Текст книги "The Good Father"

Автор книги: Taylor Quinn Tara

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Текущая страница: 18 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

Estelle stepped back and nodded toward the room. “Look again.”

He followed her gaze to the far window where Carrie was pressed like a second skin against a pale, grim-mouthed Oakes. Though Carrie was doing her best to get a reaction, Oakes stood still as a statue, his eyes straight ahead and not on her impressive breasts, which were spilling out of her pale yellow dress.

Poor bastard looked as though he’d been cornered by a pissed-off bobcat and not a perky blonde.

C.J. would have laughed if that perky blonde hadn’t also happened to be married to their father.

Problem number one.

“You say Carrie’s drunk?” C.J. asked Estelle.

“The way she’s been groping Uncle Oakes all night, she’d better be drunk. God. It’s, like, completely disgusting. And with Granddad right there, too.”

It was then that C.J. spotted his father, his once robust form slumped to the side of his wheelchair. The stroke Senior had suffered almost a year ago had stolen his ability to speak and paralyzed the right side of his body. But judging from the glare he was shooting at his wife and third son, his mind was still in working order. Behind him, Mark, his large bald nurse, took a hold of Senior under the arms and lifted him straight.

Senior slid down again. His mouth moved, his body jerked, and C.J. knew he was trying to say something, more than likely giving Mark, Oakes and Carrie hell.

Problem number two.

“But that’s not the worst of it,” Estelle said.

C.J. sent his niece a sidelong glance. “It gets worse?”

“Much.” She looked so solemn. So serious. Not expressions she wore often. C.J. bit back a groan. What sort of fresh hell had he walked into? “Like, catastrophically worse.”

She pointed to the dance floor. The band had started another song, this one an upbeat pop song. People bounced and danced along.

And there, surrounded by a circle of dancers, his mother did a slow bump and grind against a tall, dark-haired man.

C.J. grabbed the back of his neck. Squeezed hard. Worse, indeed.

Estelle nodded. “I know. It’s gross.” She made the mistake of looking at the dance floor again only to whirl back, horrified. “Ugh. Grandma Gwen just totally, like, groped him. In front of God and everybody.” Estelle leaned forward, her voice a harsh whisper. “Like, her hand was on his butt squeezing and—and stroking. I’m going to have to have my brain sprayed with bleach in the hopes of taking the memory out of my head. You have to do something, Uncle C.J. You’re so good at fixing things.”

He snorted. Right. He should be good at it. He’d had enough practice. He wouldn’t mind a night off every now and then, but he couldn’t refuse his niece. Couldn’t refuse to do what had been his responsibility since birth.

Take care of his family.

“What would you suggest?” he asked.

“Make her stop.”

If only it was that easy. But then, for Estelle, life was simple. She asked for something and got it. She was indulged at every turn, her every wish granted.

Tonight was no different.

He patted her hand. “I’ll handle it.”

She smiled and threw her arms around him for another hug, this one more enthusiastic and warmer than before. “Thank you, thank you, thank you! I know Daddy and Char will appreciate your help, too.”

C.J. doubted that, but it wouldn’t stop him from doing what was right.

His mother took that moment to rub her ass against her date’s pelvis.

C.J. winced. He’d have to tag along when Estelle had her brain scrubbed.

“Excuse me, darlin’,” he drawled to a teenage waitress as she passed. “You wouldn’t happen to have any forks on you, would you?”

“They’re just mini quiches...” Frowning, she tipped her head to the side, her ponytail of light brown corkscrew curls bouncing with the movement. “Is that the proper plural form of quiche? Or is it one of those words like deer or fish?”

It took him a moment to realize she was talking about the food on her tray. And that her question hadn’t been rhetorical.

“I think either form is correct,” he said.

“But you don’t know for sure. What if it’s one of the questions on the SATs? I mean, I doubt it, but you never know. Leighann—my best friend—took them last fall, even though you really don’t need to take them until the spring of your junior year, but she’s always trying to be The First, you know? Which is why I think she finally gave in and slept with her boyfriend, so she’d be the first of our group to lose her virginity.”

