All us wedding guests between the ages of twenty-one and forty pile into the “party van,” which is basically a half-sized party bus. The playlist I sent on before leaving LA starts up, and blue lights flash through the space as the engine kicks into gear.
Brooke groans, sinking back in her seat. “What have you got planned?”
“You’ll see.” I grab a beer from the ice-filled bucket at the back and take a long gulp. Putting Will out of my mind is going to be much easier with a buzz. I sit down beside Brooke on one of the long cushioned seats, catch Maggie’s eye, and tap my purse. She nods with a grin and nudges Lulu, who passes the unspoken message down the line.
“So, Brooke.” I lean my shoulder against my bestie’s. “You made me promise no strippers, and first off I want you to know that I kept that promise.”
Brooke eyes me warily. “Why do I have the feeling there’s a ‘but’ about to follow.”
“Oh, there will be many butts,” I reply gleefully. “Because there’s absolutely no way you’re having a bachelorette without being showered with a whole lot of naked men.”
We all toss up the handfuls of paper we readied. Playgirl clippings, raunchy post cards, and internet printouts flutter down over Brooke. I told everyone to aim for a variety, and it looks like we succeeded: modern spreads and vintage hotties, some totally steamy and others of the goofy variety. I even managed to include a couple of Star Trek cast members in the lot.
“Oh my God,” Brooke says, pawing through them. “Ruby!” Then she cracks up, so hard that in a few seconds she’s wiping tears from her eyes. A little knot of tension in my stomach releases.
She’s okay. She’s happy. There’s nothing to worry about here.
“And, there’s more!” We tie on our Brooke’s Buds neon pink sashes, and I help Brooke position hers, which says, Brooke the Bride, so the tiny attached veil hangs down her back.
“I love it!” she laughs, stroking the cheap fabric. “I wonder if Trevor’s getting the same treatment for his bachelors.”
“I hope not,” Maggie cracks. “Pink’s not his color.”
When we reach the club, I do two shots before I’ve gotten ten feet onto the dance floor. The place is full of gyrating bodies. Soon we’re just more of them, forming a protective circle around Brooke as we sway and spin and cheer her on. We tramp up to the karaoke room where Brooke and I sing a duet that I suspect it’s better I don’t remember. After a full group rendition of “Wannabe,” we charge back downstairs for another round of drinks and dancing.
By the time we pile back into the van, all my memories of the day’s events have been softened by the hum of alcohol in my bloodstream. We dance on the seats to my party music until someone shouts out, “Marry, Fuck, Kill!” We sit Brooke down and grab spreads of the nudie photos still scattered across the floor for her to choose from.
“Um, kill them all?” she says with a laugh, looking at Fabio in a haughty pose, a bearded dude in a coonskin cap, and a guy who looks like Yanni but I’m guessing isn’t.
“Not allowed!” Lulu declares.
“Okay, okay . . . Marry hat guy, fuck Fabio, and kill Yanni.”
I hand her Brad Pitt, Jude Law, and Michael Fassbender. She groans. “This is impossible for the complete opposite reason! Can’t I just have a harem of all three? Um . . . Marry Jude, Fuck Michael, Kill Brad.”
“You can’t kill Brad,” Maggie says.
“I just did!” Brooke declares defiantly, and we all burst out laughing.
The game winds down as the van’s tires start to bump along the dirt road that’s the last stretch before the resort. Brooke wraps her hand around my arm and rests her head against mine.
“You’re the best friend ever, Ruby,” she murmurs. “The bestest friend. Don’t forget that, all right?”
“I have to disagree,” I inform her. “Clearly you are the bestest best friend.”
“I’m sorry about Trevor, and the letter—telling Will—”
“Don’t be silly,” I say. “It’s fine. I’m glad he knows now.”
“Yeah,” she says with a sloppy nod. “Of course.”
Then “Girls Just Want to Have Fun” comes on over the speakers. Maggie plops down at Brooke’s other side.
“Come on, cuz, we’ve got to sing along with this one!”
We all escort Brooke back to the bridal suite. I almost trip over her open suitcase beside the couch. Maggie, Lulu, and I are all crashing in here for the night—sleepover!—but I remember as I catch my balance that we can’t skip an important tradition that wouldn’t have fit well on the bus.
“Presents!” I call out. “Everyone go get yours and be back here in ten.”
I dash down the hall to my room and take a moment remembering where I stashed the gift bag. For good measure, I chug a glass of water to reduce the impact of tomorrow’s hangover. Thank God for Advil.
Maggie lets me back into the room. As the other girls turn up, I direct them into a circle around the chair that will be the bridal seat. Only when everyone’s turned up, it’s still empty. I glance around, my head hazy. “Where’s Brooke?”
“I thought she was with you,” Maggie frowns.
“We’ve lost the bride!” Lulu cries, totally wasted.
I go over to the bathroom. The door’s ajar. My gaze darts across the room—and sticks.
There’s nothing on the counters or the bathtub ledges except the complimentary toiletries. No cosmetics bag, none of Brooke’s assorted creams and lotions. Frowning, I step back out into the main room. Why would she have packed that stuff up when she’ll just have to pull it out of her suitcase again tomorrow . . . ?
Her suitcase is missing too. The spot where I nearly tripped by the couch is now empty. I jerk my head around in one last survey of the room, but my heart is already plummeting.
Brooke is gone. And not just for a quick walk. She’s taken all her things with her.
Chapter Twenty-Three
I grab Maggie and drag her aside. The others are chattering—I don’t think they’ve caught on that anything is wrong yet. Better to keep it that way if we can.
“She’s gone,” I whisper. “I mean, Runaway Bride Julia Roberts kind of gone.”
“What?” She takes in the room. Her eyes widen. “Shit. Where the hell could she be?”
“I don’t know! We’ve got to find her.” My gut twists. I have no idea what could have provoked Brooke to jet out of here, but I can’t imagine it’s anything short of horrible.
“I’ll get Lulu looking for her too,” Maggie says. “We can cover ground faster that way.”
“Just tell her not to mention it to anyone else.” If it turns out somehow we’re panicking over nothing, Brooke is not going to thank me for freaking out the rest of her family and friends.