She touches it too. “Like that, do you?”

I imagine turning it into a game. Seeing how long Kate can keep the crown balanced on her head while I do unspeakable things to her. “Very much.”

“Dee-Dee got it for me.”

I shrug. “Even a broken clock is right twice a day.”

The broken clock herself yells, “All right, ladies—our chariot has arrived!”

Matthew cashes out our winnings. I hold Kate’s hand as we all walk through the casino together. Matthew and Delores bicker playfully as we approach the lobby.

“I’m not apologizing,” he tells her in a teasing voice.

“Good for you. Remember that the next time you’re in the mood to play lecherous photographer and nude model—and I tell you to go screw your camera lens.”

“I’m . . . I’m still not apologizing.”

Do I know what they’re arguing about? No. Do I care enough to ask? Not really.

We make it outside to the front entrance of the hotel. Parked at the curb is the biggest, pinkest limo I’ve ever freaking seen. It’s like a bottle of Pepto-Bismol on wheels. Neon lights pulse on the inside, and flashing strobes spin from the roof.

I look at Dee-Dee. “A pink limo? That’s not too gaudy.”

She smiles proudly. “This is Vegas, baby—gaudy is king. We should retire here.”

With that, she kisses Matthew and starts to walk away. Before she can take two steps, he grabs her, pulls her back, and kisses her longer and more roughly. When she’s slightly dazed, Matthew grins and sends her off toward the limo. Erin waves and follows her.

I put my hands on Kate’s shoulders to make sure she’s paying attention. “Don’t let anyone buy you a drink. And with the way you’re dressed, they’re definitely gonna try.”

She smiles indulgently. “Okay.”

“And don’t put your drink down after you have it. Someone could slip something in there when you’re not looking.”

Yes—shit like that does happen. When you’ve been on the bar scene long enough, you get a clear-cut picture of just how f**ked-up the world—and the people in it—are.

“Yes, Dad.”

I grimace. “Don’t call me that.” When it comes to screwing, there’s nothing I’m not into. Except that. The whole “Who’s your daddy?” thing is a buzzkill. It’s weird—it makes me think of James, or my father, and in either case . . . no f**king thanks.

“I’m not some twenty-one-year-old on her first trek to the bars, Drew. I can handle myself.”

My sister joins the conversation. “And just in case she can’t—that’s what I’m here for.” Alexandra pulls various weapons out of her large leather bag. “I’ve got my Mace, pepper spray, highly illegal Taser gun, and if all else fails . . .” She whips out a four-inch metal rod that, with a flick of her wrist, expands to the size of a police-issue nightstick—with pointy barbs on the end. “I call it the nut scrambler. Feel better now?”

I nod. “A lot better, yeah.”

“Good.”

She speaks quietly to Steven, then Alexandra climbs into the limo too. I wrap my arms around Kate, trying to cop one last feel. With her head on my chest, she promises, “I’ll see you in a few hours.”

I joke, “It’s not too late to make a run for it. They’ll never catch us.”

She giggles. Then tilts her head up and presses her mouth softly to mine. Against my lips she murmurs, “I love you.”

I pull back and trace her jaw with my fingertips. “And I will always love you more.”

She smiles one final time and disappears into the bowels of the hideous limousine.

Chapter 11

After the girls’ car pulls away, Matthew says, “Our ride’s down thatta way, boys.” He jerks his thumb toward a sleek, black stretch limo at the end of the block.

As we walk I ask Steven, “You and Alexandra get your shit straight?”

“Eh . . . not yet. But her attitude is definitely improving. I was never really worried. Your sister likes to act like she runs the show, but we all know who’s really in charge.”

Yeah. That would be my sister.

He pounds his chest. “I’m the man.”

I don’t have the heart to destroy Steven’s delusions, so I just tap him on the back and say, “Yeah, Steven. You the man.”

Our first stop was Carnevino, the finest steak house in Las Vegas, where we treated ourselves to a superb dinner and first-class red wine. The atmosphere was impressive—high ceilings, Italian-marble floors, antique furniture. Next we headed to Havana Club—an elite, old-school cigar bar.

That’s where we are right now. See us there? In that small, private back room, sitting in cushiony leather chairs. A hand-rolled cigar in one hand and swirling an amber-liquid-filled glass in the other, while heavy-scented smoke circles our heads.

Warren lets out a choking cough for the third time.

I warn him, “Stop inhaling.”

“I can’t help it,” he rasps. “Inhaling is like a reflex.”

“You better ‘help it’ or you’re gonna be barfing up a lung soon.”

I speak from experience. When Matthew and I were twelve, we swiped a few of my father’s Cubans and lit them up on the rooftop of Matthew’s parents’ building. Then we hurled our guts out over the edge, barely missing several unsuspecting pedestrians on the sidewalk below.