appropriately for monthly cocktail get-togethers at the Maddison estate.”
“Estate.” Jon chuckled. “Jesus Christ. She’s not exaggerating.”
“Also,” Dottie said so sweetly, Arnie’s alert system pinged. “Mrs. Maddison is overruling everyone—even me—and signing off on a vending machine for you know who.”
Arnie responded with a fist pump, and growled, “Yes!”
“Are you fucking kidding?” Jon squawked.
King smirked. “You have Nicole to thank,” he told Arnie with raised brows. “My new daughter seems to think you don’t get enough respect.” He paused for a few beats and drawled, “And since a four-year-old has no idea what that means, I assume you fed her the words.”
A huge smile expressed his amusement. “That little lady is a smart cookie, boss. I’d be careful around her. She doesn’t miss a thing.”
Dottie cleared her throat. They looked at her as she crossed her arms and stared them down.
“In closing, gentlemen—and Arnie—at the direct behest of the only woman with ranking higher than mine, her husband is to be addressed thusly.”
Arnie snorted. He couldn’t help it. “Thusly?”
Jon smacked his arm and shook his head in warning. “Shut up.”
“Mr. Maddison. Kingsley Maddison.” Dottie’s lips pressed together, and then she grumbled, “And finally, King Maddison.”
King laughed. “I sense my sister Antoinette’s hand in this as well.”
“The pregnancy brigade ganged up on me,” Dottie confirmed. “Resistance was futile.”
“Says the only person who ever called him Lee to begin with.” Jon smirked and then stepped behind King, using his friend as a shield.
“You sound bummed, Quickie,” King said in a far too cheerful voice. “Tell you what. Do you want a new title?”
“Only if it’s ostentatious and comes from the Prime Minister of Shutthefuckupistan.”
Arnie heard none of what was said after. Dottie’s quip slingshot him back in time to Summer telling him her father had a lapel pin from the Blessed Order of Saint Shutthefuckup.
Summer. She was always with him. Hovering close and out of sight.
The hand of destiny had a brother known as the fist of bad timing. BT caused many a headache over the years, but when his motherfucking phone rang, the headache BT brought was more like an arrow through the head.
Fumbling in his pocket, he tried to get the phone and mute it, but it was too late. Several seconds of “Teenage Dream” filled the air.
Jon muttered, “What the hell?”
If there was any way for the earth to split open and swallow him before things got any weirder, he was okay with it.
The call was from his dad, so he had to take it. Without any explanation, he turned his back on his audience and connected to the call as he swiftly strode away.
“Dad. What’s up?”
“Arnie! Am I catching you at a bad time?”
He found an empty room and ducked behind the door for privacy.
“Absolutely not. Everything okay?”
“Things are great here. Better than great. But that’s not why I called. Just got off the phone with my father, and he’s decided to convene the next retreat in Connecticut. January as usual. Thought you’d like to know right away in case you were looking forward to some California sunshine.”
The hits just kept coming. He found nothing to smile about with this news. Had he lost his West Coast privileges and just didn’t know it? Goddammit. Why was the universe blocking him?
What fucking lesson was he supposed to learn from what was now an official shitshow?
Arnie’s free hand clenched. His dad kept talking.
“Don’t miss the miserable New York weather. At my age, all I want is clear blue skies, warm, sunny days, and happy nights. Snow and icy walkways are for you young people.”
There wasn’t so much as a complete heartbeat before Arnie’s hand shot out and punched. He didn’t feel it when the force of the frustrated wallop sent his fist through the drywall.
“Fuck,” he grumbled into the phone.
“You don’t sound happy, son. What’s going on? Stan driving you nuts?”
“Don’t worry about Stan. He’s fine.”
“Uh-huh. Okay. So?”
“Nothing.”
His dad snorted. “Cut your old man a break, would you? I may not share your psychic sensibilities, but I know when sunshine blows up my ass.”
Feeling and acting out like a petulant child denied a treat, he lamely whined, “I was counting on the California trip.”
A short silence wrapped up when his dad said, “Arnie? What’s going on?”
He’d already given away too much. If he said anything at all, he knew he’d be opening the door to full disclosure, and he wasn’t ready to tell the world what a dumbass he was. Even though hope felt more and more distant, he still clung