by Julia Kent
“You’re the one in charge.”
The server approaches and before she can say a word, I order. “We’ll take your best two-person platter.”
“Meat or vegetarian?”
“Meat. And wine. Whatever your best bottle of red wine is.”
She nods and retreats. A man approaches, fills our water glasses, and disappears.
“So?” I ask.
“So what?”
“Why’d you leave Anterdec? I didn’t pay much attention back then, but you were in your junior year of college. Dad’s protégé. Eldest son and primogeniture and all that. Inherit the family business. Titan and son.”
His eyes drain of emotion. A wave of regret pours over me, but I hold fast. For some reason I can’t quite understand, I need to know this.
Need to know it now. On the surface, it has nothing to do with my feelings for Amanda.
Deep below, though, it is everything.
If I were having this conversation with Dec or Dad, I’d get exchange after exchange of deflection. We’d spar and tussle, verbally jabbing each other, and the only information I’d get would need to be gleaned afterwards, reading between the lines.
Terry meets my eyes and says, “It was all about Declan.”
Didn’t see that coming. On multiple levels. I wait for him to explain, and as he opens his mouth—
“Andrew!” a female squeals. “My goodness, what a coincidence running into you here!”
I turn to find my face in a woman’s cleavage, her scent a fine perfume that takes me back to high school.
She pulls away and I fumble, looking up, standing quickly.
“Jessica?”
Definitely didn’t see that coming, either.
Terry’s eyebrows are the opposite of his voice: nice and high. The server delivers our wine, setting the bottle on the table.
Jessica’s hip bounces against mine with a misplaced intimate nudge. She’s animated and alive, eyes sparkling as they cut over to Terry.
“Terry! The reclusive brother! I haven’t seen you in years,” she gushes, offering her hand for a handshake. He takes it, her slim-fingered appendage swallowed by Terry’s. He gives her a man’s-man handshake and I see the muscle in her jaw twitch with the unexpected force.
“Jessica! Fancy meeting you here,” he says. “Given my hermit-like state, this must be divine intervention.”
She quirks one eyebrow, extracting her hand, and using it to shove a wall of straight, blonde hair behind one ear. “You always did have a voice that could melt frozen butter,” she teases him.
“Join us,” Terry offers.
“And panties,” she says under her breath, out of Terry’s earshot.
I groan internally, but move aside as Jessica plops her ass on the cushioned bench next to me. The server instantly appears with another table setting and a wine glass.
“What are you drinking?” she asks, her face going shrewd.
“Merlot,” Terry answers.
She gives him a hard look, then openly crawls over him with her eyes. “My goodness, Terry, you’re covered in paint!” Her giggles pierce the calm environment, bridging the line between mocking and mirthful. The fact that I can’t tell the difference sets my teeth on edge. “I’d imagine being out of the limelight means letting yourself go. Must be nice.”
She waits patiently. Too patiently, hands in her lap, making eye contact with Terry, then me.
I reach for the wine bottle and pour obediently.
Her smile is my reward. I guess.
What is she up to?
“That wedding was something else, wasn’t it?” she says with a throaty, condescending laugh. “As if poor Declan weren’t dragged through enough with the gaudiness of all that Scottish crap, Shannon made him escape in the helicopter. Hello—decorum! I give the marriage two years. I hope James insisted on a pre-nup.”
Terry and I share a look. He guzzles his entire glass of wine in one long gulp.
The fastest way to make two people bond is to give them a common enemy.
He reaches for his phone and starts tapping, then puts it away, watching us intently. The man doesn’t actually use his phone. Why now?
“And then the bridesmaid fell in the water and you saved her!” she adds with glee, clapping her perfectly-manicured hands. She is golden tan, a color never found in nature. Her skin is impossibly smooth. Something seems slightly computer-generated about her. Jessica triggers the Uncanny Valley reaction in me.
“What a ridiculous spectacle,” she continues.
I bristle at the word ridiculous and tune her out as I drink my glass and Terry refills it.
