I march forward, pushing and elbowing my way through the crowd. “Pardon me. Excuse me. Coming through.”

Finally, I reach the unhappy couple. I nod to Prince. “How’s it going, Dave?”

He looks a little confused. “Uh . . . fine, thanks.”

“Good.”

Then I scoop Kennedy up into my arms—and I run.

The element of surprise is on our side, several moments pass before anyone behind us thinks to react.

“What are you doing?” Kennedy squeaks.

“Saving you.”

For a horrible second, I think maybe she didn’t want to be saved. Until her arms tighten around my neck and her body presses closer. “Hurry. They’re coming.”

I pick up the pace and smile. “Relax. I’ve got you.”

10

We burst out the side doors onto the sidewalk and haul ass down the block. Without breaking stride, I fish out my phone. “Harrison, meet me in the back of the building. Code Fast and Furious.”

Kennedy leans back to look at my face. “Fast and Furious?”

I shrug. “He’s twenty-two; they all love those movies. I don’t pretend to understand it.”

Moments later, my Rolls comes screeching around the corner and stops at my feet. Shouting voices follow us as Harrison jumps out and opens the door. I toss Kennedy inside before diving in behind her. My trusty manservant floors it, as I’m sure he has done in his nitrous-oxide-booster-filled dreams, and we make our escape.

Kennedy faces me on the bench seat, breathing hard and flustered. “Oh my god! Oh my fucking god, Brent!”

I hold up my hand.

“If any situation calls for alcohol, it’s this one.” I press a button on the teak center console between the seats across from us, revealing the mirrored minibar with a crystal decanter. I pour two glasses of scotch, then hand her one.

And she chugs it like a frat boy during pledge week.

Impressive.

Kennedy exhales harshly, then opens her mouth to speak.

“Not yet.” I refill her glass.

Which she summarily drains, flinching as the eighty-year-old liquor scorches down her throat. “Wooh.”

I sip from my own glass and point at her. “Now go.”

She exhales again. “Did that really just happen?”

“I think it did.”

“David and I aren’t even serious! We’ve been seeing each other for two months and we’ve lived in different states for half that time. He brought up possibly moving in together once, which was crazy enough—but never marriage. Who does that? Who announces to a room full of people—and television cameras—that I’m going to be his wife, without even discussing it with me?”

It’s possible Davie-boy thought he was being romantic, but she won’t be hearing that from me.

I shake my head. “What a prick.”

“Right?”

I refill her glass again.

And she sips.

“Plus, I’m pretty sure he’s screwing around. With an intern!”

I snort. “Who does this clown think he is—Bill Clinton? Next thing you know, he’ll be playing the saxophone and not inhaling.”

“Exactly!” Then she stares at her hands and her voice goes softer. “The worst part is, it didn’t bother me. Not even a little. That means something, right?”

“Shit, yeah. It means you should’ve kicked that asshole to the curb a long time ago.”

As she finishes off drink number three, I can tell she’s starting to get a little fuzzy around the edges. Just the slightest thickening of her voice. “But still—I can’t believe I did that. When a man proposes, he deserves not to have you run away, doesn’t he?”

I keep nursing my own drink. “Technically you were carried away, but, tomato/tomahto.”

“My parents . . .” She smacks her palm to her forehead. “My mother loves David. She’s going to be so disappointed in me.”

“My father’s been disappointed in me for years—it’s not as bad as you think.” I finish off my drink.

Time to move on to happier topics. “We should go out and blow off some steam. You’ve earned it. Call Vicki and Brian—we’ll pick them up.”

Kennedy gets Vicki on the phone and gives her the Cliffs-Notes version of our epic escape. From this end, it sounds like Vicki wasn’t a huge fan of Prince either. And when Kennedy asks her if they want to come out with us, I hear Vicki’s voice from across the car.

“Brian! Call your mother!”

And it looks like we’re a quartet.

• • •

We end up at a college bar not far from Brian and Vicki’s house. It doesn’t look like any of the press followed us. After a few rounds, Brian Gunderson tries his hand at karaoke. He sings “I Can’t Feel My Face When I’m with You” and his wife claps and dances the whole time.

A couple of rounds later, Kennedy goes for it. She sings “Fight Song,” and while her voice isn’t anything she should quit her day job over, her smoking little body wrapped in that white dress, swiveling and gyrating, gets her a standing ovation from every frat boy in the place—and there’s a lot of them.

An hour before closing, I’m enjoying a good buzz and my three companions are totally hammered. Vicki begs Kennedy to do another song, but when she tries to climb on the stage, she ends up on her ass, laughing like a nutcase.

A college kid moves to help her, but I’m already there. I chase him away with a dark look, then I tell her, “Okaaay. Time to go, peanut.”