: Chapter 3

On Saturday, I have Harrison drop me at my parents’ estate about an hour after the party starts. He has some errands to run, so I tell him to go—with strict instructions to pick me up in exactly three hours.

It’s not that I don’t like my family, they’re great. But only in small doses. If I spend too much time with them . . . well, you’ll see.

My steps echo through the immense marble foyer. I pass the music room, the front parlor, the conservatory, the library where a portrait hangs of me at five years old, dressed in blue overalls and a cap—looking like the pansy-ass kid in the Dutch Boy paint advertisements but with dark hair. I’ve offered my mother the firstborn child I’ll probably never have to take it down—but she won’t budge. If Stanton, Jake, or Sofia ever lay eyes on it, I’m screwed.

At the back of the house there’s a bustling energy coming from the kitchen that you can feel more than hear—servants shuffling, refilling trays of champagne and caviar and carrying buckets of ice to keep the lobster and oyster table fresh.

Outside, there are tents and tables, a band, and a fully stocked bar with two bartenders. What there isn’t are streamers or shiny balloons, no clowns or magicians—even though this is supposed to be a kids’ party. Because in reality, this kind of party is for the two hundred adults milling about, chatting, shaking hands, kissing cheeks, and stabbing backs.

Yes, I said two hundred—just friends and family.

See, my father is the youngest of eight. My mother, the youngest of twelve. And both sides are in excellent health—they all live for fucking ever. Which means there’s nieces and nephews, aunts and uncles, great nieces and nephews, and cousins galore—and the gang’s all here.

Besides good health, there’s another trait that’s strong in my family. One might say they’re . . . eccentric. Crazier than shit-house rats works too.

Let’s take my Aunt Bette, for example. She’s the woman in the tan dress, looking up into the branches of that maple tree—talking to the birds like a homeless woman in a park. She has four kids and she doesn’t speak to any of them—not for years. She prefers the company of her racing pigeons. I think she’s won awards.

It’s important to have a purpose in life. Boredom has killed more in my social class than cancer and heart disease combined. Because most people work for things like food, a house, and clothes, and working for those necessities instills drive and ambition. It gives you a reason to drag yourself out of bed in the morning.

But when your necessities are covered—when you literally don’t have to wipe your own ass if you don’t want to—what the hell do you do with yourself?

If you’re stupid, you do drugs, drink, or gamble to occupy your time. Boredom is a disease. Either you cure it doing something you love—or you die trying.

“Hey, cuz.”

Then there’s my cousin Louis, a smarmy, short guy with a bad comb-over. Wealth turns some men into assholes, but even if he didn’t have two pennies to rub together, he’d still be an asshole. He was just born that way.

“Louis.” I shake his hand.

Notice, I don’t ask him how he’s doing—’cause he’s gonna tell me anyway.

“I’m doing great, man. I just closed this sweet real-estate deal. Prime location. I’m gonna tear the building down and turn it into a parking lot. My guy is serving an eviction notice to the old tenants—nuns and orphans or something.” He guffaws like an evil villain. “But that’s business, amiright?”

“Not really.”

He doesn’t hear me—the roar of his narcissism drowns out everything but the sound of his own voice.

I notice his gaze settle on the ass of a brunette to my right. “Wow, Cynthia Beardsley grew up nice.” Then he glances at me. “Aunt Kitty get you married, yet?”

“Nope.”

He chortles again. “We all have to walk the plank someday. I’ll bet you a bottle of Royal Salute 50 she has you engaged by the end of the year.”

“You’re on.” I hold out my hand again and we shake on it. Louis may be a twat, but I’m not above taking a ten-thousand-dollar bottle of scotch off his hands.

I spot my father a few yards across the lawn and head in his direction. Looks-wise I take after him—tall, thick dark hair, blue eyes, and a face that appears fifteen years younger than his actual sixty-five.

We shake hands and he pats my shoulder affectionately. “Son.”

“Hey, Dad.”

He sips his brandy. “How are the criminals these days?”

And here we go.

My father was never a fan of coasting by on the clout of one’s last name. During my teen years, family dinners were like the Spanish Inquisition: What have you contributed today? How have you distinguished yourself? What will you be remembered for? When I started law school, he got it in his head that I should go into politics—become Prosecutor Brent Mason, then Attorney General Brent Mason, eventually Senator Brent Mason—after that it’d be to infinity and beyond.

Instead, I became a criminal defense attorney. And I don’t think the old man’s ever gotten over it.

“They’re defendants, Dad. Not criminals.”

“Is there a difference?”

“I’m sure it makes a difference to the innocent ones.”

Okay, almost none of them are innocent. But people rarely do illegal things just for the sake of doing them—there’s always extenuating circumstances. Evening out the playing field for those who weren’t born with a silver spoon up their ass is what gets me out of bed in the morning.

