left for Las Vegas, he ditched his plan to be a lawyer and followed her, only to be dumped when Xela ran away with a Cirque du Soleil acrobat. Although Li’l Bit was heartbroken, his process service business, Boss Services Inc., had started to thrive, plus he’d grown attached to the senior dogs at the Canine Retirement Ranch project where he volunteered, so he had decided to stay in Vegas.
“I think it’s a wonderful idea that you enter the auction,” Grams said. “With so many single ladies, there might be someone special who can help you forget Xela.”
Li’l Bit chewed, nodding sadly.
“It’s an opportunity for you, too, bro, to meet some new ladies,” Drake said, “and get your mind off that blonde.”
“What blonde?” his mom asked.
“Some Lauren Bacall type came into the office,” Val explained, “and shook up Brax somethin’ awful.”
Still shook him up, too. More than that Shelby ever could.
He’d spent the past few days trying to find out her real name. Had read through Dmitri’s background report several times, searching for any mention of an American woman in her late twenties who worked for one of his organizations, but found nothing.
On his way over in the taxi, tired of playing phone tag with Dmitri, he’d texted him, suggested they meet tomorrow, Monday, just name when and where. Wherever Dmitri was, she had to be; after all, they were associates.
He tugged his phone from his jacket pocket, checked if the Russian had responded yet. No.
Putting the phone away, he heard Li’l Bit asking, “Think I can get into Manwich shape by Friday? Not total Manwich, man, just Manwich enough.”
“You’d need to cool it with the pizza, for starters,” Drake answered, “as well as the popcorn and beer and...”
“Dude,” he said, pushing away his plate, “I’m on it.”
This had to be a joke. But no one was laughing. Not even smiling.
“This is what I’ve been waiting for,” Li’l Bit continued, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, “an opportunity to get righteous. Good news is I already have some killer dance moves. Just need to get into shape, man. Maybe I’ll take up walking.”
“Or,” Grams said, “maybe Drake will let you use his discount at the Bally’s gym this week. Braxton can work out with you, show you how to use the equipment.”
What? How’d he become the sacrificial personal trainer? Oh, yeah, just how he wanted to spend his free time, getting Ganja Joe into shape.
“Discounts are for family members only,” he said. “No substitutions.”
Grams looked disappointed. “What a shame. Especially since Li’l Bit is just like a member of our family.”
Just like a member of our family. Had she really said that?
“He sure is,” Val chimed in. “I’ll never forget how he gave Drake and his sweet dog a place to stay after his house burned down.”
Et tu, Val?
“Tell you what,” Drake said, all serious and helpful, “I’ll call Pete—he manages the fitness center at Bally’s—ask if he’ll do us a favor. Tell him I’d like to give Li’l Bit my discount this next week...how we’re trying to help him get into shape for Gram’s fund-raiser. Pete’s a great guy. I bet he’ll turn his head on that family rule.”
Li’l Bit looked as though someone just told him Xela had dumped the acrobat and was asking if Li’l Bit was still single. “You’d do that for me, man? Give up your gym pass for a week?”
“Yeah,” Drake said, holding up his hand, “I’d do that for you.”
As they slapped high fives, Braxton downed the rest of his wine. He’d finally gotten his head on straight about this auction, and now this. Since when did helping others also mean helping a chubby stoner get into shape? As if that was even possible in five days.
He looked around, wondering why every single person at the table was looking back. “What?”
“Li’l Bit just offered to teach you some dance moves,” Grams said.
“Winner’s gotta know how to shake it, bro,” Drake said, “and if you want a chance at that Shelby...”
Had everyone at the table dropped acid? Because they had to be hallucinating if they thought he was taking dance lessons from Dude-Man.
“Look,” he said, “no way I’m—”
A squeal drowned out the rest of his words.
“The baby’s kicking again!” Val took Drake’s hand and put it on her tummy. “Feel that, honey? He’s gonna be a punter for the Saints!”
Everyone shifted focus to Val, who was excitedly gushing about every sensation.
“Been so bloated lately,” she said, picking up her glass of ice water and holding it to her flushed cheek, “sometimes I’m not sure if it’s gas or kicks.”
Li’l Bit began asking rapid-fire questions about what it was like to be pregnant, making Braxton wonder if the weed was wearing off, with Val answering in way more graphic detail than Braxton had ever wanted to know. Worse, his mother was offering tidbits about her experience when she’d been pregnant thirty-four years ago.
While that TMI Q&A session charged on, Grams started singing “One for My Baby,” which inspired Richmond, Mister Reserved, to shed his introverted ways and join in. Which wouldn’t have been bad except he sang about as well as Braxton danced.
Meanwhile Drake, his hand on his wife’s belly, was describing the latest kick to total strangers at the next table. Surprisingly, they seemed interested.
Braxton looked around, wondering when the pod people had
taken over his family. Li’l Bit, well...they’d taken him over a long time ago.
As though picking up on Braxton’s thoughts, Li’l Bit looked at him, fresh tears welling in his eyes, and got up from his seat.
“Brax, man, you’re like a brother to me,” he said, heading around to Braxton’s chair, opening wide his arms. “Helping me out like this ’n all.”
“Don’t you have more childbirth questions to ask Val?” he mumbled.
Stopping at Braxton’s chair, Li’l Bit leaned over and smothered him in a hug. “I love you, my brother.”
His face pressed against the words Life Goes On, Man, breathing in a funk-cloud of marijuana, Mai Tai and pizza sauce, Braxton knew he’d been beaten.
By his own family.
CHAPTER SIX
THE NEXT MORNING Braxton was making scrambled eggs and toast when his mom shuffled into the kitchen, wearing the fluffy white robe embroidered with a large pink D on the front that he and Grams had given for her last birthday.
“That dog barked half the night,” she muttered, staring blearily at the cuckoo clock, except it had a chicken instead, that clucked once every hour, but it hadn’t clucked in years. “Nine-thirty. You’re usually long gone by now.”
“Got a meeting at eleven...going into the agency after that.” He whisked some eggs in a stainless-steel bowl. “Want breakfast?”
“You know me,” she said, ambling toward the coffeepot. “Go for the gold.”
She’d always told her sons that breakfast was gold, lunch was silver and dinner was lead. Which meant they needed to eat a hearty breakfast to kick off the day, a nutritious lunch, but don’t stuff yourself at dinner because it’ll go onto your gut. He was pretty good with the first two, not so good with the last. At least he worked out regularly.
Working out.
After yesterday’s brunch, those words were like lead, too. Li’l Bit had already texted him twice about exercising together. Same message—Dude, 530?—which Braxton assumed meant five-thirty today, but who knew what mysteries lurked in that stoner’s brain.
He’d respond later. Hopefully, he’d be in a better mood about being railroaded into this personal-trainer gig.
