The Billionaire's Unexpected Baby(10)

"And here I thought you guys had forgotten all about me."

"Ah, mate," Harrison said. "You know we wouldn't do that."

"What's the plan?" Brooks said, cracking open his first beer.

"Well, with an hour's notice, you're looking at it," Cole said. "Just  you, your best friends, a bunch of booze, and a poker table. Couldn't  ask for a more perfect night."

There might be room to debate that, but before Brooks could say anything, his intercom buzzed again.

"With a couple extra guests," Chris said.

Brooks's eyebrows hit his hairline. "Please don't tell me you got me strippers."

"Okay, I won't," Chris said with a grin.

Brooks buzzed them in without even looking at the monitor. His  hesitation confused him. Normally, he'd be all over the idea. But this  time … he wondered if he could politely excuse himself from his own party.

He shook his head, going to the door to open it. "You guys are insane, you know that?" he said.

"And why is that, dear?" a female voice said.

Brooks whirled around. He knew that voice.

"Mom?"

He looked from her to his friends and back again, but they all looked just as stunned as he was.

"Close your mouth, dear. You'll catch flies like that. Are you going to let us in?"

"Us?"

She walked past him and looked at everyone standing there with a drink. "Look, Craig. We got here in time for a party."

Brooks's dad followed her in and nodded at Brooks. "Son," he said. His dad had always been one of few words.       

   





"Well now, what do we have here? We aren't interrupting anything, are we?"

"Kind of," Brooks said. "We have a bit of a bachelor party going on  here. I thought you weren't going to be in until tomorrow morning."

"We got in early and decided we'd rather come see you than hang out at a hotel."

"That's great, Mom," Brooks said. "But I'm not sure this is the type of thing you want to hang around for."

"Oh, I don't know. I've always wondered what goes on at these things."

Brooks opened his mouth, but before he could say anything else the door buzzed again.

Oh God. The strippers.

"That must be more of your friends," his mom said, walking to the door.

"Wait, Mom … "

But she had already hit the buzzer and gone to open the door.

Brooks looked at his dad, horrified. His dad just raised an eyebrow. Big help.

"Brooks," his mom said in that sickly sweet voice that usually meant he  was in a lot of trouble. "Are these ladies friends of yours?"

"Sorry, Mrs. Larson," Chris said. "I asked them to come."

"I see."

Where did moms learn that special tone that made kids cringe? They  didn't even have to say anything much to convey a world of  disappointment. Two words and four grown-ass men went from jovial  partygoers to chastised adolescents, standing in the middle of his  apartment, their eyes downcast, as if they'd been caught cheating on an  exam or sneaking a dessert before dinner.

"I'm afraid there's been a mistake," she said to the women at the door.  "I don't think we will be needing your … services tonight."

Brooks rubbed his hand over his face. Having his mother turn strippers  away from his door was definitely going to make his Top 10 List of  Embarrassing Moments. It could have been worse, though. She could have  shown up mid-show. And as embarrassing as it was to suddenly feel like a  hormonal thirteen-year-old being caught by his mother doing something  naughty, he had to admit he was a little relieved the strippers were  gone. What was the proper response when one's mother got rid of unwanted  strippers for you? Thanks, Mom?

She closed the door on them and turned around. "It looks like you're going to need some more entertainment for the night."

"Mom," Brooks said. He laughed, but sudden and horrifying images of his  mother trying to entertain his friends flooded his mind. If she broke  out Pin the Tail on the Bachelor, he was out of there.

"What? I'm not a total prude. You are entitled to a little fun the night  before your wedding, which you only told your mother about a few hours  ago."

"A little fun with my mother, for my bachelor party?"

"I realize that has therapy written all over it, but I promise it won't be that bad."

Brooks looked at his father who just shrugged helplessly. His mother  grabbed her purse from where she dropped it on the table. "Come on,  boys. We passed a bar down the street. Let's all go get a drink. My  treat."

