Antitype (3 page)

“Something you want to ask me?”

He swallows. “Did you keep your appointment today?”

“No,” I say without hesitation. “I told you I wouldn't. I tell you every month, in fact. You may as well stop wasting your time.”

“A man your age could have had at least two—”

“His sperm doesn't come with an expiration date,” Gabe says across the table, and his tone is loud enough to gather attention. He suffers the same talks and looks I do; the only difference is that Gabe keeps his appointments. He enjoys the show.

Annabelle coughs lightly into her fist, barely containing a smile.

Gabe beams at us proudly, his arms draped over the backs of the chairs to either side of him. His amber eyes practically glow. Everyone says he's the spitting image of me now that he's grown his dark blond hair out, letting the waves he used to despise go free.

Dad narrows his eyes at Gabe before returning his attention to me. “If you don't want to make the choice yourself, then at least send a private bidder in your place. With the right price, you could fill your bed in two weeks. A month at most.”

I scrub my palms over my face.
Where the fuck is that sommelier? Italy?
“Christ,” I murmur. “Do we really have to do this now?”

Annabelle lays a hand on my shoulder and I mirror the small smile she gives me. She's a nice girl, caring beyond measure, and good to my father. Really good. She's also seven months pregnant with a second son she probably expects to be around long enough to raise.

They all think they'll be the one James keeps, but I already see the signs. How he turns a shoulder away from her instead of toward. He smiles at her, but the act never reaches his eyes. Warning Annabelle won't do any good either. I've warned others before her, and none have believed me. My father is a great con.

“Speaking of young, available girls,” Gabe begins, then accepts the forked cherry tomato his date offers him. “I thought you planned to bring a date, Noah.”

“I forgot to call the service,” I lie. “Not really in the mood to entertain, anyway.”

Gabe barks a laugh that devours the tinkling sounds of glasses and silverware filling the semi-dark room. “You don't have to entertain
them,
” he says, his pale skin turning a nice shade of pink. “They entertain
you.
”

I bite my tongue and busy my hands with unfolding a napkin over my lap. This is a prime example of why I can't just run off and disappear. If I give up my place in the company, Gabe is next in line to take over for Dad, and look at him. Wasted before the main course. And his lack of respect for women . . . Is this what he plans to teach our younger brothers when it comes time to divvy up life lessons? One of us has to be an example for them.

Damn it, where is my
wine
?

Dad picks up the end of a butter knife and taps it against the table. “You look a bit on edge tonight, son. Something on your mind?”

I give him a firm shake of my head. “No. Nothing at all.” If you didn't count his incessant need to match me to a wife. A first of many, if he had his way.

Dad starts to respond but stops short as movement closes in behind me, which means the sommelier has
finally
arrived. But I turn to find an acquaintance of my dad's instead. Marco Underwood. He's a wife jumper just like Dad. But worse. He's the scumbag that doesn't try to hide his intentions when he's done. At least Dad tries to spare feelings.

“Marco,” Dad exclaims, standing to greet his friend.

The two side by side are a study in opposites. Dad's the light, Marco the dark. Dad is pale, one hundred percent gray, thin, and very tall. Marco is black, bald, average in height, with a swollen middle. They're the same age and have known each other for thirty years now, at least.

Marco's low timbre sounds like it carries from a deep well in the Earth. “I wish I'd known you would be here. We could have shared a meal tonight.”

“It's a family celebration.”

Marco looks affronted. “Aren't I family?”

Dad laughs. “Not yet.”

I blink rapidly, and Gabe has frozen in my peripheral. The truth of what they're saying hovers in the air, just out of reach, like an unknown shape behind an opaque layer of rice paper. The outline is visible, but I'm sure the details I'm filling in are incorrect. They have to be, because surely Dad wouldn't do what I think he's done.

“What do you mean, ‘not yet'?” I ask. The damn sommelier appears carrying two choices of red wine he must have personally paired with the meal I ordered. “Not now,” I tell him, waving him off. “Dad?”

Dad grins at everyone as if he's about to surprise us with news of a new baby or wife or, most likely, grandchild—my brother Carter just married a nice girl. “Everyone, meet Hannah's first husband.”

I'm out of my chair and glaring before any of my good sense catches on. “You're fucking kidding me, right?”

Marco shifts beside me, but I only have eyes for dear old Dad. He raises a hand to warn Marco to stay out of it. The surrounding tables have gone completely silent. Waiters have stopped in their tracks.

“No,” Dad says in a low, level tone. “I suggest you keep your peace, son. This is neither the time nor the place.”

I throw my napkin on the table and look at my brother, who sits in stunned silence. “I'm sorry, Gabe, but I forgot I have something important at the office to take care of.”

He nods and swallows hard, then finally says, “Yeah, sure. Go.”

I feel bad for doing this to him, but when Dad and I get going, it's not fit for public consumption. I need to get out of here before I
really
lose my temper.

I kiss Annabelle on the cheek and give Gabe's date a single nod before shouldering past Marco and Dad. Neither of them tries stopping me, which is best for everyone. I'm too pissed to have this conversation with any amount of civility. I won't let him force Hannah into a marriage with that man. No, fuck that.

I won't let him force Hannah into a marriage at all.

Declan

Abel Gaines lifts a glass of champagne from the end of a long table bedecked in white, yellow, and gold flower arrangements. “To my son and his new wife. May you be blessed with children and lifelong happiness.”

