Beyond Breathless

She brushed against him, a flirtatious shimmy of silicone. “Whatever you need, honey. Just call.”

A mere four shots later, Andrew had developed a new appreciation for his brother’s Bohemian way of life. That was the beauty of the public relations business Jeff was in—they didn’t make shit, but by God, they knew how to have fun.

Jeff pointed a swaying finger in the groom-to-be’s direction, some doofus in a brown shirt that Jeff had called Peter when they had first come in. Said victim was currently enjoying a lap dance from Trixie, Dixie, something “ixie.”

“Andrew, how old are you?”

“Thirty-three, no, thirty-six. Definitely thirty-six.”

His brother stared balefully. “And when’s the last time you got laid.”

Andrew didn’t hesitate to reply. “Eleven-seventeen a.m. On the Connecticut turnpike.”

And for once, Jeff Brooks, legendary media spin-master, had no words. Eventually his mouth closed, and Andrew’s glow only increased. “I don’t believe it. You can’t have sex while driving. I’ve tried. Doesn’t work.”

“Can in a limo.”

“A limo?”

“A Hummer,” murmured Andrew, pleased that for once, his exploits could be bandied about in locker-room talk.

“Nah. I don’t believe it. You’ve been reading Penthouse again, haven’t you?”

Andrew crossed his heart. “Swear. We both needed to get to Connecticut, the trains were shut down. I gave her a ride.”

“You didn’t.”

“I did.”

“A Hummer?” Jeff lifted his glass. “I have sold you short all these years. Damn, bro. What else have you been holding out on?”

“Lots,” lied Andrew, enjoying his moment in the spotlight.

“Who was she?”

“Can’t name names,” answered Andrew, though he might be drunk, he was a gentlemanly drunk.

“Model?” was Jeff’s first guess, because he couldn’t comprehend a woman off the runway.

“Wall Street.”

Jeff just shook his head, letting a dancer slip into his lap. “Give us a kiss,” he told her, and the redhead complied. When she had withdrawn her tongue from Jeff’s tonsils, Jeff’s fuzzy gaze returned to Andrew. “I don’t believe it.”

Andrew just shrugged.

“Was it good?”

“Five stars.”

“Five minutes,” scoffed Jeff.

“Try ninety, little brother.”

The dancer looked at Andrew with new and more appreciative eyes. Andrew flashed her a grin. Let her dream.

“You are lying your ass off.”

Andrew shrugged and lifted another shot glass. “Don’t care if you believe me or not,” he said, before sending the shooter down his throat. He put a fifty in the redhead’s G-string. He’d regret it in the morning, but right now he felt like a king. “Buy yourself a drink.”

She made a move to climb into his lap, but he waved her off. “Save it for the ones who really need it.”

She looked a little miffed, and then walked away.

“Why did you do that?”

“I just saved you a thousand bucks, Jeff.”

“Does it always have to be about money? I can take care of myself. I’m an adult.”

“Only according to the laws of the great state of New York.”

“You just don’t want to admit we don’t need you anymore.”

Andrew frowned, the alcoholic haze dimming some. The fleeting panic abated as he realized his brother wasn’t serious. “I paid for your rent,” he said to remind his little brother about the rules of order in the family hierarchy.

“Not in the last six years.”

Andrew frowned into his shot glass. “I paid for your college. Harvard. Stanford. Good places, not cheap. You could’ve picked a state school, but no…”

“I paid you back.”

But not the interest, thought Andrew to himself.

Jeff read his mind. “I’ll write you a check. What do you say, five percent interest fair? Hell, I’ll give you eight,” he offered quickly.

Andrew attempted to smile. “Keep it. Consider it a gift,” he said, not because he was overly generous, but because he couldn’t give up that last hold over his family.

“Tell me about the mystery woman.”

“Not much to say.”

“She’s a dog?”

Andrew’s head shot up. “Bite your tongue. Not flashy, but she’s got something. Sexy, but in an understated way.”

“Stacked?”

Andrew used his hands, thinking until he got Jamie’s size right.