Page 60 of Brutal Prince

We were served spring lamb, because I guess Fall lamb doesn’t taste as sweet. And who are we to let a creature grow to full size before we ate or skinned them. Piglets on a spit, calfskin draped over the floor. My tastes were changing for sure. As my hunger for other pleasurable pursuits grew, the flesh of an animal became far less appetizing in my mouth.

I placed my hand on Vic’s toned thigh under the table as she spoke so eloquently to my parents about her job. Time pressures, demanding clients, working overtime, the day to day grind.

What does she do again? Oh yes, interior design. Is that even a real job?

My parents love Vic and so they should considering that she’s the daughter of the senator. We met at a function at the senator’s house and was encouraged to see each other again. In the early days, the sex was good, although I’ve had better, and we were affectionate to one another. Now, it seems we merely tolerated each other.

For all her flaws, she was fantastic at playing the role of my girlfriend in the public eye. Just like I was reasonably convincing playing the loving boyfriend at the functions I was dragged to for her.

Most importantly, we looked great together and the chances of having an ugly baby were incredibly slim.

The front door of my parents’ mansion opened and slammed shut as heavy footsteps loomed closer like the music in the Jaw’s movie. I slinked back in my chair and gazed up at the ceiling stifling my frustration. My little brother had a habit of turning up late commanding everyone’s attention in his bulky, athletic body.

My older brother and I exchanged glances, since neither of us had an ounce of time in our day for the clumsy fool. He was the brat that was sent away to my aunt and uncle, on my mom’s side, out of state, when he was eight. Returning now and again over summer or when my parents wanted to see him. He lived with them until his senior year at high school and decided to make the entire family suffer for this decision by acting like a spoiled cunt.

He shot me a black glare when he bent down to kiss Mom on the cheek, then shook my dad’s hand. My parents were very proud of my thug of a brother for being the first member of our family to play college football. Whoopty shit.

In fact, he’s so good he’s in the top team, the Dodos or whatever they called themselves, and is hoping to be good enough to play pro. He’s not book smart and that’s his biggest downfall, and my parents’ slight embarrassment, since everybody else in our family has IQ’s through the roof. But not my lil’ bro. Thick as pig shit, he is.

I used to remind him how dumb he is when we were kids. It was one of the reasons he was sent away to receive special one on one attention from my childless aunt. I don’t think it worked because he’s still a below average student to my parents dismay.

Another reason he was sent away was he had violent tendencies. Broke my arm one time when I called him by his nickname one too many times. I’d admit it was a rather cruel nickname, but hey, we were kids and I got fed up with him hanging around me cramping my style.

To rub salt into the gaping infectious family wound, he dropped our famous surname and legally took on our uncle’s and also used his middle name instead of his first given name Arthur or Art.

“I see you dressed up for the occasion,” I sniggered. While my older brother and I wore our blazers, dress pants and buttoned shirt, the pea brain turned up in maroon sweats with the Hawks’ football logo slashed across it like a fucking neon light, screaming ‘look at me, I’m a handsome jock, come suck my dick.’

“I’m sorry did someone just speak?” he hurled back without looking at me and addressed my girlfriend, “Hi Vic. When you’re done with that idiot, look me up.”

I caught a smile on her face that I didn’t like. She often gazed at my little brother like she was stripping him naked with her eyes. Luckily, they rarely saw each other unless…could it be possible that my girlfriend and brother are fucking and his alias is Bruno?

“Vic has no interest in thuggery behavior,” I hit back.

“Now, now son,” my dad warned, “let’s keep conflicts away from the dinner table.”

“I’m not a thug,” he argued, ignoring my father, which he did often anyway.

“What else do you call that imbecile game that you play when you slam into each other?”

“I don’t slam into anyone. Fuck, little you know about football,” only to receive hisses and roars from my parents for cussing at the table. “Sorry.”

My older brother Henry relaxed back in his chair enjoying the frivolity. None of it involved him ever. He’s six years older than me and I didn’t see him much when we were kids. He started at boarding school when he was twelve and I was left to entertain my clumsy 4 year old brother.

Henry was the lucky one.

“What happened to your face?” Mom asked the delinquent.

He had a faded shiner and the bridge of his nose had seen better days. I held back a chuckle. “Playing rough again?” I mocked.

He tilted his head to the side and held his murderous gaze, smirking a little like he enjoyed the whole fucking charade. “You know exactly what happened.”

Blistering heat rose up my neck and Victoria turned curiously to me. “You didn’t have fisty cuffs, did you two?”

Art snorted. “Yeah right. The middle child never gets his hands dirty. Besides, if he and I were pit together in a fight he’d be dead after one blow straight to the side of the head.”

“Arthur!” my father roared. “Stop it.”

“Are you two ever going to grow out of this brotherly conflict?” my mom added, tossing her napkin down in a show of disgust.

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