Page 25 of Whiskey Throttle
“Dom, I’m just here for the glamour shots with your mom.”
My smile is bright, with the flashbulbs almost blinding as they capture two legendary families intertwined at this event. It happens, but not nearly as often as the gossip magazines would like.
Dom shoves against me, pissed. I shield the impact with my body, knowing it’s coming, and I don't want to topple Babs over at her own event.
“Go to hell,” he grumbles under his breath.
I laugh.
Babs leans into me, not intimately as I would hope, but more a closeness that aligns with our shared love of art. On the other hand, Dom stands with hands clasped in front of him, looking more like a prisoner of my affection than an active participant. I’d be offended if I didn’t know him so well.
“Okay, that’s enough bullshit. I’m out of here.”
He raises a hand to block the flashes. It dims some but not all. He turns his back to the wall of photographers, glares at my arm still around his mom.
“And you can stop fucking touching her now.”
“Chill, man.”
I don’t move my hand. Babs moves away. Surging forward to caress the side of his arm with a surprising softness as if to soothe him before he blows up or storms out. It’s the first time in a very long time that I can recall her reaching out to him. Not that I blame her. He’s a prickly pear, who would want to?
It takes me back, realizing there is a yearning to make amends for whatever happened to get them to this point. Dom flinches, his gaze slides from me to her, scowling. She doesn’t see it. Her name is called by someone seeking her attention. A moment she missed. But I didn’t.
I always assumed they were unfixable. Damage done and that sort of thing. Now I realize, there’s something there. Something that needs to be fixed. And I’m bound and determined to be the one to fix it.
Fix them.
“I guess you’re staying? You’re into all this shit anyway.”
His mood changes quickly, less pissed. Trying to relate.
“Am I into supporting artists and their works? Yes, I am.”
I let my condescending tone fly. He can handle it.
“Don’t bullshit me. You know what I’m talking about, Mr. Pre-Law. Ever tell your father about not wanting to go to Harvard Law and pursuing your art?”
I glance away, regretting the moment overly observant Dom spotted a notebook hanging out of my motorcycle bag when I failed to zip it up. He snatched it up and was flipping through it before I could get it away from him. He never brings it up, so I assume that his steel-trapped mind forgot.
My fucking mistake.
“Chicken shitted out, huh? Well, if I ever need a lawyer, I won’t be calling you.”
He punches the shit out of my chest, smirks, and turns on his heel, cutting a path to the exit. Nonchalant and full of intent, leaving me battling the sudden mindfuck of wondering why he went after my jugular so fucking hard and then left. I rub the stinging spot, still sore from this morning’s workout with the twins.
The crowd forms back around his departure as if he had never been here. I gaze toward where she went. She didn’t turn back. Didn’t even see the way he looked at her, but I did. And now I’m standing here with the press fading, the socialites refilling their glasses, the director pretending not to watch the room like a hawk. And I feel more out of place than ever.
Not because I don’t belong.
I always belong.
That’s the problem.
I play the part. Flash the smile, shake the hands, and take the photos. But now I don’t feel like being seen. I snag two flutes of champagne from a passing tray and move through the throngs of people and halls of curated art to a side door marked PRIVATE STAFF ONLY. I push it open with my elbow and slip outside.
The cool air hits like a balm. The museum’s back veranda is quiet. Dimly lit. A stone path winds through hedges and sculpture bases. No one’s out here. No curated lighting. Just the faint thump of bass from the main room and the low murmur of voices behind heavy doors.
Perfect.
