1
Tripp Wilson, aka a single dad who wishes he could blame an airline on his missing luggage
The first thing I’m doing when I get home is finding my brain. Pretty sure I left it somewhere between the kitchen and the garage. Or possibly I lost it in a pile of toys six days ago.
“Dude. Quit picking my pants out of your ass.”
I glare at my brother, whose white jeans I’m wearing into a club that’s too loud and crowded and will probably give me a seizure with all the flashing strobe lights. A passing server calls his name and does a double-take, glancing between us as she lifts her tray with a single tequila shot. I take it for him, then resist the urge to pick the denim out of my butt crack again as we make our way through the crowded dance floor to a private booth. “What are these, European cut?”
“They’re skinny fit.” He trades a handshake with a guy whose name I’m supposed to know, then cheek-kisses a supermodel before turning back to me to call over the loud music. “Dad butt giving you troubles, old man?”
“Muscle is harder to compress than that rock star flab you’ve got.”
Levi grins and takes a beer from another passing server in a short skirt and low top, who slips a note deep into his front pocket.
Jesus. She just grabbed his dick in broad club light. Also, how did she even get her hand in there? Did she lube it up first? We’re not that different in size.
My brother doesn’t bat a lash as he smiles and says, “Thank you, darlin’.”
She smiles back at him in a way that suggests a beer is just the beginning of what she’d like to offer him before disappearing into the dancing crowd.
“Darlin’?” I poke him with my elbow while we continue fighting the crowd. Or in his case, working it. “You going country next? Or is that just what you say to the girls who cop a feel?”
He ignores me while he points me up a half flight of stairs to a private balcony. The stairway is crowded too, and we bump our way past all the people, with more funny glances aimed our way until the stairway opens up. At the top, he shoves me into a black velvet seat and makes me scoot around, which would be hard enough without the tight jeans cutting off circulation to my lower extremities. How the fuck does he get into these every day?
“Less glower, more glitter, big bro.” Levi claps me on the shoulder. Did I mention that I’m also wearing his tight paisley button-down with the top three buttons undone? Not my first choice, but when I told him I needed to come here tonight—yes, I have brought this on myself—he insisted on dressing me.
I let him, but only because I forgot to separate my own clothes out of my kids’ luggage when I dropped them with my in-laws this afternoon, and therefore don’t actually have any of my own clothes with me. I didn’t realize until we were on the way out the door to New York’s nightlife that I had a fruit roll-up stuck to my crotch, and don’t ask about the fermenting apple juice in my sweater.
“I haven’t been to a club in five years,” I remind him.
“Know what you need?”
I eyeball the tequila shot that I haven’t taken—or let him take—because I know better than to take open drinks in public. Even in clubs that are supposedly safe for celebrities. Learned that lesson the hard way back in our boy band days. “A fresh bottle of whiskey and three nights of sleep that I won’t be getting so long as James and Emma are with their grandparents?” Fuck, I miss my kids already.
“You need to be more like me.”
“A playboy pop star who goes through women faster than he goes through a bag of peanut butter cups?”
“No, chill. Relaxed. Own the place. Don’t glare at it like you want to burn it down. Make love to it with your eyes.”
Usually, that would snap me out of this grouchy funk I’ve been sinking deeper and deeper into the past few weeks. Also known as the time I’ve been dreading dropping off my progeny.
Tonight, though, nothing’s touching my funk, because even knowing the project I’ve been working on for well over a year is hitting a critical moment tonight now that the legal paperwork is done and the money’s ready, I’d still rather be home reading The Paperbag Princess to Emma and helping James line his trucks up just so on the shelves next to his firetruck toddler bed.
Plus, I couldn’t fit my hand sanitizer in these jeans, and this place is crawling with germs. Which I’m actively not thinking about.
“Tripp. Dude. You gotten laid recently?”
I punch my little brother in the arm.
Doesn’t feel as good as I want it to.
Levi pops the top on his beer while he gives me a look that means he’s gearing up for a lecture. “She’d want you to move on.”
“You bring all your friends here to talk about bad memories?”
“You don’t have bad memories with Jessie. But you might as well not be living at all if you’re not willing to make new memories.”
“I’m making new memories,” I grit out.
“Memories for just you, old man. Not memories of who you’re taking care of this decade. Not that it’s not noble, and you know I love those two little rugrats, but they can’t be all you live for. Evenin’, Victoria.” He winks at one more server who’s bouncing her smile between us like she knows one of us invented toothpaste, and if that’s the best analogy I have, I shouldn’t be out here chasing business any more than I should be out here pretending I still know what to do in a club.
She sticks her hip out and looks my brother up and down now that she’s apparently figured out which one of us is him.
Jesus. We don’t look that much alike.
Do we?
“Levi Wilson, where’ve you been?” she demands.
“Germany, Spain, and Italy. World tour wrap-up.”
“Hm. I suppose that’s a good excuse.”
“You got a bottle of Pappy van Winkle to welcome me back to my second favorite city on the planet?”
“Anything for you, hot pants.”
He blows her a kiss, and she shoots him an and I do mean anything look over her shoulder while she heads to the bar.
I rub my eyes. I shouldn’t be here. “You’re shameless.”
“I’m friendly.”
“You’re giving them ideas.”
“Yes. Yes, I am. You should too.”
“I—”
He drops his ridiculous fedora on my head, then hands over his aviators. “C’mon, old man. Put ’em on. Look at the world through my lenses for a minute.”
“I don’t think I want that many diseases.”
“You’re already in my pants.”
He has an unfortunate point, so I slide on his ridiculous sunglasses. The amber lenses do cut down on the glare from the spinning club lights.
“No guilt, Tripp. You work your ass off taking care of your kids. You work your ass off for the team. Go have some fun. Dance. Kiss a girl just because. Get laid. Nobody here’s looking for a ring. Half of ’em think you’re me. Can’t get that at home.”
“I’m here to connect with Beversdorf.”
“You mean you forgot how to relax and enjoy life.”
I’m the oldest of the five of us who spent years touring as the boy band Bro Code. My version of fun was never quite the same as my little brother’s. Or the other guys’, for that matter.