“The only good to come from that wedding is the confirmation that you’re not a vampire, Andrew.”
I am in mid-swallow, and as I finish, the wine feels like an endoscopy tube doing down.
“Between the cat as a flower girl, the half-naked bridesmaid who was clearly doing it for attention, the crazy mother of the bride thinking the President of the United States had come to her pathetic daughter’s wedding, and what you had to do to rescue that frumpy oaf.”
Did she just call Amanda a frumpy oaf?
“I am so sorry your brother has dragged down the family name by marrying into that mess.” A blindly charming smile aimed directly at Terry gives her nothing but my brother doing his best imitation of an Easter Island statue. She tries to use it on me.
“Oh, no,” I answer, turning in the booth, putting space between us as I stretch one arm across the back, behind me, the other holding my very full glass of red wine. “If anyone dragged down the family name, it was me. Going back to high school.”
Terry and I exchange a look. He smiles.
Turkish food always makes McCormick men so clumsy.
As the entire contents of my glass pour into her lap like the Hoover Dam in a disaster movie, I try to savor every second. I didn’t tell Amanda the entire story about my dating Jessica Coffin when we were flying home from Vegas. Truth is important in relationships, yes.
And as Jessica leaps up, Terry tries—oh, how he tries—to grab the half-full wine bottle before it tips toward her and pours even more wine all over her lap.
But he fails.
We’re a bucketful of family fail right now, aren’t we?
“I am so sorry!” he says, jumping up, grabbing the bottle and fumbling, tipping the neck up so the wine burbles up in a parabolic stream, hitting between her breasts.
“OH MY GOD!” she screams, batting at the stains, Terry’s hands, making the mess turn into a wine Vesuvius.
The server rushes over with a towel and a look of horror. “Miss! Miss! Can I help?”
“Of course you can help, you stupid idiot! Get the manager!”
A flash from a far corner of the restaurant registers and I turn toward it.
Twenty-somethings taking pic after pic after pic.
Like Jessica at Dec and Shannon’s Boston wedding.
Terry’s eyes cut over to the flash, too, and he gives me a look, winking.
“You are having some sort of breakdown, Andrew! I’ve never known you to be clumsy!” Jessica rants.
“People change. I am so sorry.” My tone makes it clear I’m not.
“My dress is ruined!”
I look at her, softening my eyes, working on a convincingly sexy body crawl that she picks up on instantly, minus the fakery.
“It was a year out of style anyhow,” I say, her reaction a hiss. “I probably did you a favor.” Wink.
The server is mopping up the destroyed tabletop. A pool of wine on the cushion means I can’t sit. Jessica’s gawking at me, gape-mouthed, her hand curling and uncurling in the universal gesture of outraged women.
I’m about to get slapped.
I give her a one-shouldered shrug and turn away, making a call.
“Gina? Jessica Coffin will call you shortly. Take care of her dry cleaning bill and replace the dress I ruined just now.”
“You asshole,” Jessica mutters.
“Yes, sir?” Gina peeps. “Wait. The Jessica Coffin? I follow her Twitter stream? She’s the best? You ever read about #poopwatch and #hotsanta?”
“She’s the best, all right,” I say, giving her a glance. “And yes, I’m intimately familiar with those.” I tense.
“You’ll pay for this!” Jessica screeches, the worst of the wine mopped up. The manager appears, urging us to a different table, while Jessica heaps abuse after abuse on the server.
Terry meanwhile, is just trying not to laugh. He grabs the wet bottle, dries it off, and pours the rest into his glass.
He gets a half inch.
“Why would you do this?” Jessica screams.
“These things happen.”
Her eyes go wide. She looks like a Rorschach test with eyes.
Those words? These things happen.
That’s the exact phrase she used when I caught her in Declan’s lap.
I watch her watching me, and my conversation with Amanda from the other day comes back to me. She thinks Jessica has power. Influence. That she matters.