C.J. blinked. Blinked again. “Uh...”

“My stepmom says it’s because deep down, Leighann’s insecure, and she overcompensates by acting overly confident. Like men with little—”

“I hope like hell you’re about to say wallets,” C.J. said quickly. “Or brains.”

“No,” she said slowly. “But if it’ll make you feel better, I can just say men who aren’t quite as endowed—”

“No. That doesn’t make me feel better at all. How about we skip that part in its entirety?”

She lifted a shoulder, then switched the tray to her other hand. “Anyway, Leighann said there were a ton of arbitrary questions on the SATs, most of them not having to do with real life at all. What if the plural form of weird words is one of them?”

“Sorry, darlin’. Quiche isn’t exactly a word I use very often. In any form.”

She nodded sagely. “That’s good. They’re pies of death, if you think about it. All those eggs. And cream. And cheese. Really, it’s a heart attack waiting to happen. Or at least, high-cholesterol levels. Plus, it’s not natural—humans eating products made from cow’s milk. Except I’m not allowed to—” she made air quotes with one hand “—preach about my personal views to guests.” Another set of air quotes as if closing what must have been a direct order from her supervisor. “So I’ll just say I’m sure these appetizers are extremely delicious. At least, I’m guessing they are. I wouldn’t know personally, as I don’t eat any animal products.” She frowned. “Usually. And, best of all, you don’t need a fork to eat them. They’re small enough to just pop into your mouth.”

She lifted the tray higher, obviously expecting him to do just that.

How she managed to get so many words out with so little breath was beyond C.J. But get them out she did, all the while holding his gaze innocently.

Amazing.

Back in Houston, people treated him with a certain...reverence. Because of his father’s last name, his father’s money. The old man had always eaten it up. Had loved having servants fawn all over him, unable to make eye contact, bowing and scraping as if it was all nothing less than expected. Deserved.

But Clint’s ego was just fine. It didn’t need to be stroked.

No matter what Kane said.

“I don’t need the fork to eat. I wanted to use it to stab my eyes out.” He nodded toward the dance floor where his mother gave a loud whoop and threw her arms in the air, lifting the hem of her short dress so high C.J. quickly averted his gaze lest he see parts no one but Gwen’s gynecologist should see. “Anything sharp and pointy will do.”

The waitress followed his gaze. “Yes. That is disturbing.” She shifted the tray to her hip. Studied him closely. “Is she your date?”

He flinched, but he couldn’t blame the kid for thinking Gwen was younger than her actual age. She saw her plastic surgeon more often than her own sons. “My mother.”

“Oh.” Then she shocked the hell out of C.J. by giving his forearm a quick squeeze. “I’m sorry.”

He raised an eyebrow as amusement flowed through him. Not many felt sorry for him. He was a Bartasavich, after all. People usually envied him—his looks, his money, his business acumen.

He nodded his thanks. “Wish I could say you get used to it, but that’d be a lie.”

His mother caused drama wherever she went. If C.J. had to guess, he’d say tonight’s show was all for his father’s benefit. But Senior was still staring at Carrie. C.J. doubted Senior even knew what Gwen, the first in a long line of Mrs. Bartasaviches, was doing. How hard she was trying to prove she was over him.

How hard she was trying to make the old man jealous.

The waitress watched his mother do a pelvic thrust that should have been illegal, then bend at the waist, stick her ass in the air and shake it.

The waitress scrunched up her face. “Eww. Mothers should never twerk. Something like that could scar a person for life. Have you tried therapy? It might help.”

He chuckled, surprised he could laugh at this. “After tonight, I just might need it.”

He helped himself to a couple of the quiches. Pie of death or not, he was hungry. He’d worked through lunch and hadn’t bothered with dinner before catching his flight to Pittsburgh.

He was still chewing the first one when Kane approached him. As they had so many times throughout their lives, they sized each other up. There’d been a time when C.J. could read every thought in Kane’s head. When he’d known his little brother’s strengths and weaknesses as well as his own.

