Page 3 of Casual Felonies (Wildlings #1)

Speaking of, Maya points out our fathers, watchful and—thankfully—hanging back from the crowd.

“I really tried to get them to stay away, but…” I trail off with a sigh.

“These are the same men who practically threw a ticker-tape parade when we both aced our SATs.”

To be fair, we were fourteen.

“We should join them,” Maya says, after a few more minutes of shaking hands. “Get in front of their over-involvement before they do something truly cringeworthy.”

As dads go, they aren’t that embarrassing, but she has a point. It’s always better to manage up with those two.

With some good-natured grumbling, we link arms again and head over, smiling at the way our fathers only have eyes for each other.

Dad still wears his thick sun-bleached hair long and the white stripe along the part in Baba’s black hair is debonair as hell, though neither has aged much over the years.

It’s hard not to be jealous when my early fumbling attempts at love always ended in a puddle of loser with a chaser of betrayal. After the last one, I told my dad I’d never fall in love again, which, while pretty dramatic for a nineteen-year-old, still holds water four years later.

It was heartbreaking to realize that true love is all but a myth for my generation, but I’m glad to have learned the lesson young. My expectations for finding my fathers’ kind of eternal, nausea-inducing love are practically subterranean.

That level of pessimism’s difficult to maintain, though, as I watch Baba playfully tug on Dad’s carefully crafted man bun. Honestly, they’re almost as bad as Grandma and Grandpa with how much they can’t get enough of each other.

They see us coming and stand with broad smiles .

“How are things going?” Baba asks as Dad slides his arm around my shoulders.

I let go of Maya and briefly lean into Dad’s hold. I made tonight about the military because Dad served, like, thirty years ago, and now uses what he learned to help people live longer, less painful lives. I hope I’ve made him proud.

“Eh.” I blow out a dramatic sigh. “Maya and I got an eyeful of Mrs. Bracehurst, and I have to meet Benji up front in a few because we ran out of tortillas, if that’s any indication.”

“You forgot to mention creepy stalker guy,” Maya supplies helpfully. Not. Leaning in with a conspiratorial look, she stage-whispers, “Orange Bow Tie, ten o’clock.”

Dad shifts subtly, his eyes narrowing when his gaze lands on the guy in question. “He giving you any trouble?”

“ No .” I bump shoulders with Maya, who’s trying to cover her laugh with her hand. “He’s never said a word to me. Just stands there and stares.”

Baba, basically an older version of me, tracks Dad’s line of sight and thins his lips.

I hold up my hands, hoping to forestall their tendency to overreact. “I get to use my popularity to highlight useful community endeavors and pull hot guys. Sometimes people get it wrong, and that just comes with the territory.”

“‘Host a gala,’ they said,” Maya cracks. “‘It’ll be fun,’ they said.”

I purse my lips at her. “You’re the one who suggested a gala. This is your fault.”

Dad chuckles, pulling his attention from OBT. “Hosting a huge event for your first rattle out of the gate is a choice ,” he says, his Texas drawl gone more gravelly over the years.

“But do you like it?”

My family has been working in the community for decades, but this is the first time I’ve been in charge of an event, and I’m anxious to hear his opinion. He won’t lie to me .

Dad tightens his grip on my shoulders, his eyes a little shiny as they meet mine. “I’m so proud of you, Rami. It’s clear to Baba and me that you’re not just filling the pre-requisite for accessing your trust fund. You’ve put your entire heart into this event.”

“Uncle Ford helped, and so did Tia Scout,” I offer, though Dad isn’t wrong.

I’ve loved working with the various organizations, even if I’ve fucked up a bunch along the way. This has definitely been one of those learn-the-hard-way things I hate so much. “The necessary humbling of Prince Rami,” Maya calls it. Something tells me I’m not done being humbled.

Baba lifts one of his thick dark eyebrows. “I agree with your dad. This is a beautiful event. But is Brantley actually helping?” he asks, his Iraqi accent like a warm blanket despite the sharp glint in his blue-green eyes.

My phone buzzes as I dart a gaze over to Maya, who has Dad’s fairer coloring and thick sun-bleached hair. She bites her top lip, staying out of it.

“Not…really.”

A few more texts pour in. Benji is lighting my ass on fire for making him wait.

Holding up my phone, I distract them from the whole Brantley mess. “I gotta grab those tortillas before Benji pitches a fit.”

“I saw his latest post. I’m so happy to see he hit the five-year mark with his remission,” Dad says, releasing me to grab Baba’s hand. “Say hi to him for us.”

“I will.”

My phone goes off again, and I take off running, hitting the lobby thirty seconds later. Benji stands there, grinning like a jackass in his pressed Dockers and H-E-B logo jacket, holding several massive shopping bags full of goodies.

“What’s all this?” I ask, leaning in for a half-hug before grabbing the bags from him .

“Figured you probably needed a few extras.”

“You’re a good dude,” I say, stepping back. “And hey, we barred the cousins from the gala, so they’ve insisted on an afterparty tomorrow at the condo. You should join us.”

Benji laughs as he shakes his head. “Juliana is, like, seventeen months pregnant. She’ll exile me to the couch if I tell her I’m hanging out with the Wildlings while our son does the ‘Macarena’ on her bladder.

