Page 41 of The Best Men
My world is officially topsy turvy. I’ve been to this club before. I’ve even partied with Drake. But I’m not in charge this time, it seems, as Mark Banks leads me through throngs of men, weaving past bodies, and muscles, the smell of sweat and cologne and the promise of sex potent under the dark purple lights of the dance floor.
We reach the green room and find Drake slouched on a leather couch, flicking aimlessly on his phone. A sleeve of tattoos covers his right arm, a dragon tail intertwined through the mouth of a skull.
The second his gray eyes land on mine, he pops up from the couch. “St. James! How’s it hanging? How the fuck are you? When are you going to Ibiza again to party with me and my man?”
I give him a quick hug. “The answers are to the left, great, and not soon enough. How’s Axel?”
“The best,” he says, with a dopey grin befitting the newlywed. Then Drake slides his gaze to my confusing companion. “I’m Drake.”
He extends a hand to Mark, and they shake.
“Mark. Brother of the bride.” He’s all business.
“Tell me what you need, Mark,” Drake says, catching on fast.
“We need you on Saturday at noon. Daytime wedding. No Macarena. No chicken dance. No‘Hello’ from Adele, since it’s not a love song. Nor is ‘Stay With Me’by Sam Smith, no matter how much the ladies love him. Or the dudes. I don’t want to hear the conga, or do the conga. Also, no Coldplay whatsoever.”
Before I can even saywho would play Coldplay at a wedding, Mark adds, “Brett’s DJ played it at his wedding at Tavern on the Green and it killed the mood.”
No, Mark. Tavern on the Green killed the mood.
But I don’t correct him, because he continues his wedding song diatribe that’s inexplicably turning me on. “‘You Send Me’by Sam Cooke for the couple’s first dance. So, if you can do all that and show up an hour early, and stay till six, I’ll pay your regular rate, plus a twenty-five percent premium if you agree now.”
Drake blinks, dollar signs in his eyes. “Someone knows what he wants.”
You’re telling me.
“Will that work for you?” Mark asks, and he is not a three-martini lunch guy. He doesn’t schmooze. He just fucking throws down. And it’s getting me hot under the collar.
Or hotter.
“Yes,” my DJ friend says. “Anything for a friend of St. James.”
Mark and Drake finish the details, exchange numbers, and then I say goodbye, telling him to send my love to Axel. We head back down the hallway, the music thumping louder with each step.
Bodies come into view on the dance floor. Hips swiveling. Arms tangled, legs intertwined, and pelvises grinding. My eyes gobble it up, the press of skin, the lips colliding, the preludes to fucking.
But I’m not the only one staring. From the looks of it, my companion is drinking it all in too.
When we reach the dance floor, since we have to cross it to leave, he stops, grabs my arm, and tips his chin toward the bar.
“Drink?” If he doesn’t want to leave yet, I am here for it. I’m here for a lot of things.
Mark nods.
Yeah, baby. “Hey, Banks? Who’s the driver?”
“I was going to order a soda,”he yells over the throbbing music.“I wouldn’t drink and drive.”
“Yeah, I know. But how aboutIorder a soda and you order whatever you want. A soda. A Shirley Temple . . .” His eyes narrow, so I rush on. “A shot of Jack. A kilo of heroin.” I wink. “If you feel like letting loose, I’ll drive home. Your call.”
Something shifts behind his eyes when I sayletting loose. His expression is still intense. And determined. I’m lost in that hungry blue gaze when he abruptly turns away, slicing through the crowd toward the bar.
Mark edges his way past guys in leather, guys in dresses, guys in nearly nothing, and he’s totally unfazed. Maybe he’s even, dare I say, in his element?
I hurry to keep up.
When I reach his side, Mark has already captured the bartender’s attention with his Jedi skills. The man behind the bar puts one LaCroix on the bar. And? A shot glass of tequila.
