Page 35 of A Man for Amanda
“I’m asking you.”
“And I’m telling you that what happened was between her and me. It doesn’t have anything to do with you.”
“That’s where you’re wrong.” She crossed the terrace until they were toe-to-toe. “You mess with one Calhoun, you mess with them all. I may have to put up with you until after the wedding, since you’re supposed to be best man. But when it’s over, I’m going to do whatever I have to do to see to it that you go back where you came from.”
Pushed to the end of his chain, he took her by the lapels. “I told you before, I finish what I start.”
“You are finished, O’Riley. The Towers doesn’t need you, and neither do I.”
He was just about to prove her wrong when Trent opened the terrace doors. Trent took one look at his friend and future sister-in-law glaring daggers at each other and cleared his throat.
“Looks like I’m going to have to work on my timing.”
“Your timing’s perfect.” Amanda rammed an elbow into Sloan’s stomach before she pulled away. “We’ve got no time for men around here tonight. Why don’t you take this jerk you’ve sicced on us and go do something manly.” She shoved by Trent and stalked into the house.
“Well.” Trent let out a long breath. “I don’t think I mentioned the Calhoun temperament when I asked you to take on the job.”
“No, you didn’t.” Scowling at the empty doorway, Sloan rubbed his stomach. “Is there a dark, noisy bar anywhere in this town?”
“I guess we could find one.”
“Good. Let’s go get drunk.”
He found the bar, and he found the bottle. Sloan slumped in the corner booth and hissed through his teeth as the whiskey stung his throat. Over the first drink, and the second, he told Trent about his altercation with Suzanna.
“Baxter Dumont is Kevin’s father? You never told me.”
“I gave Meg my word I wouldn’t tell anybody. Even our folks don’t know.”
Trent was silent a moment, sipping thoughtfully at his club soda. “It’s hard to figure out how such a selfish bastard managed to father three terrific kids.”
“It’s a puzzle, all right.” Sloan signaled for another round. “Then I go off and unload both barrels on Suzanna.” He broke off and swore. “Damn it, Trent, I’m never going to forget the way she looked when I cut loose on her.”
“She’ll handle it. From what C.C.’s told me, she’s dealt with worse.”
“Yeah, maybe. Maybe. But I don’t care much for slapping down women. I was already feeling like something you scrape off your shoe when Amanda lit into me.”
“These women stick together.”
“Yeah.” Scowling, Sloan drank again. “Like a dirt clod.”
“Why didn’t you explain things to her?”
Sloan shrugged and knocked back more whiskey. He had his own share of pride. “It wasn’t any of her business.”
“You just explained it to me.”
“That’s different.”
“Okay. Do you want some pretzels to go with that?”
“No.”
They sat for a moment, nursing drinks, two dynamically different men, one in battered jeans, the other in tailored slacks; one slumped comfortably, the other comfortably alert. They’d both come from money—Trent from real estate, Sloan from oil, but their backgrounds and family lives had been opposites. Trent’s first experience with real family ties had come through the Calhouns, and Sloan had known them always. They had almost nothing in common, and yet in their first semester in college they had become friends and had remained so for more than ten years.
Because he was feeling sorry for himself, Sloan enjoyed the sensation of getting steadily drunk. Because he recognized the symptoms, Trent stayed meticulously sober.
Over yet another drink, Sloan eyed his friend. “When’d you start wearing basketball shoes?”
