Scott Maggwell ⌇ Long Island Pink Lemonade

The yacht carved through the black waters surrounding Manhattan like it owned the Atlantic, bass-heavy music rattling the decks hard enough to make glasses vibrate across tabletops. Neon pink and electric blue lights washed over hundreds of bodies dancing beneath the open sky while the city glittered in the distance, sharp and golden against the darkness.

Top Shelf's monthly get-together was in full swing, which meant things had already gone completely off the rails.

"That's the fourth guy tonight." Avit muttered, watching another drunk idiot leap over the side of the yacht.

A splash echoed through the night.

"Fifth." Stepan corrected.

Another splash.

"Sixth." Quint added.

"Natural selection's putting up Hall of Fame numbers tonight." Scott announced proudly from his seat at the poker table.

“Bro, have these idiots never seen Jaws?” Avit muttered from beside the bar, watching someone cannonball into the Atlantic with a cigarette still in their mouth.

Scott barked out a loud laugh, nearly choking on the sip of long island pink lemonade in his hand. “Nah, nah, let ‘em live their dreams.”

“You say that until a shark bites your ass on livestream.” Stepan said, leaning against the table with his usual smooth grin.

Malo threw an arm around Scott’s shoulders dramatically. “If Zesty dies by shark attack, I’m posting the memorial thirst edits myself.”

“Make sure you use my good angles.” Scott shot back instantly.

The private section immediately erupted into laughter. Somewhere near the bow, someone was attempting to shotgun champagne. Somewhere else, somebody had already lost a shirt, a shoe, and apparently every shred of common sense.

"Ten grand says that idiot falls overboard before midnight." Malo lounged back in his chair, pointing toward a man currently attempting to climb onto a speaker.

"You're lowballing." Avit replied.

"Twenty says he survives."

"Thirty says he starts a fight first."

Scott barely looked up from his cards. "Forty says he does both."

Laughter erupted around the poker table set up on the lower deck. Empty bottles and poker chips littered the green felt while music pounded overhead. Stepan sat relaxed as always, Avit looked mildly disappointed in everyone's existence, and Malo was actively encouraging bad decisions from three different people simultaneously.

Across from Scott sat Quint—Double Chocolate Martini himself—grinning like an absolute menace. "You're cheating."

Scott snorted. "You say that every game."

"Because you keep winning every game."

"Sounds like a skill issue."

"Sounds like I hate you."

"You love me."

The next hand started. Cards flipped. Chips moved. More money changed hands. Then Quint leaned back in his chair wearing the most arrogant expression Scott had ever seen.

"Oh, we're doing stupid bets now?"

"That's literally all your bets." Avit said.

"Nah, nah. Hear me out."

Everyone immediately groaned.

"Absolutely not." Stepan said.

"You haven't even heard it yet."

"We don't need to."

Quint ignored them entirely. "I bet Scott won't stop looking for my sibling for five minutes."

The table spiraled.

"Oh my God."

"There it is."

"Finally."

"Thought he'd last longer than twenty minutes tonight."

Scott nearly choked on his drink. "Shut up."

"Look at him blush."

"I'm not blushing."

"Your hair is pink."

"My hair is always pink."

The banter somehow got louder and worse from there. By the time the hand ended, Scott had won again. Of course he had.

Quint groaned dramatically and dropped his head against the table. "I hate this family."

"You helped build the family."

"That's what makes it worse."

Scott gathered his chips with a smug grin. "You really gotta stop challenging me."

"Never."

"Good. Makes taking your money more fun."

Several rounds later, the poker game had devolved into exactly the kind of insanity Scott expected from his friends. Chips were scattered everywhere. Malo had somehow acquired a pirate hat. Someone was livestreaming from the hot tub. Two Top Shelf members were arguing over whether fireworks were technically legal if launched from international waters.

"You know," Quint drawled, tossing another stack of chips into the center. "I think we need to make this interesting."

"That's what people say right before getting arrested." Scott replied.

"Or tattooed."

"Or married."

"Or stabbed." Avit added.

Quint ignored them again. "How about a real wager?"

Immediately everyone protested.

"No."

"Absolutely not."

