chapter one
“When life gives you lemons — make beer! What? You thought I was going to say lemonade? Idiots. When one is down in the dumps and thinking of jumping off a bridge, the very last thing that would help would be lemonade. Beer, on the other hand? When has anyone ever regretted making beer? Or drinking it, for that matter? That’s what I thought.”
~From Max Emory’s Guide to Dating and Other Important Life Lessons
Jason
Four weeks earlier
“That’s the fifth call this week,” I grumbled aloud, as I slowly got out of the SUV and shook my head at the scene in front of me. Political signs had been randomly showing up on people’s yards. Normally, it wouldn’t be a big deal since it was campaign season.
But these signs were of Max Emory and his megawatt smile, with two thumbs way up. And the tagline? I’m not running for anything. I just wanted a sign too!
With our damn luck, he was somehow going to get voted into office, and that would be the beginning of the end. One day, mayor of the city, the next day President of the United States. My body gave an involuntary shudder — God forbid. I needed a damn piece of wood to knock on. Hell, make that a salt shaker and a freaking box of Lucky Charms.
Grunting, I pulled the stupid sign out of the yard and tossed it into the back seat of the still-running SUV.
My phone rang.
It was as if he knew.
Hebeing Max.
What did he do? Put tracking devices in the signs? I was almost afraid to ask, because the explanation would most likely be extensive, and I had a dinner date.
Correction, I had a hot dinner date.
With Blanche.
One of my grandmother’s best friends — the one who still miraculously had all her teeth and only one hearing aid, bless her heart. I called her hot because she used to give me Hot Tamales candy when I was a kid, and when my mouth burned and went tingly all at once, she said that meant I was on a hot date.
Don’t ask me how long I associated candy with hot girls. Let’s just say the damn woman classically conditioned me to salivate whenever a chick walked by. It took me years to get over that embarrassing condition that my best friend Colton often told kids in our class was an allergic reaction to my own spit.
Asshole.
“Yeah?” I barked into the phone.
“You’re moving my signs again,” Max said in a bored voice. He was the CEO of the Emory hotel empire and clearly had way too much time on his hands. Recently married, you’d think he’d be too busy to eat lunch, let alone put up signs ninety minutes from his penthouse apartment in Manhattan.
“Max…” I prayed for patience. “…I’m an officer of the law. I deal with thugs, drugs, prostitutes, and murder.”
“You forgot speeding tickets.”
“Max… ” I warned.
“Speeding is an offense too. So is stealing. What about the kleptomaniacs? They don’t even get an honorable mention?”
“Why?” I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Why put up the signs? You do realize it’s a waste of my time and your money.”
He burst out laughing; it sounded more like an evil cackle. “That’s funny — you’re funny. You know that? Waste of money.” He continued to laugh. “And time? When was the last time you had an arrest, Jason?”
I clenched my teeth. “We had a streaker after the Yale game last night.”
“You get shot?”
“No.”
He sighed. “That’s too bad.”