They all looked at each other, but none of them were willing to say no  to her. So they all shuffled out the door on their way to what had to be  the worst bachelor party ever.

Thirty minutes and three drinks later, Brooks knew he'd made a mistake.  There were, in fact, quite a few things more humiliating than having a  bachelor party thrown by your mother. One of them was having your mother  become the life of the party.

She'd failed to mention that the bar she'd seen was a karaoke bar. She'd  also failed to mention that she and his father were karaoke  aficionados. Three things about that. One, apparently once all the kids  left the house, parents will pick up surprising hobbies and, rather than  taking up knitting or bowling, his parents liked to hit the bar and  belt out a few tunes. Good to know. Two, his mother sang surprisingly  well. Her rendition of "Girls Just Wanna Have Fun" damn near brought  tears to his eyes. And three, the fact that she was singing that song  directly to his father, making come-hither eyes and crooking her finger  at him, was going to have him in therapy for a solid five years.  Minimum.       

   





The song ended. Everyone clapped. Brooks thought the worst was over.

He was so very, very wrong.

His dad slammed back a shot and clapped him on the shoulder. "Be right back, son. Don't let anyone steal my drink."

Brooks watched him saunter-yes, literally saunter … his quiet,  book-loving, nerdy professor father-up to the stage. He took a  microphone so he and Brooks's mother could sing a duet.

The first notes of the song filtered out into the crowd and the hand  holding his drink suspended midair in total shock. That song wasn't a  duet. That song shouldn't be sung as a duet. That song shouldn't be sung  period. Not by parents. In public. To each other. While on stage. IN  PUBLIC.

He managed to tear his eyes away from his parents singing "I Touch  Myself" by the Divinyls long enough to glance at his friends. Yep. Good  to know it wasn't just him. Harrison sat in some sort of horrified  stupor, his slow blinking the only sign that he was still breathing.  Chris had a weird half grin on his face, like he couldn't decide if he  was amused or ready to bolt out the door. Cole …

"Put that down!" Brooks said, swatting at the phone in Cole's hand.

Cole laughed and leaned away so he could keep filming. "There is no way  in hell I'm putting this phone down." Cole fended him off with one hand  and kept recording his parents with the other.

"You have to sleep some time," Brooks said.

"Oh, come on. It's kind of sweet," Cole said.

"Really, really not the word that comes to mind," Brooks said,  abandoning his phone-snatching attempts in the interest of downing  another drink to dull the memory currently being branded into his brain.

"I'm serious," Cole said. He pointed up at the stage. "There are two  people who have been married over thirty years, having a blast and  hanging all over each other. I know people who have been together for  thirty days who aren't as into each other as your parents are.  Relationship goals, man."

Brooks risked another glance at the stage where the song had thankfully  just ended. And his father celebrated by giving his mother a kiss that  had the crowd roaring their approval. On the one hand, the little boy in  him wanted to vomit in the corner. And would do so shortly, for more  than one reason. But on the other … okay, he could see Cole's point.

His parents made their way back to the table and his dad grabbed his beer, taking a large swig, while his mom grabbed her purse.

"I'm going to freshen up."

His dad leaned over and smacked her right on the ass. "Hurry back."

Brooks took the beer out of his hand. "I'm cutting you off."

His dad just grinned at him. "Sorry, your mother's still got it."

"Oh my God. Dad."

His dad shrugged. "Son, my dearest hope for you is that you'll be  sitting at some table in some bar thirty years from now impatiently  waiting for your wife to come back from the restroom so you can drag her  back to your hotel room."

"Dad!" He wondered if his therapist's number was in his wallet. He really needed to start carrying that card around.

"Look," his dad said, his face returning to its usual serious  expression. "I don't know everything that's going on with you, and  frankly I don't need to. You're a grown man, you can make your own  decisions. I just hope that the girl you're marrying tomorrow is one you  can see yourself still drooling over a few decades from now. Now, if  you'll excuse me," he said, pushing back from the table as his wife  rejoined them, "we'll see you boys at the courthouse tomorrow."