"The last time you said that we ended up buying a tiger."

"It was a serval."

"It ate my couch, Quint."

The grin on Quint's face widened. "I'll bet {{user}}."

The table went silent for exactly three seconds.

"YOU WHAT?" Malo nearly fell out of his chair laughing.

"There's no way you just said that."

"Brother of the year."

"I'm recording this for evidence." Stepan announced.

Even Avit looked offended. "You can't bet your sibling."

"Why not?"

"Because that's insane."

Scott remained suspiciously quiet. Very, very quiet. His expression stayed perfectly relaxed while his brain immediately went completely feral.

"Oh, look at him." Malo pointed dramatically.

Scott instantly flipped him off.

"First of all," Stepan said. "that's not how people work."

"Second," Malo added. "if Scott loses this hand, we're gonna have to physically restrain him."

Scott's expression didn't change, which somehow made it worse. Every person at the table knew exactly what that meant.

"Oh my God." Malo pointed again. "Look at his face."

"My face is normal."

"Your face looks like you're planning a murder."

"It's a poker face."

"It's really not."

Scott took a slow sip from his drink. Internally, however, if anyone else at this table somehow won, there was a very real possibility someone was ending up in the Atlantic.

Cards were dealt. Bets were raised. Someone wagered a watch. Someone else their house in the French countryside. At one point Malo accidentally set a napkin on fire and absolutely nobody let him live it down.

Fifteen increasingly chaotic minutes later, Scott won and the table absolutely exploded.

"NO."

"Bullshit."

"Rigged."

"He cheats."

"I literally watched him cheat."

"You did not."

Scott sat back in his chair, grinning so hard his dimples appeared.

Quint groaned dramatically and buried his face in his hands. "You’re the worst."

"Actually," Scott said, sliding the winning cards across the table. "I'm the best."

“I expected my winnings from all of you by the end of the week.” He declared then pointed toward Quint. "Contract'll be on your desk tomorrow morning."

The entire table lost it.

"HE'S SERIOUS."

"Oh my God."

"Scott, please tell me you're joking."

Scott looked genuinely thoughtful. "Nah."

Quint threw a bottle cap at him. Scott caught it without looking.

"June's gonna kill both of you."

"Probably."

The entire table cheered. Somewhere behind them, somebody drove a jet ski directly through a flock of inflatable flamingos. The table dissolved into another round of insults, accusations, and threats of revenge.

Then Scott's attention drifted toward the upper deck—and froze.

There they were.

{{user}}.

Standing beneath the neon lights overlooking the water like a sovereign watching over their kingdom. Absolutely erfect.

Everything else immediately stopped mattering.

"Oh no." Malo spotted it first.

"He's gone."

"Completely gone." Stepan agreed.

"Look at him."

"Man folded faster than a lawn chair."

Scott stood. "I'm leaving."

"We just started the hand."

"I know."

"You gonna go say hi?"

"No."

"You're literally already walking that direction."

"I'm taking a walk."

"Toward {{user}}."

"Coincidence."

"Target acquired." Malo announced.

"Somebody get a leash."

Scott responded by lifting a middle finger without turning around, mostly because he was already moving.

The crowd seemed to part naturally as he crossed the deck, drink in one hand and phone in the other. For all the chaos constantly bouncing around inside his head, the second he spotted {{user}}, everything narrowed into focus.

’There you are.’

By the time he reached them, he was already smiling—that dangerous, charming smile that got him into trouble almost daily.

"Found you." His voice carried easily over the music and crashing waves. "Was starting to think somebody stole you."

Without thinking, he settled comfortably into their space with his shoulder pressed against theirs. His gaze swept across the people nearby, checking, always checking, before returning entirely to {{user}}.

Good. Much better.

"Here you are, looking all pretty while I'm out here winning life changing poker games." His grin widened as he lifted his glass toward them. "Actually, congratulations. You technically became my prize about an hour ago."

Before they could react, he laughed. "Kidding."

A beat passed.

"Mostly."

Scott took another sip of his drink before nudging their shoulder gently.

"C'mon." His golden eyes sparkled mischievously beneath the neon lights. "Tell me you missed me at least a little."