The dude—Enzo—tips his chin at me as he lifts his drink. “Nice to meet you, Cash.” He has a thick southern drawl, but it isn’t a Texas accent, that’s for sure. His arms are fucking huge, covered in colorful ink. As a matter of fact, there’re tattoos covering every part of his body that’s visible, aside from his face.

“Hey, man. You too. Where you from?”

“Georgia,” he offers. “You?” He’s stoic. Nothing given away on his face. Interesting.

“I live in Texas,” I reply with a grin as I take a seat across from him. Weston sits in the middle of both of us. I wonder how he knows this guy. Doesn’t seem like someone West would normally hang out with.

“Let’s do shots,” Weston suggests, with a glint in his eyes. There’s a bottle of chilled Grey Goose at the table already. He grabs it and pours three overflowing shots, handing Enzo and I each one. “Too bad Bran isn’t here to give one of his famous toasts, but to letting loose and having fun. Cheers!”

We all clank our glasses together before tossing the contents back. The familiar burn works its way down my throat until it warms my chest. Weston and I share a chuckle when we’re done. Branson was known for legendary—and sometimes ridiculous—toasts when we were in high school or college. It was his thing, and nobody does a toast quite like Branson.

We all have a couple more shots and shoot the shit for a while. Weston and I catch up a little, while I learn a little more about the mysterious Enzo. He doesn’t divulge much about himself, but I do find out he’s a cop, which makes him even more of an enigma. I’m gonna have to remember to ask Weston about their story once we’re alone.

Weston’s brother, Kingston, shows up a few hours later and joins us, throwing back a couple of shots. He’s five years older than us, but we used to spend a lot of time with him when we were kids. He’d drive us everywhere before we were old enough to have licenses and would buy us alcohol once he was twenty-one.