“I play racquetball with a higher-up in the DOJ,” he says.

My father plays racquetball with everybody. But he’s not a name dropper. Because to him, money and connections are like Fight Club—the first rule of having them is you don’t talk about them.

“They’re always looking for good men—keep it in mind, Brent.”

I tap my temple. “It’s in the filing cabinet.”

“Brent, sweetie, you’re here,” my mother says in that soft, breathy voice as she walks up beside me.

Everything about my mother is hushed, gentle, delicate. Like a rose whose petals will fall off if you blow on it. She’s never cursed, doesn’t raise her voice—not even when I was seven and they had to take me to the emergency room because I jammed popcorn kernels up my nose just to see how many would fit. (Twenty-three, in case you were curious.)

“Hi, Mom.” I lean down and kiss her cheek.

She runs her hand over the fabric of my light blue polo shirt. “This is a very nice color on you, dear.”

“Thanks.”

Her gaze drifts over me adoringly. “Walk with me, Brent.”

Oh shit.

My mother saying walk with me is akin to a woman you’re dating saying, “we need to talk”—it never ends well.

She loops her arm through mine and we stroll across the grass, away from the crowd.

“I’ve been reading a lot recently,” she begins. “And thinking. You’re thirty-two years old, darling—you’re handsome, you’re a fine dresser, you dance well—you’ve always been very clean.”

The last comment has me looking at her funny, but I let her go on.

“Talula Fitzgibbons’s son is about your age, and he recently told her that he’s become a homosexual.”

Oh boy.

“Not only that, he’s also hired a lovely surrogate and she’s expecting triplets. Isn’t that amazing, Brent? Triplets!”

“Mom—”

But that train has left the station.

“So I wanted you to know, if you are a homosexual, your father and I will love you every bit as much as we do right now.” She pats my arm and amends, “As long as you have children.”

“I’m not gay, Mom.”

She looks disappointed. “Are you sure?”

“Mom, I’m as not gay as a man can possibly be.”

Her dainty finger taps her lips as she thinks it over. “Well, all right. Then I’d like you to chat with Celia Hampshire’s granddaughter. She’s here and she’s a lovely young lady.”

“Celia Hampshire’s granddaughter is in high school.”

“No—she graduated last month.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Okay . . . I’m gonna go to the bar. Now. Can we talk about this later?”

“Of course, sweetie. I’m so happy you’re here.”

And because I love her and I’m a good son, I lie, “Me too.”

My mother glides back toward my father and I head to the bar. It really should’ve been my first stop.

I make it three steps and then an arm coils around mine and my hip gets bumped hard. “But are you sure you’re not a homosexual? You realize you’re keeping Aunt Kit out of the in-crowd?”

I pull my cousin Katherine into a tight hug. “Thank Christ you’re here.”

Her dark eyes sparkle as she laughs. “Why, because I’m your only normal relative?”

“Yes, that’s exactly why.”

Katherine’s also my favorite cousin. Boisterous and loud—with the kind of smile you can’t help but return. When we were young and my other cousins said I was too little—too annoying—to play some stupid game, Katherine made sure I was included. When I turned twenty-one, she showed up at my college and took me out for my very first legal beer. You don’t get to choose family, but if you did—Katherine would be my first round draft pick.

Her four-year-old son collides with my leg, followed quickly by his two-year-old sister.

“Uncle Brent!” she squeals.

I scoop her up. “Annie, baby.”

I look down at Jonathon. “What’s up, dude?”

He tilts his head back, still gripping my leg. “I go poops on the potty now.”

“Welcome to manhood.” I give him a high five, which he jumps to return.

Annie squirms in my arms, so I set her down and they run in circles around us. I glance behind Katherine. “Where’s Patrick?”

She shrugs, and the sparkle in her eyes dims. “He’s in Portugal, on ‘business’ with his secretary.”

Patrick is Katherine’s husband, whose ass I’m going to kick hard the next time I see him.

“Come on, don’t get angry,” she soothes. “It is what it is.”

“What it is, is fucked up. Why do you put up with that?”

She shrugs. “Because when he’s around, he’s actually a good husband and father. Because the kids love him—and so do I.”

“You deserve better, Kat. A lot better.”

“He’s what I want.”

I shake my head as Annie pulls on the leg of my jeans and points toward some bushes. “Uncle Brent, I wants da butterfly, but it won’t come.”

“Okay, let’s you and me and Jonathon go get us a butterfly.”

I get a grateful smile from Katherine, then I hoist the boy over my shoulders and the three of us go hunting.

•  •  •

Two hours later, I look across the yard at the crowd of chattering, monochromatic people. All of them so eager to clone each other, to not be labeled as too flashy or ostentatious. It’s a sea of beige—tan slacks, taupe summer dresses, and one pair of light brown Ray-Ban sunglasses after another.

