the scripted words “Bonded by blood, loyal beyond death.”
Fuckin’ A, he’s in deeper than I thought.
What started out as a harmless surf gang has escalated to levels I’m afraid to even imagine. He saunters toward me, smiling and holding his arms out.
“Look at you, bro.” I give him a back-thumping hug. “All grown up.”
He pulls back, and I study the scar that he picked up after a weekend camping with his dad when he was sixteen years old. Our mom was pissed that he didn’t get stitches, but Drake seemed more proud than I’d ever seen him. He said he’d gotten into a fight, and he wore that damn slice through his face like a badge of honor. Crazy little shit. His eyelids are heavy, eyes bloodshot, no doubt from whatever it is he was doing in the hotel bedroom.
“Brother”—he takes me in from top to bottom—“you look like a homeless Michael Bublé.”
“And you look like Tupac’s gay white twin.” My teeth grind together in frustration. My little brother is a gold tooth and a shit load of talent away from that being true.
A warm smile breaks through his tough façade, and he moves in, throwing an arm around my shoulder. “It’s been too long.”
From the looks of it, way too long. “It has.”
He guides me to the sliding glass doors that lead to a large patio complete with fire pit. I turn around to see all the other guys have stayed inside as Drake drops down on a long semi-circular couch. He props his feet up on the fire circle, knee cocked, one sole of his high-top blue Chucks on the edge.
“How’s the UFL-superstar life treating you?” He pulls a joint out of the breast pocket of his Dickies shirt and pinches it between his lips to light it.
“Good, man. I’ve got no complaints.”
“We caught your last fight on TV,” he says between drags. “Made ten grand on that fight.”
“You’re running numbers now?” How does he get himself into this shit? Honest to God, it’s like trouble chases him down; he finds it without even looking.
“Dabbling here and there.” He offers me the joint, but I just stare at it until he shrugs with a “Suit yourself” and continues to puff on it.
I scan the horizon, the Vegas lights practically blinding even from this height. When I first moved here, I thought they were downright mystical. Now they just hurt my damn eyes.
I swing my gaze back to him. “What brings you to Vegas, D?”
He picks something off the tip of his tongue, tilts his head and studies me. “You know what.”
Fuck. I’d hoped it wasn’t what I thought. I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees. “How deep are you in with him?”
A small, but confident grin curves his lips. “I’m his son.” He says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
“Drake—”
“Save it, Mase, really. I mean”—he holds his arms out and motions around—“look at this, all this. I’m living a life you only see in movies, man.”
“Yeah, the ones where your character gets gunned down in the end.”
“In a flame of glory.”
“Or in the trunk of a car and a shallow grave.” I shake my head and feel the beginning of a headache throbbing in my temples. Whatever buzz I was riding when I left Blake’s wedding is now non-existent.
“You don’t need to worry about me.” He stubs out his joint on the edge of the fire pit. “My dad didn’t float my ass through high school with new cars and shit or pay my way to a Big Ten school like yours did, but I’m doing alright now.”
No, his dad didn’t do the things for him that mine did for me. I’d always felt like shit having the nicer things and tried to share as much as I could, but the fact of the matter is, my dad was a successful plastic surgeon married to my mom. Until Drake’s dad came to town and caught her eye. My dad didn’t realize Drake wasn’t his until after he was born and it was obvious he looked nothing like him.
A simple DNA test told my dad everything he needed to know. I swear to this day, after my parents got divorced, he set me up financially just to torture my mom. Drake would always be her reminder of what she’d given up for a quick fling with a bad boy.
“You two done making out?” Harrison saunters on to the patio, clearly high or drunk