KEATON
Bailey’s party is on Sunday night.
No, that’s not the start of a bad joke—Luke Bailey is the joke. Because…
Who. The. Hell. Plans a party. On a Sunday night?
And I haven’t even gotten to the punch line yet. Not only has Bailey scheduled his Dance-off event for Sunday (two nights after the dopest bash, courtesy of yours truly), it’s not even a real party. It’s a dinner. And he didn’t let us invite guests.
Yeah… I’ve got the presidency in the bag.
Judd and I exchange an amused look as we take our seats. The dining room isn’t big enough to seat all the brothers. So Bailey has set up long rented tables in the living room. And while there’s enough seating for everyone, it’s not exactly the roomiest of setups.
“Sweet sausage fest,” Judd cracks to Bailey.
Luke just winks. He’s clad in a dark-blue dress shirt, with a blazer over it, and crisp trousers. He requested that we all show up in semi-formal wear—suits, dinner jackets, the whole shebang. So we’re crammed like sardines at this dinner table, dressed like a group of young Republicans. Par-tay.
As Bailey settles at the head of the table, I notice a few other dudes sharing glances. Looks like my opponent isn’t scoring any points with his constituents. I literally brought the beach to Darby in the middle of winter. He planned a dinner party.
Checkmate.
“Two-buck Chuck?” Owen gripes loudly, reaching for one of the wine bottles on the table. “You’re seriously serving us this shit? You couldn’t spring for something better?”
Once again, Luke appears unfazed by the criticism. “Best I could do on the budget we were given.” He gives a small shrug. “And I’m not serving you anything. The catering staff’s got that part handled.”
As if on cue, the door separating the dining room from the living room swings open, and two pretty blondes saunter out. They’re followed by two brunettes wielding trays of hors d’oeuvres.
“Oh,” Owen blurts out.
I’m not sure if he’s responding to Bailey or voicing his surprise, which only lingers in his expression for a nanosecond before his eyes darken with appreciation.
The four chicks are gorgeous, greeting everyone with dazzling smiles. Two of them begin pouring wine into each brother’s glass. The other two—no, make that four. Four hot girls are now serving delicious-looking finger foods, while every dude in the room looks on in awe. Even Dan, who isn’t into chicks, seems intrigued by our servers.
I furrow my brow, shooting Bailey a what-are-you-up-to look, but he offers another careless shrug. Then he flashes that arrogant grin at a dark-haired bombshell whose tits are so huge they’re actually straining against the front of her white button-down.
All six—oh for fuck’s sake, make that eight. Eight waitresses are now sashaying around the tables, smiling as they serve us. All of them wear identical uniforms: white shirts tucked into short, black skirts. And they’re all in black heels, some of which seem way too high for caterers. But as Annika always tells me, high heels belong at any occasion.
My Alpha Delt brothers are digging into the appetizers. I slide a garlic shrimp off its little skewer and pop it into my mouth. Oh, that’s good. Bailey might’ve sprung for cheap wine, but he did a decent job with the apps.
With that said, there’s no way a dinner party is going to top my beach party. I don’t care if this shrimp was flown in from the Gulf and prepared by Thomas Keller. Beach trumps dinner.
“Mmmmfhfhg,” Judd mumbles as he stuffs a cheese ball in his mouth. He’s trying to talk even as he keeps chomping.
“What was that?” I ask in amusement.
He swallows and becomes intelligible. “I said, ‘try the cheese balls.’ They’re fucking excellent.”
“Thank you!” comes a pleased female voice. One of the blondes touches Judd’s shoulder. “I prepared these myself.”
Judd peers up at her, grinning lewdly. “A woman who knows how to handle balls. I dig it.”
I expect her to be horrified, but she just winks and moves down the line to take care of Ahmad. I guess this company has catered enough college events that they’re used to horny frat boys saying inappropriate things.
Judd leans closer to me and murmurs, “You got this in the bag, bro. This dinner’s lame.”
And yet at the head of the table, Luke Bailey is completely unbothered, or maybe he’s just oblivious to our reactions. Not just mine and Judd’s, but everyone’s. Even his own campaign manager, Jako, sports a look of bewilderment, as if he can’t understand why Luke chose a fancy boys-only dinner for the Dance-off.
The hot waitresses clear away our apps, refill our wine glasses, and the next course comes out: a peach and avocado salad that is damn tasty. After that is the entrée, filet mignon au poivre, with scalloped potatoes and French beans. There’s even a vegetable plate for Munsen, who doesn’t eat meat. I don’t miss the way the brothers devour everything.
For the first time all evening, a sliver of worry pierces my gut. The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach… Fuck, that phrase is a phrase for a reason. Men like food. Men like being fed. Men especially like being fed by hot, big-breasted women.
There isn’t a cup size lower than C in the room. And the servers seem to have no qualms about waving their boobs in our faces.
