Page 2 of Brushed and Buried
“Fuck,” he mutters. “This isn’t right. We booked the entertainers for us and the girls downstairs. It must’ve been the maid of honor who mixed up the floors.”
So it is him. Vince. There’s no mistaking that face and scowl, that impossible stillness that made the air bend around him. He hasn’t changed in years, those eyes still enough to cut, that jaw still set like he’d been carved out of some stormier element than the rest of us. He’s got the same presence, with that familiar aura that could shut down a room without lifting a hand. And here I am, hired to grind to remixed Britney for supposedly already semi-drunk bridesmaids. The universe has a sense of humor, and apparently I am the punchline.
I almost laugh. Almost falter. Almost.
Instead, I step forward past Sash Boy’s shoulder, into the suite like it’s mine. I keep my chin high, like I belong in every overpriced square foot of this room. Vince can glower all he wants; he’s background noise. I’ve survived dick straws, glow sticks, and girls trying to Venmo me in installments. Nothing’s going to rattle me now.
“Lucky for you boys,” I purr, letting the baton tap against my palm, “I don’t discriminate. If you’ve got a pulse and a playlist, I’ll work the room. I charge by the hour, and you’ve already wasted five minutes.”
My hips tilt just enough to remind them I am not here to blush and stammer. I am here to earn. Vince’s storm-cloud aura can stay exactly where it is. I’m not eighteen anymore, I’m not fazed, and I’m definitely not giving him the satisfaction.
The suite is pure opulence with a sunken living room, a U-shaped couch, and a wall of glass showing the Pacific glittering in moonlight. Salt air drifts through the cracked balcony door, mixing with citrus cologne and tequila fumes. I set down my duffel with a purposeful thud.
Sash Boy flops onto the couch, flashing a wide smile, his faint Australian accent noticeable. “Honestly? This might be better than glitter tits. I’m Trevor. Future husband. Current drunk.”
“Adorable,” I say. “Do vows come with a lifetime supply of tequila, or is that just promotional?”
Brick Wall settles into the armchair. “George,” he says, nodding at Trevor. “His stepbrother.” His voiceis steady and protective.Don’t get him killed before the wedding.That part sits in his eyes.
The blond slides in closer, expression wicked, eyes dancing like he just found the punchline of the century. “Name’s Lance. If you’re really a cop…” He tips his beer in a mock salute. “I’ll break the law so you can cuff me. That’ll make one hell of a story.”
I smirk. “Darling, you couldn’t afford the bail.”
They laugh, all except Vince.
Trevor swings an arm out, sloppy and exuberant, like he’s presenting me with the cast list of his personal rom-com. “And that tall drink of brooding over there? That’s Vince, my best man. You must see him everywhere nowadays. He’s the NFL golden boy, plays wide receiver for the San Francisco Tritons. He also does modeling, charity stuff, all that good shit. Basically, he’s my claim to fame.”
Vince doesn’t so much as twitch, but his eyes stay locked on me. I get the sense he’s wondering what I’ll make of all this, but I don’t care. Ten years have gone by without me making a fuss about knowing this now-famous guy back then, never telling a soul. Well, except one.
Trevor beams, undeterred. “Don’t mind him. He’s always in a dark mood. Mysterious, tortured soul vibes. Love him to bits, though. Makes my sunshine look brighter when I’m right beside him, right?”
My smirk sharpens. Oh, I know. I know exactly how dark that storm gets, and I’ve burned myself on it before.
I square my shoulders, let the expression harden. “Adrian,” I say, giving them my real name because why the hell not. It’s not like they’ll remember it tomorrow.
Out of the corner of my eye, Vince reacts. Barely, a flicker. The faintest crease at the corner of his mouth, a breath caught too long, gone before anyone else could notice.
But I notice. Of course I do.
He hasn’t moved from his post in the back. His arms still crossed, eyes locked on me. A silent storm no one else notices, but I feel every second of it. Every nerve in my body tuned to him like he’s a frequency only I can hear. So, we’re playing this game.I Don’t Know You At All. Get Lost.
Lance slides in closer, expression wicked, eyes bright like he just discovered fire. “And okay, hold up, are you actually about to do the whole cop thing? Like…you gonna read us our rights and then rip the shirt off? ‘Cause that’s some bridesmaid-movie fever dream shit right there.”
Trevor barks a laugh so loud his sash nearly slips off. He’s gripping his drink like it’s an Olympic torch, clearly half-drunk and fully committed to enjoying every second of this. “Yeah, seriously, what’s the protocol here? Do you slap on the cuffs first, or is that, like, the deluxe package? I gotta know. For science.”
I wave my baton dismissively, shifting my weight like this plastic stick is the only weapon I’ve got left. “Gentlemen, please. Do I look like I offer a budget menu? Cuffs are premium.”
That earns another roar from the groom and even a twitch of movement from Brick Wall George, his beard shifting. It could’ve been the shadow, or a half-smile, but it’s the first sign of life he’s shown since I walked in. I almost laugh with them, but I’m too committed to my act tonight.
Lance tips his chin toward my badge, gleaming like it lost a fight with hot glue. “Wow, it really happens at bachelorette parties. Some pretty boy rocks up in Party City cosplay, pretends to be a cop, strips down, and everyone just what, loses it?”
I don’t even flinch. “Excuse you. My uniform is carefully curated. These buttons? Reinforced plastic. These aviators? Top-shelf, bought wholesale. And this baton…” I flick it once, the cheap thing wobbling like a drunk flamingo, “…has seen lots of action.”
The whole suite cracks up, George even letting out a sound that might’ve been a grunt, might’ve been amusement. It’s hard to tell.
Still, the laughter stings a little because yeah, I’m suddenly painfully aware of how ridiculous I look. All I want is to dig through my duffel, pull on my hoodie and jeans, and vanish back into blessed invisibility. But no, I can’t do that yet, not withthese eyes on me and him standing silently in the corner like a ghost from another life.
Trevor nearly chokes on his laughter, his bare chest gleaming under the suite lights, tequila sloshing dangerously close to a spill. “Oh my god. No way you’re leaving. This is the best cosmic screw-up Vince, or anyone, has ever made. You’re staying.” He looks like he might actually cry with joy, giddy and absolutely determined to keep me hostage.
