Page 21 of Whiskey Throttle
His voice cuts, flat, cold, sharp enough to hit a nerve. That’s always the case with these two. I’ve casually wondered a time or two in passing years what happened between the two of them to get this bad, but now it’s at the forefront of my mind more than ever. I grind my jaw and grab my bag, starting to walk toward the clubhouse.
“She’s not the villain you make her out to be.” My grip tightens around the handle of my tennis bag, treading into sharky waters. “She’s always been nice to me.”
The hiss of a breath on the other end. Rough and tired. A decade in the making, from the sound of it.
“Yeah, she’s always nice to those she didn’t birth.”
Bitter.
Filled with hurt that isn’t going to be solved on the sidewalk of his mom’s tennis club. Yet I saw the pain in her eyes when she barked at him. Felt how destructive it was to witness, unimaginable if on the receiving end. He speaks to her with such venom, I don’t know how she keeps her composure. But she didn’t that night. Maybe it was Dom. Maybe his dad and girlfriend, who’s my age. Maybe both.
It’s death by a thousand cuts with these two.
“Fair enough, Dom.”
I shift, squint up at the sun, and pretend like this conversation isn’t peeling the skin off layers of emotional trauma. Like that, there’s not enough paint in the world to get it out and display it in an art gallery.
“Still. Don’t be a dick at the opening. She’s proud of the gallery, and probably worked her ass off behind the scenes. You could at least pretend to give a shit for an hour.”
Silence again.
He doesn’t bite. Doesn’t agree. The fact that he doesn’t argue is a win for me. I blow out a slow breath, my gaze drifting back toward the drive where her coupe vanished.
“Whatever.”
“Anyway, I’ve got to go. Tee time,” I lie, knowing I’m grabbing a whiskey and a massage, and hopefully a happy ending depending on which woman I get to rub me down. “Let me know if you need anything.”
“Do I sound like I need anything?” he growls, still raw from my judgments of him, which don’t happen often. They might start increasing in frequency depending on how this goes with Babs. “I’m giving you the heads up. You’d better be there. I’m not sitting through that garbage-fest alone.”
Ah, that’s the real reason for the call. He does need me to go. To keep him entertained, or at least from exploding like he did at the gala. Possibly to run interference. Either way, I’m going for her.
I make it to the door of the club and nod at the employee greeting guests.
“What day and what time?”
“Thursday. Six o’clock. Dress code is the usual pretentious and boring bullshit.”
He hangs up without another word. This day just got better. I have a date with Babs. The funny thing is, she doesn’t even know it yet.
CHAPTER 6
BABS
I arrive early. As I always do. It’s the only way to enter these events without flashing bulbs and shrieking first names from men I’ve never met holding cameras I’ve learned to ignore. The gallery doors haven’t opened yet, but the valet is already stationed out front. He straightens as I pull up in my coupe, recognition flickering in his eyes. Not because of me, necessarily, but because of what I represent.
Money.
Donor money.
I step out before he can reach the handle.
“Ms. Barrett.” He nods, almost reverent. “Welcome.”
“Thank you.”
I hand him the keys and reach for my clutch. The dress I’ve chosen hugs me like a second skin. Black silk, sculpted bodice, low open back that dips to the base of my spine. The neckline is sharp and angular. No necklace. Just a pair of black diamond drop earrings that caress my skin and make me feel sexy. A single vintage matching cuff bracelet winds around my wrist, feeling more like armor than jewelry.
My hair is swept into a loose chignon. Not severe. Not soft. Just precise. Everything is deliberate. It has to be.
