Page 1 of Secret Baby for the Triplets

CHAPTER1

Brock

Toby’s eyes dart wildly around the casino floor. “Where the fuck are we?” he hollers.

The incessant dinging of slot machines nearly drowns him out. His voice struggles to carry over the rambunctious chatter and bursts of laughter surrounding us. I notice the slight slur in his words, the way his usually sonorous voice has climbed an octave higher.

Classic drunk Toby.

To anyone else, he might appear to be holding it together, but I know better.

“In a casino, asshole,” Owen retorts.

The three of us drift through the Las Vegas casino, bumping into each other as we navigate around slot machines and card tables.

In a way, I understand Toby’s stupid question, even if Owen’s pretending not to. All the locations are starting to blend, despite their distinctiveness. Over the past twenty-four hours, there’s been a bunch of flash and glamor, but it’s becoming overkill now.

This whole trip has been a waste of time and money. I’m sorry I’d let Owen talk us into it. Vegas isn’t my idea of a “vacation,” particularly not when it means keeping an eye on Toby’s over-the-top drinking.

“Which casino, though?” our youngest brother insists with a chortle, his head swiveling to take in the crowds. “Weren’t we just here? I swear I just saw that brunette in the last place we were.”

“Which one?” I quip, knowing that, like the casinos, the people are starting to blend together, too.

I steer my brothers toward the blackjack tables. Might as well win some money while we’re here.

A seething mass of tourists flood the casino floor—sunburned tourists with their lanyards and yard-long margaritas, dead-eyed gamblers hunched over slot machines, and bachelor parties two days into their benders. High rollers in designer suits hover around the VIP tables while cocktail waitresses in too-tight uniforms navigate the labyrinth with practiced smiles. Off-duty dancers mingle at the bars with tech bros and convention attendees, and everyone is bathed in that artificial light that makes it impossible to tell if it’s noon or midnight.

Pure Vegas chaos—both exactly what you’d expect and somehow more surreal in person.

It’s a shitshow. I can’t wait to get back to the ranch on Monday.

“How much have you had to drink?” Owen asks Toby, but I snort at the hypocrisy of his question, even if I’ve been wondering the same thing myself.

We’ve all been drinking strong since noon, and not one of us is slowing down. In fact, it’s high time we invest in some dinner or... breakfast?

“What the hell time is it anyway?” I ask.

Toby stares at his phone, straining at the numbers, but gives up without giving me an answer. I guess that answers the question about his sobriety, anyway.

I flop down at a table, and heads turn as they tend to do when the three of us are together. People never get tired of gawking at identical triplets. We’re used to the stares by now.

Toby falls unceremoniously into a chair next to me, manspreading as he drapes his elbows over the table, but he ignores the dealer, who tries to cut him into the hand. Abruptly, he falls back in his chair as something catches his eye, and suddenly, an elbow lodges itself into my ribs.

I grimace as I look at my cards. “What?” I snap, raising my head to nod politely at the other two players before offering Toby a scathing look. I fucking hate it when he does that. He’s like an overgrown five-year-old.

“Bachelorette party.” His steel-gray eyes are gleaming as he gestures toward the bar.

I roll my eyes.

Behind us, Owen grunts. “How novel,” he mutters sarcastically. “A bachelorette party in Vegas. Who could have imagined?”

Their voices carry clear across the room, the group’s shrill laughter ricocheting toward us. They’re giving the other tourists some competition with all their bluster, and it’s obnoxiously impressive.

I go back to ignoring them but then change my mind. Bachelorette parties might be worth a second look. There’s always a bridesmaid or two looking for a Vegas story that’ll stay in Vegas.

Half-eying the group of rowdy women, I check my cards and tap the table to stay. Toby scowls when he sees my hand. Despite his altered state, he doesn’t say what I know is on his mind.

Why didn’t you hit? You have seventeen!

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