Page 58 of DFF: Delicate Freakin’ Flower (Family Ties #5)

Gabby

T he lights of Vegas were so bright they felt like a second sun. Neon pulsed across glass towers, music spilled out of every doorway, and the strip buzzed like it had a heartbeat of its own. It was loud and wild and already promising a night none of us were likely to forget.

We were all here. No kids. No responsibilities. Just grown adults pretending they weren’t exhausted by life and absolutely ready to make questionable choices.

Sasha and Jackson had handed off their daughter to her doting grandpas for the weekend and already had matching cocktails in hand.

Sadie and Elijah arrived that morning, looking effortlessly gorgeous and entirely child-free.

Marcus and Addie had surprised everyone by flying in late afternoon, also solo, and Marcus looked suspiciously relaxed for a man who usually had his phone glued to his hand.

Wes and Jesse rolled in just after dinner, smirking like they'd just crashed the Oscars.

“I cannot believe we’re in Vegas,” Wes greeted as they strolled up, clapping Webb on the back. “For a retirement wedding celebration of all things.”

Jesse nodded, grinning. “But there’s no way we’d miss this. This is, like, history.”

I laughed. “I’ve got a feeling it’s going to be an unforgettable experience for sure.”

That might’ve been an understatement.

Back at the hotel, Ira had commandeered one of the rooms—one with a view, no less—and turned it into what he called a “respectable gathering.” Which turned out to be code for an elaborate drinking game involving dice, laminated cards, and music from every decade mashed into a Spotify playlist that he absolutely would not explain.

“I call it the Retirement Romp Roulette,” Ira told us proudly, dealing out shot glasses like poker chips. “Patent pending.”

The guys dove in like frat boys on spring break. Webb shot me a look that said this is a mistake but still picked up his drink. And somehow, round after round, Ira kept winning.

That’s when I caught him. While the others were laughing at Marcus, trying to remember how many times he’d seen Dirty Dancing, Ira poured his tequila into a potted plant near the minibar. Then he swapped his shot glass with Wes’s mid-conversation. Twice.

I stared at him, but he just stared right back and mouthed, " You saw nothing ."

I turned wide-eyed and tapped Sasha, then Sadie and Addie, cluing them into what was going on.

Sasha faked a spill that just happened to soak Webb’s next drink.

Sadie quietly swapped Elijah’s with water, and Addie, ever subtle, laid her napkin over Marcus’s full glass, declared it “tainted,” and handed him one of Ira’s prepped replacements.

By the time we left the hotel to hit the Strip, the guys were well on their way to hammered, while Ira hadn’t broken a sweat.

The Strip was chaos in the best way—flashing lights everywhere, bass-heavy music spilling from open-air clubs, and crowds dressed like it was either Halloween or the set of a music video.

Jackson tried to order a drink from a mannequin.

Elijah challenged a guy in a Captain America costume to a push-up contest. And Marcus, ever the philosopher, attempted to tip a mime before launching into a lecture on the ethics of street performance.

Wes—Lord help him—had acquired a feather boa and was using it to lasso Jesse every time he wandered more than two feet away.

Webb leaned heavily against me, swaying slightly, and muttered, “Why am I the only one struggling?”

I grinned. “Because Ira’s a liar and a cheat. He didn’t drink half of what you did.”

Webb blinked at me like I’d just told him Santa was fake. “He what ?”

“Poured half of it into the plant and swapped the rest with you guys.”

Webb groaned, rubbing his face. “The old bastard outplayed us.”

From up ahead, Ira called over his shoulder, “That’s called wisdom, son!”

Getting the guys back to the hotel was a mission in itself.

Jackson, barely upright, tried to bribe a bellhop with thirty bucks and a novelty dice keychain, begging to be “carried like Cleopatra.” Meanwhile, Marcus made a beeline for a decorative fountain, insisting it was “quieter than the lobby” as he attempted to climb in with all the grace of a sleep-deprived toddler.

