Page 127 of DFF: Delicate Freakin' Flower

That might’ve been an understatement.

Back at the hotel,Ira had commandeered one of the rooms—one with a view, no less—and turned it into what he called a “respectable gathering.” Which turned out to be code for an elaborate drinking game involving dice, laminated cards, and music from every decade mashed into a Spotify playlist that he absolutely would not explain.

“I call it the Retirement Romp Roulette,” Ira told us proudly, dealing out shot glasses like poker chips. “Patent pending.”

The guys dove in like frat boys on spring break. Webb shot me a look that said this is a mistake but still picked up his drink. And somehow, round after round, Ira kept winning.

That’s when I caught him. While the others were laughing at Marcus, trying to remember how many times he’d seen Dirty Dancing, Ira poured his tequila into a potted plant near the minibar. Then he swapped his shot glass with Wes’s mid-conversation. Twice.

I stared at him, but he just stared right back and mouthed, "You saw nothing."

I turned wide-eyed and tapped Sasha, then Sadie and Addie, cluing them into what was going on.

Sasha faked a spill that just happened to soak Webb’s next drink. Sadie quietly swapped Elijah’s with water, and Addie, ever subtle, laid her napkin over Marcus’s full glass, declared it “tainted,” and handed him one of Ira’s prepped replacements. By the time we left the hotel to hit the Strip, the guys were well on their way to hammered, while Ira hadn’t broken a sweat.

The Strip was chaos in the best way—flashing lights everywhere, bass-heavy music spilling from open-air clubs, and crowds dressed like it was either Halloween or the set of a music video. Jackson tried to order a drink from a mannequin. Elijah challenged a guy in a Captain America costume to a push-up contest. And Marcus, ever the philosopher, attempted to tip a mime before launching into a lecture on the ethics of street performance. Wes—Lord help him—had acquired a feather boa and was using it to lasso Jesse every time he wandered more than two feet away.

Webb leaned heavily against me, swaying slightly, and muttered, “Why am I the only one struggling?”

I grinned. “Because Ira’s a liar and a cheat. He didn’t drink half of what you did.”

Webb blinked at me like I’d just told him Santa was fake. “Hewhat?”

“Poured half of it into the plant and swapped the rest with you guys.”

Webb groaned, rubbing his face. “The old bastard outplayed us.”

From up ahead, Ira called over his shoulder, “That’s called wisdom, son!”

Getting the guys back to the hotel was a mission in itself. Jackson, barely upright, tried to bribe a bellhop with thirty bucks and a novelty dice keychain, begging to be “carried like Cleopatra.” Meanwhile, Marcus made a beeline for a decorative fountain, insisting it was “quieter than the lobby” as he attempted to climb in with all the grace of a sleep-deprived toddler.

Elijah kept insisting we stop for hot dogs even though he already had one. From where no one knew. Jesse lay down in the elevator and declared gravity was “too strong in this building.” And Webb—sweet, sunburned Webb—just leaned his head on my shoulder and whispered, “Never letting Ira host again.”

“Sure you’re not.”

Back in our room, I collapsed onto the bed with a wheezy laugh. My stomach hurt from laughing, my cheeks ached, and my heart felt full in a way I hadn’t realized I’d been missing.

This wasn’t the wedding. That was tomorrow. Tonight had been just us—a chaotic, wonderful, chosen family. And somehow, that made it even more perfect.

That thought left me the next morning when I had to help a very hungover Webb get ready for the wedding without throwing up and then helped the others herd our men into the cars to go to the venue. We ended up putting them in one of the cars on their own while we took the other one so that we had a break from the gagging, winging, and “I’m dying” declarations.

Webb

I was dying. Not in the poetic, dramatic sense—I was genuinely and physically dying.

Every bump the car hit felt like it shook loose another part of my soul, and I was convinced my skull had cracked down the middle sometime between brushing my teeth and collapsing into the backseat of this cursed vehicle. My sunglasses were on, but the light still felt like it was stabbing me directly in both eyeballs.

“Jesus,” Jesse groaned beside me, rolling down the window. The second the wind hit him, he made a sharp, wet gulping noise and leaned out of the car, mouth open.

That’s all it took. Jackson, who had been quietly suffering beside him, immediately recoiled and slid across the seat, smushing into my side like a cat avoiding a bath.

“Dude!” he hissed. “If he pukes, and the wind sends it back in here, I swear to God?—”

I didn’t respond. Mostly because I was too busy also trying not to barf. The image of Jesse’s potential backdraft hit me hard, and I swallowed hard against the rising bile.

I glanced around the car. We all looked like death row inmates headed to the execution chamber. Gray faces, dry lips, and the kind of vacant expressions you only get after being emotionally and physically betrayed by tequila.

Marcus, sitting in the passenger seat with his face pressed to the window, finally broke the silence with a pitiful groan. “For the love of all that is holy,” he croaked, “donotthrow up. Any of you. If one of you does, I will too, and I don’t know if I’ll stop.”

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