Until a burst of red steps out from under the white party tent.

Maybe this afternoon won’t be a total loss, after all.

The dress is tastefully alluring—knee-length, sleeveless, a corded neckline that loops around the collarbone and ties in the back. But the body within it is the real highlight. She’s tiny but unmistakably womanly—warm peach-hued skin, an elegant neck, delicate arms, a slight swell of cleavage, a tight waist, and toned legs with the sweetest hint of muscle. Her hair is thick, a multifaceted blond—pale, almost white strands grace her dainty jaw—but there’s shades of honey-gold and caramel leading back to a low bun.

She’s fucking stunning. I have no idea who she is—but finding out just became my number-one priority.

She spots me as I approach. Bright turquoise eyes, sharp and appraising, rake me over from head to toe. Enjoy the view, baby. I’ll be happy to give her the extended tour later on.

“Hi,” I say, smiling when I reach her.

She raises her chin, straightening her shoulders. “Hello.”

There’s something familiar about her. It tickles the back of my brain and stirs my cock. I wonder if she’s a friend of my cousins’—possibly a bridesmaid I hooked up with at one of their weddings?

“Enjoying the party?”

Her gaze turns toward the crowd as she sips from the crystal flute in her hand. “Yes. I’m sure the birthday girl is ecstatic. Caviar and champagne—what every one-year-old wants.”

Sarcasm. I like sarcasm. It suggests intelligence. Confidence.

I like her ass even more—which I’ve discreetly checked out.

“Word around the country club is you’ve gone into business on your own,” she comments casually. “Got yourself a law firm with your name on it.”

Her tits are pretty phenomenal too. A little on the small side, no more than a B cup—but I just bet they’re firm and perky and magically delicious. The kind that can forego a bra, so her nipples poke against her shirt when she’s turned on. I love that look on a woman.

“Yes, almost two years now. We’ve built quite a name for ourselves.”

“You must be so proud.”

“I am.”

She lifts one shoulder. “I think it’s pretentious as hell.”

My eyes snap to her face. “I beg your pardon?”

“It’s a farce. The brave young defense attorney, giving up the big-paycheck firm to serve the little people.” Her voice turns derisive. “It’s easy to be brave when you have Great-Grandpa’s money behind you.”

My brow furrows. “That’s pretty presumptuous of you.”

“No, what’s presumptuous is thinking you can walk over here, ogle my tits and ass, and assume I won’t call you on it.”

Guess I wasn’t as discreet as I thought.

“Is ogleable a word? Cause if it is—you’re it. A lot of women would take it as a compliment.”

She faces me head-on. “A lot of women are idiots. And not as knowledgeable as I am about what a selfish, immature little prick you can be.”

Little? I resent that—particularly in such close proximity to the word prick.

“Who the hell are you?”

She stares at me for two beats. Then she throws her head back and laughs.

“My God. Of all the ways I pictured this going, I never considered you’d totally forget me. But I guess I shouldn’t be surprised—I was pretty forgettable back in the day.”

“What does that even—”

A woman’s voice calls “Kennedy!” cutting me off—and knocking me on my proverbial ass.

Mitzy Randolph, one of my mother’s oldest friends and our next-door neighbor, walks up and plants two air kisses on the blond beauty at my side.

“I’ve been waiting for you to arrive,” she tells her.

“I’ve been here for twenty minutes, Mother.”

Holy fuck.

Mrs. Randolph turns to me, her arm around her daughter’s back. “Isn’t it wonderful that our Kennedy has come home, Brent?”

And all I can do is parrot like an idiot. “Yeah . . . wonderful.”

Mitzy steps back, takes her daughter’s hands, and holds them up at her sides—looking her over, judging and evaluating—just like the good old days. “I’m so happy to have you out of Nevada. All those nasty casinos and dust and desert.” She caresses her cheek. “That dry air has wreaked havoc on your skin. I’ll make you an appointment with my esthetician this week—she’s a miracle worker.”

Kennedy gives a resigned sigh. “Thank you, Mother.”

“Now I’ll let you two get reacquainted. I see the Vanderblasts are here and if I don’t spend at least ten minutes with Ellora she’ll work herself into a snit.”

When we’re alone again, I can’t stop staring. Once upon a time she was my best friend. For a hot minute she was more. After that, she hated me. And then she was just . . . gone.

I haven’t seen her for fourteen years, and the last time I did, she sure as shit didn’t look like this.

“Kennedy . . . ?” I whisper, still not entirely convinced it’s her.

She regards me with a tilted head, a cocked hip, and a disdainful smile. “Hello, Dickhead.”

Okay. Now I’m convinced.