Page 93 of Family Affair
Chapter 21
“Hi, cutie pie,” a throaty voice murmured in his vicinity.
Frank would have ignored the endearment, as it could have hardly been applied to his unkempt and scruffy self, if not for a hand that settled firmly on his ass.
“If this is your hand I’m feeling right now, then I guess I am the cutie pie.” He turned to look at the woman.
She laughed in a hoarse smoker’s voice. But she couldn't be a smoker. Tall and willowy, she sported an athletic body and a smooth healthy complexion even though her age was hard to tell. No, the hoarseness was all pretend, for flirtation’s sake, just like her obviously dyed chestnut locks and heavily made up eyes.
“Looking delish tonight, Frankie. It’s true what they say, men do get better with age.” The hand slipped lower and her fingers went to caress him between his thighs, almost reaching his nuts from behind.
First of all, he was twenty-three, so the age reference was disturbing. And if by “delish” she meant men that were bloated in the face, fifty pounds overweight, and wearing dress shirts stained with their last party’s dipping sauce, then sure thing. The lady must have one hell of a kink.
He took a sip from his champagne glass. The sweet drink felt sticky on his dry tongue, and he couldn't stifle a grimace. He wished it was real champagne. He really wished it was bourbon.
“So, how have you been, sugar buns?” she murmured, her fingers discreetly playing a shameless game in the general area of his prostate, the action cleverly concealed from view by one of the partitions that split the large gallery showroom into sections.
He slid another glance in her direction. Had they met? Had they fucked? Everything was possible.
“Busy, sweetheart, as usual. But tell me about yourself. Have you been good?”
She gave another one of her practiced throaty laughs. “Only as good as they expect me to be.” She leaned closer, enclosing him in her bubble of delicate perfume. “But I can be persuaded to be very, very bad.” She pinched him. Hard.
Frank jerked, spilling the apple juice all over his wrist. He cursed and brought his hand to his mouth, licking the liquid off, looking at her from askance with puzzled interest. She smiled back at him with lots of perfect white teeth, and he wondered again if he’d truly been so hammered as to bang this piece of work. Her vagina probably had teeth.
“Here he is. Frank!” Juicy Abe was rolling toward him like a massive human tumbleweed decked out in a super expensive designer suit that bulged grotesquely over his rotund body. Frank had never been so happy to see Juicy Abe.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” he smiled thinly wondering if she’d remove her hand when he walked away, or if he’d have to wrestle with her to make her let go. “I better see what’s up with Abe. He looks agitated.”
“Abe’s always agitated.” Her voice was flat, the throatiness gone. The smile stayed in place but now appeared forced on her perfect features. She was disappointed, alright.
But most importantly, her hand withdrew.
Frank released a breath of relief.
“I’ll catch up with you later,” he winked at her. It seemed a silly thing to do, but girls simply melted when he did that. Girls always found his eyes attractive.
The shark lady was no exception, and her smile quickly acquired its former predatory sheen.
“Whassup, man,” he moved toward Abe.
“Where have you been?” Abe hissed. “They’re holding the press waiting for you.”
“Why? I’m not one of the donors. They can go right ahead.”
“Do you have to be difficult every damn time? Go!” Abe actually pushed him in the back, urging him to move and making him spill his drink. Again.
Shooting Abe a murderous look, Frank leisurely strolled along in the direction of the press conference, paying casual attention to the paintings adorning white upholstered walls. Too much white, too stark. And the lighting was too bright. He didn’t like it, even though the gallery’s minimalistic design offset the displayed works to their best advantage.
The gallery belonged to Abe Collins, or so the deed said. In reality, Abe was a glorified general manager of what essentially was Frank’s investment. Frank produced the most perfect works which in turn produced quite an astonishing influx of cash that needed to be managed discreetly. Father and Cade took care of the finances by opening this gallery and making it Abe’s, so as not to blatantly connect this business with the Sheffield family. After all, they had their own company’s reputation to protect.
And Abe was good with the gallery, Frank mused, much better than with the actual painting stuff. Abe knew how to get the schmoozing action just right.
A group of people in their evening finery was gathered in the middle of the cavernous room. Several others, dressed very plainly, stood a little afar. They would be the “press,” the local reporters invited to publicize the event. Ward Williamson was conversing with the reporters, unerringly prioritizing the scruffy lot over the snooty elderly patrons whose sharp-eyed wives were checking out the inventory. His father and Cade were on hand to engage the patrons.
Frank’s taste buds shriveled, desperate for a stiff drink. The headache, chased away by a horse’s dose of OTC painkillers, threatened to return.
“Allow me to introduce you to my other son, Frank,” he heard his father saying. “Come here, Frank,” Rick called on him softly. It wasn’t a request.
