Page 62 of The Breaking Point

Walking into the bar, I immediately spot the guys, my fraternity brothers from a lifetime ago, loud and sprawled around a table like they own the place.

As soon as I sit, someone shoves a shot glass into my hand. I throw it back. Then another. Then another. There’s laughter, jabs about needing liquid courage. “It’s not too late,” someone jokes, and they all howl.

I regret inviting them. Every single one. But the truth is, they’re all I’ve got. Sure, a few distant relatives from Mom’s side are coming. Some colleagues. But these guys? These are the ones who camefor me. And that counts for something.

Around my tenth shot, Luke jumps onto a chair and starts belting out our old frat pledge. The rest of them join in, loud and off-key causing us to get kicked out.

They stumbling out into the night, laughing like it’s the best night of their lives.

I’m quiet. Drunk. And sinking.

Eli points to a brightly lit sign across the road. Squinting, I can just about make out two blinking nipples on the neon board. Oh. It’s a strip club. Someone yells, “Yeah, baby!” and throws an arm around my shoulders, steering me forward.

Inside, it’s a haze of red carpets, dim lights, and pink velvet sofas circling a pole. There are other seats, a main stage farther off, but the guys naturally gravitate toward the pink setup. I don’t say anything. It’s the only spot big enough to fit all of us.

Almost instantly, two women naked from the waist up appear, gliding over like it’s second nature. One climbs the pole. The other rubs against her, their movements exaggerated, obscene, hot.

I clench my jaw.No, no, I love Kate.Looking won’t hurt. I just won’t get a dance. I’ll sit here, have a drink, be the guy I’m supposed to be.

It’ll be okay,I tell myself and signal the waitress for a round of drinks.

Each of the guys gets a dance, some get more than one. They have girlfriends, but tonight they’re yelling, “What happens at a bachelor party stays at a bachelor party.”

I told them I didn’t even want a bachelor party. But I’m too drunk to care right now. Not drunk enough to get a dance, though.

Every time someone tries to buy me one, I wave the woman off or steer her toward someone else. All except the waitress. She keeps coming by to ask formyorder, but it’s not just that. Her hand brushes my shoulder, lingers on my back. At first, I gently shift away. But as the drinks keep flowing, I get slower, duller, until she leans over from behind me, breasts pressing against my head. For a second, I just sit there, frozen. Then I lean forward, away from her.

Eli notices.

That’s when the ribbing starts.

“Come on, Mrs. Bennet got you on such a tight leash you can’t even get a dance?”

The others laugh, piling on with insults in the name of “good old fun.”

I ignore it. Or I try to. I don’t care, not really until Jorge leans in close, reeking of whiskey, and says, “Didn’t your dad teach you? What happens at a bachelor party…”

“…stays at a bachelor party,” the others finish, laughing.

I get up. Stumble a little.

“I’m leaving.”

I reach for my phone to call a cab, but Eli rips it from my hand and tosses it across the room before I can react.

“Hey-” I start, but my words are thick.

Eli’s on his feet now, swaying but steady enough. “You know what? We’re not leaving until you get a dance.” His finger jabs my chest.

I open my mouth to argue, but the waitress cuts in, stepping forward with a sultry grin.

“I’ll give you a private dance. The groom special.”

She struts away without waiting for an answer.

The guys whistle and watch her go, then turn to me, chanting: “Go after her!”

Mixed in are more insults, more jokes, but the message is clear.

---