“Let me top that off for you,” one of them coos as she practically drapes herself over Paxton Grier’s broad shoulder.
Her left tit is legit pressing against his cheek as she pours the sparkling liquid into his wineglass. His tongue practically rolls out of his mouth and falls onto his half-eaten steak.
Narrowing my eyes, I glance at Luke again. He’s deep in conversation with Tanner. Which isn’t a sight I like to see. Tanner is solidly in my corner. He’s my closest friend in the house after Judd. There’s no way in hell he’s allowed to vote for Bailey.
I mentally will their conversation to end, but I fail. Tanner throws his head back and laughs at something Luke just said. Goddammit. I’m losing Tanner. And then one of those hot temptresses rests a hand on Judd’s shoulder and leans down to whisper something in his ear, and suddenly I fear for Judd’s soul as well.
By the time our entrée dishes are carted off to the kitchen, the back of my neck feels real hot, and my dinner jacket feels too tight. I’m genuinely concerned that Bailey is winning everyone over. Dinner was amazing, I can’t deny that. And I certainly can’t deny that all the eye candy in the room is a stroke of genius.
I need this evening to be over before Bailey scores any more points. We just finished the main dish, so I’m assuming there’ll be dessert now, and then I’ll be done with this shit.
Except Luke Bailey has other ideas.
After the last dish is whisked away, he clears his throat to get everyone’s attention.
“Gentlemen,” he says when the room goes quiet. “If you’ll please indulge me and pick up your glasses.”
Judd rolls his eyes at me. I roll mine in return. Guess it’s time for the big speech nobody gives a shit to hear?
But we humor the guy. Everyone takes a glass in hand, waiting.
The toast I’m expecting doesn’t come.
“Um, you gonna say something?” Judd mocks.
“Nah,” drawls Luke.
“You’re not making a toast?” grumbles Owen.
“Nope.”
“Then why the fuck are we all holding our glasses?” Tim demands.
“Oh, I wasn’t clear about that, sorry. I just wanted you to pick up your wine glasses so there’s room on the table.” His gaze shifts briefly to a point behind Tim’s head.
“Room for what?” Ahmad asks in confusion.
I glance over my shoulder to follow Luke’s gaze. One of the waitresses, a tall redhead, is bending over a laptop near the entertainment center. Suspicion surges in my blood at the same moment a blast of music rocks the house.
“The entertainment,” Luke shouts to Ahmad. His cocky gaze sweeps over the rest of us. “Time for the fun part, boys. You can look, but you can’t touch.”
That sneaky motherfucker—
Before I can blink, three of the women have hopped up onto the tables, strutting on the white tablecloth in their high heels. A sultry beat thumps in the room, shaking the walls, vibrating in the floor. When the song offers a sharp crash of cymbal, one of the chicks rips open her white dress shirt, revealing the sexy red bra underneath. It barely contains her tits, which are spilling over the lacy cups.
“Oh my God,” Judd moans happily.
His reaction is shared by every other guy in the room, Dan included. Our only gay brother literally hops to his feet and starts bumping his hips against one of the girls who’s still on land. Granted, he seems more into the song than the chick, but still. I feel betrayed, and Dan and I aren’t even close.
Chaos erupts all around me. The seductive trio on the table shake their hips, dancing in sexy, sinuous moves that summon cheers and catcalls from the twenty-three other guys in the room. And—fuck me—they can really move. It’s sexy, with hips swinging and asses shaking near my guys’ overjoyed faces. But it’s a real show, too.
Unfuckingbelievable.
I’m too stunned by this unexpected turn of events to fully appreciate the gorgeous, half-naked creatures dancing expertly for us.
I glower at Bailey, who just grins at me. “Who needs change for a twenty?” he calls as he circles the table. “It’s polite to tip our entertainers.” He’s making the rounds, offering stacks of small bills to our frat brothers, who all dive for their wallets.
That fucking evil genius. Food and strippers. He really does know the way to a man’s heart.
“Who’s ready for strip poker?” Jako shouts from the kitchen doorway. He’d disappeared right after dinner ended, and now I know why—beyond his broad shoulders, I glimpse the three green-felt game tables he set up in our dining room.
So much for him being “confused” by Bailey. Obviously Jako was in on it the entire time.
“Fuck yeah!” Judd shouts back.
Ah hell. Everyone knows how much Judd loves poker. And now we’re talking naked poker?
Evil fucking genius.
Judd lumbers forward, one beefy arm slung around the shoulders of a curvy dancer with big green eyes. On his way to the kitchen, my traitorous best friend stops to slap Luke Bailey’s shoulder. “Epic,” he tells Bailey. “This is fucking epic.”
Et tu, Judd? Et fucking tu?
As I inwardly bristle, I feel someone’s gaze on me. I stiffly turn my head and find Bailey grinning at me again. His big hand lifts, long fingers fluttering in a fuck-you wave. His brown eyes convey a very clear sentiment.
Game. Set. Match.