Elijah kept insisting we stop for hot dogs even though he already had one. From where no one knew. Jesse lay down in the elevator and declared gravity was “too strong in this building.” And Webb—sweet, sunburned Webb—just leaned his head on my shoulder and whispered, “Never letting Ira host again.”

“Sure you’re not.”

Back in our room, I collapsed onto the bed with a wheezy laugh. My stomach hurt from laughing, my cheeks ached, and my heart felt full in a way I hadn’t realized I’d been missing.

This wasn’t the wedding. That was tomorrow. Tonight had been just us—a chaotic, wonderful, chosen family. And somehow, that made it even more perfect.

That thought left me the next morning when I had to help a very hungover Webb get ready for the wedding without throwing up and then helped the others herd our men into the cars to go to the venue.

We ended up putting them in one of the cars on their own while we took the other one so that we had a break from the gagging, winging, and “I’m dying” declarations.

Webb

I was dying. Not in the poetic, dramatic sense—I was genuinely and physically dying.

Every bump the car hit felt like it shook loose another part of my soul, and I was convinced my skull had cracked down the middle sometime between brushing my teeth and collapsing into the backseat of this cursed vehicle.

My sunglasses were on, but the light still felt like it was stabbing me directly in both eyeballs.

“Jesus,” Jesse groaned beside me, rolling down the window. The second the wind hit him, he made a sharp, wet gulping noise and leaned out of the car, mouth open.

That’s all it took. Jackson, who had been quietly suffering beside him, immediately recoiled and slid across the seat, smushing into my side like a cat avoiding a bath.

“Dude!” he hissed. “If he pukes, and the wind sends it back in here, I swear to God?—”

I didn’t respond. Mostly because I was too busy also trying not to barf. The image of Jesse’s potential backdraft hit me hard, and I swallowed hard against the rising bile.

I glanced around the car. We all looked like death row inmates headed to the execution chamber. Gray faces, dry lips, and the kind of vacant expressions you only get after being emotionally and physically betrayed by tequila.

Marcus, sitting in the passenger seat with his face pressed to the window, finally broke the silence with a pitiful groan. “For the love of all that is holy,” he croaked, “do not throw up. Any of you. If one of you does, I will too, and I don’t know if I’ll stop.”

I closed my eyes. “I have no fluid left in my body to throw up.”

“Same,” Jackson mumbled.

“The old man killed me,” I added, weakly pressing my forehead to the cool window. “Right now, there's a mariachi band in my skull. It's pure chaos.”

We pulled up to the venue, looking like an Uber full of rejected zombies.

No one moved for a full ten seconds, andthen, like molasses being poured out of a cold jar, we spilled from the vehicle one at a time.

I straightened up halfway before groaning and slumping forward again, hand on my stomach.

Jesse dragged himself out last, still clutching the door frame like he was unsure gravity would stay loyal to him.

Elijah stumbled up beside me, eyes bloodshot behind his shades. “What are the chances,” he rasped, “that this is a silent wedding? No music. No sudden noises. Just… quiet appreciation and loving glances?”

I looked at him, and we shared a moment of deep, spiritual understanding...and dread.

“Zero,” I sighed, and we all trudged toward the entrance like we were marching into battle.

Inside, the venue was stunning—featuring floral arrangements, soft lighting, and elegant seating—but some twisted soul had chosen an all-white and gold color scheme, and the reflections off every surface were blinding.

Without a word, as if rehearsed, all five of us reached into our jacket pockets and pulled out sunglasses, sliding them back on like the broken, hungover boy band we now were.

I scanned the front.

And there was Ira, standing tall, beaming near the officiant, and chatting up the photographer like he’d slept eight hours and meditated to whale sounds before arriving. There wasn't a bead of sweat on him, just smug serenity wrapped in a bolo tie.

“I think the old man played us last night,” I whispered to Wes, who was slumped in the seat beside me like someone had unplugged him.

Wes snorted. “You think?”

