About That Night (2 page)

She gave a life-is-so-hard-and-unfair-for-a-pretty-pretty-princess-such-as-myself sigh. “Don’t bother. Daddy already said something to him, and now Evan won’t even look at me.”

“Good to know your father can be counted on for something.” They must have taught him how to act big and tough in the army. Christ knew he hadn’t learned it growing up.

“Come on,” Estelle said, slipping her arm through C.J.’s. “Grandma Gwen’s been asking about you.”

She tried to tug him along but he planted his feet. “I think I’ll grab a drink first. Get ready to face all that pink.”

Though he’d been joking—a little—her lower lip jutted out. Trembled. She could give Allison lessons on the proper way to make a man feel like shit. “You don’t like the decorations.”

“Of course I do,” he said, remembering too late that Estelle was, officially, the hostess of this little shindig for her father and his fiancée. “They’re very...festive.”

“They’re supposed to be romantic!” she wailed loudly enough to make several of the bar patrons glance their way.

He put his arm around her shoulders. Squeezed. “Hey now, you know I’m clueless about decorating.”

She sniffed and shrugged him off. “It’s not just that.”

He glanced around, but no one was there to explain what the hell he’d said wrong. “Then what is it?” he asked, not sure he really wanted to know.

“You don’t even want to be here.”

He’d flown halfway across the country, left the civilized world of Houston—where he had work, work and more work—to be in this small town thirty miles south of Pittsburgh to celebrate his brother’s engagement. A brother he’d barely spoken to in the past fifteen years. An engagement C.J. highly doubted would make it to the altar.

Hell no, he didn’t want to be here. But he was. He always put his family first. Didn’t that count for anything?

“What I want doesn’t matter,” he told her.

“It’s just—” she threw her hands into the air, beseeching the heavens to help her cope with the disappointment “—I tried so hard to make this party special for Daddy and Charlotte, but it’s a disaster. First Uncle Zach texted me that he wasn’t coming and then you were late. Granddad’s been an absolute grump all night, making angry noises and thumping his good hand. I’m not sure if it’s because he doesn’t want to be here or because Carrie’s drunk and been hanging on Uncle Oakes. Then there’s Grandma...” Estelle shivered dramatically. “Well, you’re going to have to see
that
for yourself.” Her eyes welled. “I just wanted everything to be perfect, and instead, it’s ruined.”

He sighed. Hung his head. Women. Care about one of them too much and they’d get their hooks into you—either by the balls or by the gut. Either way, once they had you, you were never free.

He hoped like hell that, if he ever had children, he followed in his father’s footsteps and had all boys.

He held out his arms, but Estelle lifted her chin.

Stubborn as her father.

C.J. amped up his grin by a few degrees. “Come on, darlin’. Don’t tell me you’re going to stay mad at your favorite uncle.”

“At the moment, Uncle Oakes is my favorite,” she said, prissy as a princess to a peasant. But then she relented enough to step into his embrace. Wrap her arms around him for a hug.

He squeezed her hard. Kissed the top of her head. Damn, but he was crazy about her.

“Oakes is everyone’s favorite,” he said, not offended in the least to be usurped by his brother. If she’d wanted to go for the jugular, she would have picked Zach.

There wasn’t anything he could do about his youngest brother not showing up, but he could take care of the rest for her. He looked over her head and scanned the room. People laughed and conversed around the round tables or stood in small groups, eating hors d’oeuvres and sipping tall flutes of champagne brought around by the waitstaff. Others had paired off, swaying to the band’s acoustic rendition of Guns N’ Roses’ “November Rain,” the lead singer’s smoky voice giving the song a slow, seductive quality.

Among the dancers, it was easy enough to find his brother Kane and his new fiancée, Charlotte Ellison. Hard to miss Charlotte, with that bright beacon of short red hair. Usually more cute than beautiful, she was a knockout tonight in an emerald-green dress that showed off her long legs and gave her thin figure the illusion of curves. For his part, Kane still looked every inch the badass he pretended to be. One of only a few men without a suit, he’d tied back his too-long hair into a stupid, stubby ponytail and wore dark jeans and a white button-down shirt that covered his tattoos.

“For a disaster, everyone seems to be having a good time,” C.J. said.

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.”