More flashes from the peanut gallery in the corner. Then a pause. Probably uploading.
A bitter, airy laugh greets me as Jessica shoulders her purse. “You’ve waited all these years to get back at me for choosing your brother over you and this is all you’ve got, Andrew?”
“The wine was an accident.”
“Like hell it was.”
I get in her face, my hand on the small of her back, pulling her in like a confidante. Her perfume is the same, made for her mother in a French perfumery, and it tickles the senses, delightful and sinister at once.
Her blond hair is like corn silk spread over cadaver flesh as I whisper in her ear. “Back off. Back off Shannon, back off Amanda, back off my family. You tweet about, or to, any of us again—and that includes any Anterdec properties—and I’ll unleash the video.”
“What vid—oh, please!” she says nervously. “That video? Doesn’t exist. I got all the copies long ago.”
I let go of her.
“Fine. If that’s what you need to believe to sleep at night.” I flash her a grin that is usually charming, but I up the malevolent factor enough to make sure I look a little evil.
It works.
Pale on pale makes her turn into a bedsheet.
“You realize that could ruin me.”
“Really?”
“My entire reputation in public health would be destroyed.”
“How awful.” The words come out through gritted teeth and steel. “Can you imagine what it must be like to have a social media shitstorm sent your way? Oh. That’s right. I’m sure you can.”
Her nostrils flare.
“But normally you’re the one aiming the fire hose.”
“I have enough dirt on you and your family to—”
“To what? Dirt?” I laugh. She’s annoying. Shannon and Amanda have built her up to be this unstoppable force but she’s a toddler. A toddler with no one telling her no.
Time for me to be her no.
“I could destroy you,” she says, seething.
“With a tweet? A picture? A rumor? That’s your currency, babe.” She hated that term of endearment in high school, and from the look on her face, I hit my target. “And it’s overvalued. Like you.”
“You think being CEO of Anterdec means I’m supposed to bow before you?”
“I wouldn’t accept even if you did, Jessica. I have standards.”
Her head darts to the left, looking out the plate-glass window.
“Standards like that?” She points and smirks.
I follow her arm to find her pointing at the Turdmobile. Amanda’s in profile, bouncing to whatever song is on her radio, and she’s at a stoplight. Consolidated Evalu-shop is one town over, and this restaurant is right on the main drag of town, on a numbered state route.
“If that’s your baseline, you’re a fool, Andrew.”
“What does it say about you that I’d pick a woman driving a car that literally looks like a piece of shit over you? Bring it on, Jessica.” I spread my arms wide, back to the road. “Do your worst.”
She is steaming, red with anger, her eyes hopping between me and the road. Then her mouth curls into a vicious smile and she does the one thing I never expected.
Throws herself into my arms and kisses me.
Chapter Twelve
Shoving a woman who is not much more than a warm toothpick wearing five-inch heels and a ruined designer dress is harder than you’d think. But I do, and do it with mastery and grace, so she plunks down on the chair in front of me, but not before she pirouettes me into a full three-sixty.
I’m left with the lingering taste of bitterness and anti-aging face cream.
Horns. Lots of beeps, suddenly, from the road.
I whip around to find the source of the cacophony.
Amanda’s stuck in front of the green light, mouth open, staring through the window. It’s that time of day and just cloudy enough that the clean, clear glass shows everything.
“Hmph,” Jessica says with triumph. “Good luck fixing that.”
Amanda gets out of the car. I repeat: she gets out of the car, abandoning it in the middle of a New England town center, with three lanes and five different directions.
Her march is steady, straight, defiant, and dead on.
And she’s not looking at me as she bursts through the restaurant’s main door and goes straight for the jugular.
“Touch him again, and I’ll rip every weave out of that hair of yours,” she says pleasantly to Jessica, a smile on her face and the biggest case of the creeps shining through her eyes.
“Oh, I like her,” Terry mutters, crossing his arms without letting go of his wine glass.
I have never seen Amanda fiery. Pissed. Livid.
Out of control.