Those days were long gone, killed by Kane’s drug addiction and subsequent stint in the army. Kane was now clean and sober—had been for years—and even owned a local bar called O’Riley’s. But there was too much hostility, too much anger to ever mend the bond that had been broken between them. There were days C.J. could admit he regretted that. That he missed his brother.

But he’d be damned before he’d ever say it out loud.

“Estelle said you were here,” Kane said, his expression closed, his eyes hooded. “I’m surprised you could tear yourself away from your desk.”

Not as surprised as C.J. had been to hear about his brother’s engagement. He hadn’t known Kane and the redheaded ER nurse he’d gotten involved with last year were that serious, until Estelle had told him they were engaged as she’d hand delivered his invitation to this little soiree.

Kane had spent the past twelve years doing his best to avoid any ties whatsoever to anyone—except Estelle. What the hell made him think he was ready to commit to one woman?

“I wouldn’t have disappointed Estelle,” C.J. said, eating the second quiche. “Or miss the chance to get to know your fiancée better.” He wiped his hands on a paper napkin and crumpled it in his hand as he scanned the ballroom. Spotting his future sister-in-law across the room, laughing at something a pretty, very pregnant blonde said, he sent Kane a grin. “Charlotte seems like a nice woman. A smart woman. Too good for the likes of you. I’ll have to do my best to make sure she realizes that before she makes the biggest mistake of her life and goes through with this marriage.”

“I think you’re safe,” the waitress told Kane. “I mean, look at you.” She swept her hand up and down in front of him. “You’re gorgeous. And you have that whole bad-boy vibe going on, which most women find irresistible but, personally, I don’t get. No offense or anything.”

“None taken,” Kane said, looking torn between amusement and horror at the girl’s assessment of him.

“Yes, my brother sure is a fine catch.” As long as a woman didn’t mind being tied to an ex-addict with a bad attitude and a ton of emotional baggage. “He’s a real prince among men. All the women fall for that pretty face. Want to smooth out those rough edges.”

Kane’s mouth thinned. He made a show of looking around. “Couldn’t find a date, Junior? All the big-haired, big-breasted debutantes in Texas busy this weekend?”

“Between Mom and Carrie, I’d say there are two too many here now. I’m not sure this party could handle another one.” He nodded toward Oakes, who was valiantly trying to hold a conversation with an older man while Carrie clung to his arm, her hand caressing his bicep. “You try to put a stop to that?”

Kane followed C.J.’s gaze and shrugged. “Oakes is a big boy. He can handle himself. He’ll give Carrie a gentle brush-off, something that will save her from being embarrassed.”

Kane’s way of dealing with problems was to avoid them until they went away on their own. Or someone else took care of them. Oakes’s was to be patient, to pick and choose his words and actions carefully and hope for the best.

“She’s humiliating Dad,” C.J. said. “And getting more than her fair share of attention for it. You need to go over there and tell her to back off.”

“Not my job. Being in charge of everyone and everything, being a huge pain in the ass, is your thing.”

C.J.’s fingers tightened on his hat. Kane could give lessons in being a pain in the ass. “I take charge,” he said, “because no one else ever steps up.”

“Why don’t you just beat the crap out of each other and get it over with?” the waitress asked. Why was she still there? “That’s what my brothers do when they’re mad at each other. Then, while the blood is drying, they’re suddenly best friends again.”

“We’re not friends,” C.J. assured her, not taking his eyes off Kane.

But at one point they had been. Less than two years apart in age, they’d spent every moment together. Had been playmates. Confidantes. And as close as two brothers could be.

Those days were long gone. No sense wishing them back.

Or regretting the distance between them now.

“Guys are so weird,” the waitress murmured while C.J. and Kane continued to glare at each other. “This is what’s wrong with the world, by the way. Too much testosterone. Especially in leadership positions. I’m seriously considering forming a society consisting solely of women. Sort of like the Amazons but not as bloodthirsty. I wonder how much my own island would cost?” she asked in a thoughtful tone as she walked away.

