Matthew’s kept it in the closet, however. His parents don’t know. Because Frank sucks back two packs a day—and like any smoker, he’d break every one of his kid’s fingers if he found out he was doing it too.

I put my hands up in surrender. “I take it back, Dee—it’s a stupendous gift. Anything to help Matthew kick the cancer sticks is a good thing.”

She practically pats herself on the back. “Thank you, Drew.”

“You’re welcome. Now that we’ve gotten that settled, could you please—and I mean this in the nicest way possible—go the f**k away?”

She’s not smiling anymore. “No. I told you—this is my time. My Kate time.”

Fast Times at Ridgemont High appears in my head. “Whatever, Mr. Hand.”

Kate reaches over and touches my leg. “Drew, maybe you should just go hang out with the guys for the rest of the flight.”

I stamp my foot. And point at Dee-Dee. “How come she gets Kate time? Where’s my Kate time? I want Kate time too!”

Dee-Dee answers, “You’ll be getting a whole bunch of Kate time next week. It’s called a honeymoon, dumbass.”

I glare at her. “You suck.”

She rubs a finger over her lips lasciviously. “That I do. Frequently. Matthew doesn’t complain.”

I grimace. “Now I’m nauseous. Kate, will you rub my stomach?”

Kate smiles. Her voice takes on that motherly, condescending tone she gets when she’s asking James to behave. “Yes, Drew—I’ll rub your stomach, and any other body part you want me to . . . when we get to the hotel.”

I sigh and resign myself to not getting laid. Just as I start to sink into a deep depression, Jack’s voice echoes throughout the cabin.

“Dude! Check it out! I’ve got  p**n  on my in-flight entertainment system!”

Someone yelling “porn” in an enclosed space is akin to an alarm’s going off in a firehouse at midnight. Four pairs of feet scramble in Jack’s direction, including mine. Maybe guy time won’t be so bad, after all.

I know what you’re thinking. Stop wasting my time. Can we skip the bullshit and get to the good stuff already?

I’m working on it.

Besides, I think you should enjoy the good times while they last. I did. I have a feeling things are going to get real crazy—real quick—from here on out. ’Cause our next stop? That’s Vegas, baby. And there’s a reason it’s called Sin City.

Chapter 6

When it comes to swanky hotel rooms, you might think the penthouse is top-of-the-line. In most cases, you’d be right. But the Bellagio has something better. The villa. It’s the kind of place only royalty, heads of state, and highly overrated actors get to stay. Five bedrooms, formal dining room, office, library, and a huge kitchen—all trimmed in elegant woods and marbles—decked out with the finest appliances, accessories, and Italian fabrics. It even comes with a full-service maid and butler staff.

Money can’t buy happiness—but it makes it a hell of a lot easier to stay happy.

Since we’re the guests of honor, Kate and I get the master suite. Our adjoining bathroom has a steam shower and huge Jacuzzi that I definitely plan on putting to good use later. Steven and Alexandra, Delores and Matthew, each pair gets a room too—complete with fireplace and king-size bed. Erin claims a slightly smaller room with a queen, while Jack and Warren bunk together in the last room.

It’s a good thing their room has two double beds, because if there’s one thing a guy will never do, it’s share a bed with another dude. Sleeping na**d on sharp gravel? Totally acceptable, when faced with the risk of waking up to a loaded rifle in your back.

After the butler—we’ll call him Mr. Belvedere—gives us the grand tour and the maids take our luggage to unpack, the nine of us relax in the living room, talking about the agenda for the day.

Sitting on the dark brown love seat, with Delores on his lap, Matthew goes first. “There’s a water-volleyball tournament down at the pool in twenty minutes. I figured we’d start there—get our burn on. And they’re having a pig-roast barbecue—you know how I love a good swine.”

All the guys nod their consent.

Dee-Dee begins, “Our goddess party starts at five. . . .”

Goddess parties . . . for guys they’re a dream—mythical. Like the fabled pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, or the topless pillow fight at a sleepover. It’s pretty much a female-only sex party, minus the actual sex. Legend has it there’s a wide array of toys for sale—dildos, vibrators, bondage gear, and lingerie. And there are lessons—women are instructed on all kinds of acquired skills, such as deep throat, mast***ation, pole dancing.

“. . . but before that, we ladies have appointments at the spa, to get beautified for tonight.”

I run my hand through Kate’s dark hair as she sits beside me on the couch. “That’s a waste of time,” I tell her. “You can’t improve perfection.”

She blushes slightly. Still so f**king adorable.

Dee-Dee counters, “You say that now—but wait until you see us after. We’re gonna get wrapped, waxed, plucked, and massaged. I swear, Kate—after Ricardo works you over? You’ll never be the same. It’s like being touched by an orgasm.”

My curiosity gets the best of me. “Who’s Ricardo?”

“Kate’s massage therapist.”