I watched Ira adjust his cufflinks with flair and give Gladys a wink as she entered from a side door looking ten kinds of elegant. The vintage lace gown hugged her like it was made for her, and the way she looked at Ira?

Yeah, this was their day. Our hangovers would have to deal with it.

I sighed, pulled a mint from my pocket, and popped it into my mouth with reverence. “Let’s just pray there’s no brass section.”

Despite the band still hammering away at the inside of my skull, I had to admit—the wedding was beautiful.

The music was mercifully soft and classical, the kind of gentle strings that whispered grace instead of let’s rupture every blood vessel in your head.

The warm light bouncing off flowers and candles actually didn’t make me want to claw my eyes out.

And right in the front row, standing with a bouquet and a look of pride so bright it rivaled the damn chandeliers was Gabby.

She looked stunning. That navy dress, corseted and flowing just enough at the bottom, hugged her like it had been made for her.

The way the fabric caught the light, the way her hair fell in soft waves around her shoulders…

she didn’t just glow. She floored me. Even through my haze of nausea and regret, I couldn’t stop looking at her.

My stomach turned for a different reason then because I loved her that much.

The ceremony itself was short and sweet, the vows heartfelt and funny, the couple exchanging rings with the kind of tenderness that made you forgive them for dragging your hungover corpse to a public event.

Then came the moment the officiant beamed and announced, “I now pronounce you husband and wife.”

We all stood and clapped. Or tried to.

Each clap was accompanied by a full-body wince.

Marcus was whining 'ow' between each clap as if it were part of a meditation chant. Jesse actually hissed at one point and shook out his hand like it had betrayed him. My own hands felt like I’d just smacked them against hot metal, but I kept going because it was a good moment.

Behind us, Elijah groaned under his breath. “Sadie’s enjoying my pending death way too much.”

I glanced to the side and caught her clapping like she was at a rock concert, big grin and all.

“She’s not the only one,” I pointed out, catching Sasha and Addie doing the same thing. Gabby wasn’t even pretending to hide it—she clapped louder when she caught my eye.

Then it happened.

The first wailing, high-pitched chords of the Wedding March shrieked through the room like a banshee in heels, courtesy of an electric guitar. My shoulders hit my ears, and every brother around me made a noise like they’d just been shot.

Jesse groaned and crouched down behind the row, curling into himself.

Marcus staggered back into his seat and covered his head with his arms like we were in a lockdown drill.

Elijah leaned against the nearest pillar and whispered, “God, take me now.”

As the couple—glowing, grinning, and oblivious to the agony behind them—walked past us, Gabby leaned in toward me and said brightly, “It’s being videoed. I already asked if I can get stills. I’m definitely going to frame a few.”

I squinted at her. “You’re a monster.”

She kissed my cheek. “But I’m your monster.”

The cherry on top was that as Ira and Gladys reached the end of the aisle, a server met them with a tray of champagne flutes, and the speakers blasted "All You Need Is Love" at full, glorious volume.

I nearly dropped to my knees.

Instead, I dragged myself upright, stumbled forward, and helped Elijah stand. He groaned, nodded in thanks, and we started making our way down the aisle like war veterans limping off the battlefield.

Wes sprinted past us with no warning, just a blur of hair and panic. The doors slammed open, and as they closed behind him, Sadie cocked her head and said casually, “And that, folks, is the moment Wes finally lost the war against the chunder bus.”

I turned to Gabby. “What the hell’s a chunder bus?”

Before she could answer, Gladys leaned in, voice calm and pleasant like she was offering me hors d’oeuvres.

“That boy’s clearly throwing up his guts, dear. I hope he found a spot away from the walkway, or it’s going to be very awkward.”

I didn’t even have time to respond before Jackson pushed past me like a man possessed, bolting for the same exit with his hand over his mouth and a look in his eye that said no time for dignity.

Behind us, Ira clapped his hands far too cheerfully and started singing, “ Another one bites the dust !”

I glared at him. “You’re evil.”

He beamed as he pressed a champagne flute into my hand. “I know. Now, let the celebrations begin.”