“Excuse me? Did you just threaten me?” Jessica squeals, looking around the room as if collecting witnesses.
“Yes. You like those eyelash extensions? Because all I need are some manicure scissors and two friends to hold you down.” She scrunches up her face. “Or a really small blowtorch.”
Amanda’s voice sounds like a serrated butcher’s knife that’s just about to go through Jessica’s trachea.
And...I’m hard.
“You can’t do that! How dare you threaten me?” Jessica protests.
“Just did,” Amanda declares. She still hasn’t looked at me, but her eyes rake over Jessica’s dress. “You’re such an alcoholic, you can’t keep the wine in your glass?” she says in a loud, over-enunciated voice.
Flash.
The people in the corner start taking rapid-fire pictures, and I see someone holding up a smartphone. Videotaping.
“I—what are you talking about?” Jessica protests. “He poured it on me!”
I twist a finger around my ear and say, “We tried to do an intervention.” I shrug. “She wouldn’t listen to reason.”
“Liar! He spilled it on me to get back at me for cheating on him with his brother when we were in high school!”
Titters begin from the other patrons.
“So you admit it,” I say slowly. I want to add, smile for the camera, but I’m not ready to tip my hat just yet.
“You’re an alcoholic,” Amanda says, her voice dripping with contemptuous pity. “Explains so much, doesn’t it?” she says loudly to Terry.
He makes a fake compassionate face. “She’s really lost her touch.”
“And quit trying to steal my man!” Amanda shouts.
I do a double take.
Wait a minute.
This does not add up.
Without touching me, Amanda passes by, glaring the entire time, and walks to the other side of the table, across from me.
Where she grabs Jessica and kisses her.
That’s right.
She.Kisses.Jessica.
Terry’s mouth drops.
I stare, uncertain whether to be angry or aroused. My body decide
s both.
Angry boners suck.
A camera flashes.
Pandemonium ensues.
First, Jessica flees.
Second, the people in the corner clap. And snap. And flash.
Third, Amanda wipes her mouth and drinks the rest of Terry’s wine.
Fourth, Terry and Amanda fist-bump each other.
Fifth, a police car appears.
Sixth, Amanda sprints out to retrieve her abandoned car.
“What the hell, Terry?” My fingers are two seconds away from grabbing his shirt and giving my big brother a right hook.
He holds up his phone and shakes it. “Not just an expensive clock. I know how to use it.”
I pause. “You texted Amanda?”
“I knew there was a reason Dad picked you for CEO. You’re quick.”
“Screw you. My wife just kissed Jessica!”
“Your what?”
“My, uh, girlfriend.”
“It was entirely for show. She wasn’t sure who to kiss.”
“Who to kiss? You texted my girlfriend back and forth and considered kissing her?”
He shrugs. “It was for show.”
“You ever ‘show’ my girlfriend, I punch you.”
Terry holds up his palms. “Fine. I’ll stick to kissing Mr. Wiffles.”
He just told me too much about his love life.
Horns blare outside. Cop lights flash in the window. Amanda’s screaming my name and—is that cop putting handcuffs on her?
I’m the only one who’s supposed to do that.
I run, dodging moms with babies in carriages and gawkers watching the scene, coming up on the cop’s left while another cop stands across from me, glaring.
“Officer, I can explain,” I say, mind scrambling to figure out what exactly to say. “This is all a big misunderstanding.”
“Always is, bud.” I get a good look at the cop. Balding. Paunch. Mustache. His specialty is glaring.
Great. This will be easy. As James McCormick’s son, I’m not just fluent in glare. I could teach a class on it.
“This is my girlfriend.” I measure my breathing, pull up to full height. Time to show the cop who’s in charge here. “She saw me in the restaurant in a moment of distress. Came to help.”
“Help? You needed help so bad from her she had to abandon her car in a busy intersection?”
Amanda’s biting her lips and looking down. My heart starts racing, but my face tightens. The only way out of this is through sheer dominance.