I wave my hand in front of Brody’s eyes. No response from behind his sunglasses. I’m always a little concerned he’ll turn a weekend at the Ritz into Weekend at Bernie’s, so I check for a pulse on his neck. The fucker is alive but apparently my hand pressed against his throat isn’t enough. Time for drastic measures. I shake the beer still in my hand one more time, place it directly above his head, crack the can open, and voilà. Instant beer shower for the twenty-seven-year-old who still gets fucked up like he’s nineteen.

“The fuck?” he yelps as the cold beer oozes down his face. He stares up at me in shock, then rage. “What’s your problem, Drago?”

“You’re my problem, Golini.” I snort in amusement. “Your ‘blushing bride’ gave me an earful about you making it to the photo shoot.”

“Shit.” He panics, practically falling on his face as he scrambles off his seat. “How much time we got?”

“To get you presentable or sober?” I inquire while I shove him inside the shower and start the water.

“Fuck you,” he blurts as the cold water washes the night before from his body.

I get out, shutting the door behind me and heading to my bathroom to take a quick shower and put on my suit.

“Where is my tuxedo?” he asks as I fix my tie.

“Front closet.” I point to the door across from the bathroom toward the front of the room.

“What are you doing bumming around then?” he barks before rushing to the closet. “Help me get into my fucking suit. I’m not sober enough for a damn fashion show.”

“All right, dear, keep your panties on,” I mock him. Brody can be such a pain in the ass when he’s drunk. I take the suit bag from him before he can ruin it somehow. He might be a pain in the ass, but at least my friend—the usually sober lawyer—had the foresight to rent a room for the night before at the same hotel where he was about to tie the knot. Thirty minutes to get his sorry ass downstairs with a hangover cure in hand? No problem.

“Hey, can we stick a flask in my jacket?” he requests as I fix his tie.

“Sure.” I look for what’s left of our booze stash under the bed. “If your bride asks,” I holler over my shoulder, “tell her it’s a handkerchief. She’ll understand.”

Eventually, the wedding shoot got done. I always think it’s funny to see Claire posing in pictures next to Brody. Despite his expensive taste in clothing, he looks like a white loser next to his stunning, elegant bride who’s easily eight shades darker than him. Her gorgeous dark skin and tight curls are completely out of place next to his Great Clips buzz cut and spray tan.