“I’d buy her an island,” C.J. muttered, “if we could convince Estelle to live there with her.”

“A society with no hormonal teenage boys?” Kane asked. “Or horny adult drummers? I’d pitch in for that.”

They shared a grin. Too bad their moment of brotherly bonding was interrupted by another of their mother’s enthusiastic “whoop-whoops,” this one accompanied by a fist pump.

“That’s your cue, Junior,” Kane said, his grin turning into a knowing smirk. “Go save the day.”

C.J. wished the waitress hadn’t taken off. He could use more food. And a drink. A strong one.

He’d need one to deal with his mother.

With nowhere to leave his hat, he stuck it back on his head, then crossed the dance floor, weaving his way through the jostling bodies. “Excuse me,” he said, tapping Gwen’s date on the shoulder. “Mind if I cut in?”

“C.J.!” Gwen trilled, her voice somehow carrying over the blaring guitar riff, the pounding bass. Tottering on her four-inch heels, she flung herself into his arms. “You’re late.”

C.J. wrapped an arm around his mother’s waist so she didn’t do a face-plant on the floor. Looked like someone had had a few too many dirty martinis. “So I’ve been told.”

Linking her hands behind his neck, she leaned back, studying him with none-too-clear eyes. “Darling, you look absolutely horrid.”

C.J.’s left eye twitched. He’d come to save her from herself and all he got was grief. No good deed went unpunished. Not in his life anyway.

He took in her black leather minidress and matching thigh-high boots. “You look...” Like you’re trying way too hard. Desperate. Needy. “...beautiful as ever.”

She smiled and patted his cheek. “Such a charmer. Just like your father.”

“Not quite the same.”

His father had spent his entire life making promises to women. Vows of love and fidelity that he’d broken, over and over again, without a second thought.

C.J. didn’t make promises he couldn’t—or in his father’s case, wouldn’t—keep.

“Oh, you have to meet Javier,” Gwen said, craning her head to seek out her date with such determination, C.J. was surprised she didn’t twist it clean off. “Javier.” She held out her hand. “Darling, come here. C.J.,” she continued when her date joined them, “this is my dear, dear friend Javier Ramirez. Javier, my eldest son, Clinton Jr.”

Tucking Gwen to his side, Javier flipped his hair from his eyes. “Dude,” he said, offering C.J. a fist bump.

C.J. stared at Javier’s hand until he slowly lowered it. “My mother needs some coffee,” he told the younger man. His mother was dating a man younger than her own sons. Then again, his father’s last two wives had also been younger than him. Maybe he could fix Javier up with Carrie. Get them both of out his hair. “Black. And plenty of it.”

Before Javier could respond, C.J. gently tugged his mother away from him and escorted her to a table in the corner. Helped her into a chair.

She frowned at him the best she could with a forehead full of Botox. “Are we done dancing?”

“We’re taking a break,” he told his mother, sitting next to her. “Your dear, dear friend is going to get us some coffee.”

She patted his knee. “Javier is such a sweetheart. He’s an aspiring model, you know. Though his true love is the theater.”

A model. That explained the thick neck, gelled hair and blindingly white teeth. “I hadn’t realized you were seeing anyone,” C.J. said casually. “Or that you’d be bringing a date.”

“Javier and I met weeks ago at a yoga class,” she said with a wave of her hand, her red, talon-like nails almost taking out C.J.’s eye. “I enjoy spending time with him. He’s attractive and attentive. I hadn’t realized how advantageous it was for a man to be so limber until we made love in the backseat of the Bentley. Of course I’m referring to his limbs being flexible,” she said, leaning forward and patting C.J.’s hand reassuringly, “not his penis, which is quite straight, thank goodness.” She wrinkled her nose. “Though, just between us, it could use another inch or two.”

C.J. sat frozen, his mouth hanging open, a strange buzzing in his head. Forget the forks in his eyes. He’d much rather use them to dig his mother’s words from his ears.

