Page 24 of Whiskey Throttle
Like always. Sharp and clinical, forcefully direct with no regard for how his tone makes my nervous system spike or the canyon of hurt he continues to carve deeper with every interaction. I hold his gaze. Already armored for our encounter. Protected against that cutting judgment and condescending attitude that comes with unrelatable brilliance. Intentionally cruel, whether meant or not.
“Thank you for coming, Dominic,” I say, as if we’re strangers on opposite ends of a diplomatic exchange with the art patrons viewing our interaction.
Garnering smiles and endearing expressions as we look alike enough to fool others into thinking we are close. He exhales like I’ve wasted his time. Then again, every breathing soul is a waste of his time.
“You had your assistant send three fucking emails and two personal requests through Harvard’s new damn department chair when I didn’t respond. I didn’t have much choice now, did I?”
“Don’t be dramatic, Dominic. It’s unbecoming.”
That gets a snort.
“Unbecoming? What is this, a fucking cotillion?”
My smile never falters, but my chest tightens. The profanity is a long-lost battle. Therapists assured me it was a phase. A channel to release his pent-up anger that would fade over time when the shock value lost its power. They were woefully wrong. It’s only gotten worse as he grows older each year.
But he’s here. That’s more than I can say for my wayward daughter. Even if he’s not really with me, he’s present, and that means something. Not all hope is lost. A part of me clings to the fantasy that one day, one of these evenings, one of these causes with my name printed beneath the museum lights, might chip away at his disdain. My efforts might earn me a sliver of respect for all that I do for the Arts.
While he snatches another champagne glass from a passing server, my gaze travels the room to land on Hollister. His dark blond hair glimmers under a recessed light as he smiles, chatting with another whale of a donor and an obvious friend to his family.
Somewhere deep down, I had hoped that with all the tutoring, private lessons, doctors, medicine, and therapy, he would become more like his friend. Happy, lighter, and more carefree. Instead, all I see is a handsome young man, a genius, troubled, and everything opposite of what I had wanted him to become.
I thought all that help would remove the gloom that wraps itself around him. Instead, he sinks deeper into the darkness that has always haunted his nights, except now they haunt the days as well.
The slam of the delicate crystal on the server’s platter draws my attention back to him.
“Let’s get this shit over with so I can escape this fucking nightmare.”
I tilt my head, refresh my plastered smile, and gesture toward the donor wall where the bold gold lettering of the Barrett name stands proudly for all to see.
“Of course, Dominic. We’ll do the photographs now.” Smile for the press. Keep the peace. “You can scowl at everyone afterwards and slip away.”
He grunts in response, but he follows. Under all that anger, all that brilliant condescension and inherited cruelty, he’s still my son. And tonight, for better or worse, he’s standing beside me in a show of begrudging support, which I can say is more than my other family members.
With a simple gesture to Anton’s assistant, watching me for the signal, the photographers swarm, always eager to snap a picture for their publication of the mother-son duo that looks remarkably alike. With practiced ease, Dominic slides in close and cups my waist. His body turns toward mine, hinting at a familiar closeness and tight bond that doesn’t exist.
Dressed in all black, right down to his dress shirt and tie. His hair is meticulously styled, and his beard trimmed to an inch of perfection. He doesn’t disappoint.
He’s a great-looking kid whose unwillingness to smile adds an intensity and natural curiosity for the society page readers. We step into our picture-worthy positions, honed from years of practice, knowing which angles look best for both of us.
It’s a show for the onlookers and the only display of warmth I receive from him. I stifle a sigh, still holding faith to that single thread that one day, someday, we’ll be different. Not as easy and carefree as Hollister and his mother, but something less frosty than we are now.
As the flashbulbs erupt, we move in unison in the direction our names are called. His hand tightened at my waist, the only sign of discomfort from the attention he normally hides away from.
“If this is where the beautiful people stand, I figured I’d better squeeze in.”
CHAPTER 7
HOLLISTER
The moment I see them together across the gallery, I know it’s going to be more of the same crap from the gala. And I’m not in the mood for another night that ends in tears. So I move fast. Edging into the picture-taking chaos before things spiral. Dom always gets grumpy, or hell, downright asshole-ish, when the cameras start flashing and the heat from the lights kicks in.
He claims it’s the bulbs, but I don’t buy it. It’s something else. Some sensory thing he’s probably already diagnosed himself with, but won’t admit out loud. Too proud. Too Dom.
All I know is, if I don’t get over there now, he’s going to blow, just like he always does. And she’ll be the one who catches it. Again. That’s not happening. Not tonight. Not if I can help it.
I wedge myself in between them. He grunts and mutters something under his breath while the beautiful Babs takes a couple of steps over to let me in. Her perfume wafts under my nose, and damn if it’s not a straight shot to my cock.
I grab both of them, hauling them into my side as my tux jacket awkwardly gaps. Babs, with her keen eye, flicks the button to loosen it from the hole, letting it fall naturally for the perfect pictures.
