Page 20 of Whiskey Throttle
I make my apologies as two ladies pass, and my bag is blocking the sidewalk. I kick it toward the freshly mowed grass before responding.
“Why?”
“Because apparently there’s some bullshit gallery opening,” he bites out, the words practically dripping with contempt.
Viewing art to his genius brain has got to be torture. He’s used to solving shit and figuring out complicated crap that no one understands or really gives a shit about. Watching paint hang on walls is far too slow for him. Sometimes too slow for me, despite my love of drawing and sketching.
“Barrett family backed bullshit. Some stupid-ass ribbon-cutting or new showing. I don’t fucking know. But my fucking mother’s name is on the plaque or some bullshit on the donor wall, and she wants me there. I fucking swear, why me? Why can’t she call that do-nothing sister of mine? Art crap is her scene.”
I grin for two reasons. The first is about how pissed he is, even if he’s right.
“Correction, your sister is into the artists, not the art.”
“Fuck you.”
I chuckle. It’s so true, and yet he still gets pissed about her chasing beneath her station in life. Last I heard, she was holed up in the Garment District in New York City with some loser doing more drugs than creating anything. Clothes, art, or otherwise.
“Did your mom call to remind you or something?”
The second reason I grin. Dom calling to bitch about it means he wants me there. Although I may already be invited, I’d need to check with my family assistant to see what is on the old Harrington family obligations calendar. Normally, she adds things to my calendar without texting. Not that I care. I live day by day, so unless the gallery opening is today, I wouldn’t know about it.
“Yes.”
Interesting.
She called him immediately after leaving here if he’s already calling me. It had to be a short and rude phone call.
“Sounds like you’ll be having a wonderful mother-son bonding then.”
I chuckle, letting the sarcasm fly into every word. Sometimes his misery is just plain funny.
“Fuck you,” he snaps, in an even grumpier mood than usual. “You know how much I fucking hate these things. Standing around while people drink champagne and pretend some paint splatter represents emotional trauma and corresponding death.”
“Isn’t that your whole vibe?” I ask, just to poke the bear. “Especially lately?”
“Fuck off.”
We all had heard about the case and his lady. Diego said it’s a sore bone to pick, yet I can’t help myself. Dominic is an asshole sometimes, getting him riled up is easy and entertaining, even if at his expense.
“Are you going?”
Dom sucks in a breath. The sound he makes when smoking weed. He’s done it so many times over the years I’ve known him that the sound is imprinted into my brain.
“I don’t have a fucking choice. It’s family legacy shit. Show face or deal with the fallout.”
“I thought you lived for the fallout. Being an asshole to your mom at the gala attests to it.”
He coughs, sputtering on me, giving him shit for giving her shit. Especially now that I might have a thing going with her. He’s going to have to be less of an asshole if I have any say in it.
“Whatever.”
“I’m serious, man. Lighten up with her.”
Silence.
Long enough to make me shift my weight, eyes scanning the parking lot again like he might storm out of some parked car and drop kick my ass for even saying it.
“You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”