She was often thoughtless with her words, careless with her deeds, but the alcohol had obviously washed away any and all filters between her brain and her mouth.

No doubt about it. He really was in hell.

“Please,” he managed to choke out, holding up his hand as if that would stop her from talking, “I’d like to keep up the illusion that you don’t have a sex life, and that would be easier to do if you didn’t share details.”

He made a mental note never to ride in her car again.

She laughed and slapped his arm. “Don’t be silly. Just because you’re my son doesn’t mean you and I can’t be friends, as well. And friends tell each other such things.”

“I will never tell you such things,” he promised solemnly. “Ever.”

“Well, just know that you can. But I do hope you won’t divulge anything I’ve said to your father.”

Her voice had been casual, her expression clear. If C.J. hadn’t looked carefully, he would have missed the calculation in her eyes, the small, satisfied smile turning up the corners of her mouth. As if all she needed for her evil plans to come to fruition was for C.J. to regale his disabled father with stories of her sexual escapades, causing Senior to become insanely jealous, toss aside his latest bimbo and finally come crawling back to Gwen.

C.J. had an entire lifetime of experience when it came to Gwen and her manipulations. As a kid, he’d fallen for her act too many times to count. Had run to his father every time Gwen had a date, had told Senior about the days she’d spent locked in her room, crying over him. But no matter how hard C.J. had tried, no matter how much he’d begged, his father had never come back.

Damn it, Kane should be the one handling this. The one hearing all about their mother’s love life with her white-toothed, greasy-haired, flexible, less-than-well-endowed boy toy.

C.J. jerked to his feet, intending to find his brother and force him to take responsibility for what happened at his engagement party. He turned blindly, took a step and slammed into a waitress.

He grabbed hold of her upper arms to keep her from falling. Opened his mouth to apologize, only to have the words catch in his throat when he raised his head.

Trouble.

That was his first coherent thought. The kind of trouble that had a man forgetting all about his goals, self-preservation and his pride. The kind that brought a man to his knees and made him beg for more.

Her hair was long and tumbled past her shoulders in soft, flaxen waves. Her mouth was lush and red. Her eyes the color of smoke. As he stared at her like some moron who’d never seen a woman before, those lips curved. Her gaze sharpened. Stayed direct and knowing.

His gaze skimmed down the long line of her throat, lingered briefly at the V of pale skin and hint of cleavage visible above the button of her white shirt. While the other waitresses wore pants, she’d chosen a black skirt that hugged her hips, showcased the indentation of her waist and ended midthigh.

Definitely trouble.

The very best kind.

“Sorry, cowboy,” she said, her husky, seductive voice matching her looks. “Not going to happen.”

The humor in her tone, the glint in her eyes snapped him out of his reverie. “Excuse me?” he asked, sounding as formal and disapproving as the old biddies who congregated at the country club. Next thing he knew, he’d be adding a bless your heart at the end of his sentences.

She smiled, all feminine power and confidence. “You looked like you were ready to take a big old bite out of me. But I’m not on the menu.”

He wanted to snatch his hands away, stick them in his pockets like a schoolboy who’d been admonished to look but not touch. She couldn’t be serious. He couldn’t be the only one feeling the slow burn of desire, the heat of pure, unadulterated lust.

The instant connection.

He frowned. No. Not connection. Connections weren’t instantaneous. They were made over time, through common ground, parallel goals. Love at first sight was a myth, one invented by starry-eyed romantics who couldn’t admit what they were really feeling was human nature at its most basic. Sexual hunger. Need.

He wanted her.

And she stood there, seemingly unaffected.

Testing her, needing to know for sure, he loosened his grip. Slowly drew his hands down the silky material of her sleeves, let his fingertips trail over the soft skin on the back of her hands before dropping away.

Her expression remained cool and amused. But he heard her small, quick intake of breath. Saw the awareness in the depths of her eyes. The answering desire.

He grinned and ducked his head, catching a tantalizing whiff of her spicy perfume as he whispered in her ear.

“Gotcha.”

Copyright © 2015 by Beth Burgoon