” Grimacing, he leans in. “Smart move, not having them join you tonight. I know you love them to pieces, but…”

He let his words die out, the implication clear. He’s right, of course. The Wildlings—my cousins, found and otherwise—weren’t invited to tonight’s shindig for a reason.

Let’s just say our nickname originated with a prank involving a preteen joy ride to the University of Texas campus and one cousin’s affinity for pyrotechnics. We didn’t set anything on fire, thankfully, though our fathers did have to foot the bill for replacing the university’s famous mascot.

I mean, you’d think we killed Bevo with all the press we got, but he’s still alive and well in a friend’s animal sanctuary, and we all learned an important lesson that day.

Bovine PTSD is no laughing matter.

We do collectively feel bad about that, but you can see why I wouldn’t want to invite that kind of chaos on my first foray into real adult work.

I chuckle, then pull Benji in for a hug. “Super excited for you two. Let us know when the little one comes.”

“Will do, amigo.”

“And wait, how much do I owe you?”

He gives me his get-real look. “Dude, your dad saved my life. I’m not charging you for some tortillas.”

“Eh, it was just a spot of leukemia,” I say, waving him off. “Typical Dad—always slipping someone a miracle cure before breakfast. He says hi, by the way. ”

Way before I was born, our neighbors lost their matriarch to the same virulent strain of leukemia Benji had, and Dad had quietly made sure his company’s research department put their best people on it. Hardly anyone dies from that form of leukemia these days, but Dad never accepts any credit.

Dork , I think affectionately.

As Benji sends me a grateful smile, a familiar voice—stumbling and cursing—filters out from the ballroom doors. Grimacing, I send my buddy a quick salute and start running.

“Uh, hello,” Brant says, his voice like watery gravy. He taps the microphone right as I shove the bags of groceries into Jocelyn’s hands. “Is this thing on?”

I catch Maya’s eye. Brant and I had planned to make a speech later, so I don’t know what the hell he’s doing. This is…not good.

“I just wanted to say”— sniff —“to say thank you for coming tonight. I’m sure the, uh…” His eyes drift up and to the side as if he isn’t sure of his next words. “Uh, the veterans really appreciate your contributions.”

Jesus .

His dad Preston and sister Margeaux are in the audience, and they are mortified.

My chest tightens as he not-so-surreptitiously dabs at his nose, then inhales deeply, as if setting up for a longer ramble.

I jog up the stairs and give him a huge side hug, bodying him away from the podium.

“Exactly, ladies and gentlemen, this has already been a wonderful evening so far, and I can’t wait to show our beloved veteran organizations how much we love and appreciate our service members. ”

Maya sends the signal, and the waitstaff serves half-filled flutes of champagne to our attendees. She snags one and brings it to me, pointedly ignoring Brant.

“So,” I say, plastering on a lazy grin, “let’s raise a toast to Veterans’ Space for their work in ensuring that the phrase ‘ homeless veteran’ is eradicated from our language, and the Rainbow Brigade, for supporting our LGBTQIA+ folks in the armed services.”

The attendees seem to enjoy being reminded that they’re eating and drinking for a good cause, so even though I hate champagne, I make a show of lifting my glass and downing the entire thing like a real party boy.

Amused laughter sprints around the room, assuring me that I’ve sufficiently distracted them from the fact that my co-chair is zooted out of his fucking gourd.

God, I hope he’s not cutting his blow with fentanyl. Not even his family could save him if his political opposition got wind of that.

In this precise moment—as if I’ve conjured a political nightmare with my errant thoughts—uniformed officers file into the ballroom and up to the podium with the determination of ants at a picnic. I’m pushed aside as Brant is surrounded.

Shit. Did they catch him snorting blow on tape?

The only guy wearing a suit—he’s hot, but God does he need a tailor—pulls Brant’s arms behind his back and starts cuffing him. “Brantley Whitaker, you are under arrest for embezzlement and fraud.”

Wait, what? Fraud?

Also, why do I know this arresting officer?

Considering Brant ran his campaign on cleaning up the corrupt Texas government, this is bad. Really, really bad.

I gesture at the crowd of gasping onlookers. “Uh, couldn’t y’all have done this after?”

The familiar officer in the ill-fitting suit shrugs. “Guess that’s what Mr. Whitaker gets for calling the attorney general a—what was it?”

“A second-rate asshole who enjoys being pegged,” Brant spits out.

Not helpful .

“I mean…who doesn’t like a good pegging?” I say, acting like it’s no big deal that this entire night is crashing down around my shoulders.

The attendees, enthralled by this turn of events, laugh.

“Get my dad,” Brant pleads, struggling against the officers.

“Mm. Daddy won’t be able to help you out of this one,” the officer in the suit responds, a smug grin on his smug face.

I don’t like Brant’s dad for a bunch of reasons, but hot, shitty suit guy has it all wrong. Whoever is responsible for this arrest and ridiculous charges is about to have a very bad day.

Where did Preston go?

I think about the reporters and social media types hanging around outside, waiting for a scoop on the Wildlings’ first foray into charity, and my heart sinks into the pit of my stomach.

Dammit .

So much for the gala.