Agreement rings out from upward of thirty guests, gold-rimmed glasses raised and clinking. We all sit in padded teak chairs in varying shades of brown, from light to dark. Gilded net overlays a white tablecloth, and bronze rims the flatware. The tent shielding us from the sun has pale yellow, camel, and umber material draped and gathered overhead at angles. Candlelight flickers inside glass votives despite the two o'clock hour.

My best friend, Mitch, smiles in a tight-lipped way at his new wife, Ella, reminding me how uncomfortable he is with attention. It's part of the reason why I'm surprised to be here at all. The other part is because I'd assumed he'd wait. But Abel had been putting a lot of pressure on him to get married. Probably more than I realized. I understood parental pressure and expectation better than anyone.

After lunch, guests filter into the large backyard. More drapes shade sitting areas and a small dance floor to one side of a glittering pool. A band plays from a stage, accompanying a singer swaying his hips to the beat.

I stand in the back with an import beer in a chilled glass, debating whether or not I can slip out within the next ten minutes. It's a Saturday, and technically my day off, but Jacob's been working long hours to make me look like a complete failure. He takes advantage of every opportunity.

“Over-the-top,” Mitch says, appearing beside me. He sips from an identical beer. Froth residue layers the inside of his glass. “Dad's idea.”

“It's a big deal,” I tell him, though I have to agree.

He grins at me. A breeze whips the longish dark strands off his forehead. “You won't be saying that when your time comes. I'm guessing Andrew will have you married off in the next month?”

I shrug. “Even if that were the case, I doubt Dad will make a spectacle of it.” I puff out my chest in preparation for my best Andrew Burke impression. “It's a business arrangement.”

Mitch and I tap our glasses, laughing. He sighs and grins toward a table where his father and new wife sit. She's smiling at her father-in-law, but like Mitch, she's forcing her outward appearance.

“She's pretty,” he says before tipping the remains of his beer into his mouth.

I follow his gaze. Ella is more than pretty, in my opinion. Her dark hair cascades down her back in long, natural curls. Her almond-shaped eyes have a large, expressive quality about them.

“We, uh . . .” He trails off and clears his throat. His cheeks redden and his gaze falls to the ground, where he toes the lawn.

I laugh. “You what?”

“She came to my room last night.”

My eyebrows rocket toward my hairline. “Really?”

He glances at me from the corner of his eyes. “We didn't sleep together, if that's what you're thinking.”

“You didn't really leave room for another impression, man.”

A nervous chuckle slips past his lips. “We talked. And talked.
And talked.
” He shakes his head, eyebrows raised and eyes wide. “She's really . . . normal. I didn't expect that.”

“You like her.” I hadn't meant to sound so surprised, but it's already out there.

He nods and squints past the sun to watch her again. This time, she meets his eyes and the smile she'd had glued lengthens and warms. “I think I do,” he whispers.

Whatever passes between them is visceral enough to jolt a pang of jealousy out of me. I want a girl to look at me that way, but I never believed it was possible to find actual love in a marriage. I have no doubt love is exactly what I'm witnessing. My best friend might actually be one of the lucky ones.

“Then I'm honestly happy for you,” I tell him.

Mitch looks at me with serious eyes. “You don't know what it means to me to hear you say that.” He glances down and away. “You're the only one who gets it, Declan. The only one I can talk to.”

He doesn't know this, but I feel the same way. I laugh to break the somber mood. “All right,” I say and swivel away. “No more serious talk. You should go dance with your new wife. I have to get to the office.”

“No, man, really?”

I nod and set my beer on a nearby table. “I have a legacy to protect and little time to do it in.”

He scowls. “I still can't believe your dad's doing this to you.”

“I can. It's Jacob I can't believe. He didn't flinch about rolling over me to get to my inheritance.”

“I never trusted that guy. It's the ones with nothing you have to watch out for, you know? And he's always been quietly jealous of the rest of us.”

“Well, it's done. All I can do is fight back.”

“You'll make it out of this, man. I know you will. I'd be jealous of your impending world travels, but . . .” He trails off and looks back at Ella.

“But you don't have a reason to. I know.” I stretch a hand out and his claps right into mine. “Call when you get back from Thailand. I want to hear all the details.” I pause. “And thanks.”

His grin turns crooked. “For what?”

“For understanding. For being a true friend.”
For not laughing at my dream,
I don't add.

“Screw that, Declan. We're brothers.”

 • • • 

Mitch's proclamation makes me feel good for the first time in weeks. It's hard to remember I'm not alone when I'm forced to deal with Jacob on a daily basis. When I'm forced to perform under my father's watchful eye. There's never a moment to reflect on the larger picture.

The glass doors open silently to the executive offices. I turn left toward the room Jacob and I share, but I look right and find Dad's door open. His bellowing laugh rolls into the quiet space like a consuming fog, followed almost immediately by the pitched, seesawing laugh belonging to Jacob.

What the fucking hell is Jacob up to now?
My heart pumps at a significantly faster pace than my feet, and my jaw cramps from clenching.

I don't bother knocking to announce myself. Not that they would hear me over their laughter. They're lounging on the love seat in the sitting room, tumbler glasses in hand. A half-empty bottle of bourbon sits uncapped on the coffee table. Who knows how long they've been at it, but the red, blotchy tint to their skin tells me long enough to have a good buzz, at the very least.

My presence soaks up the merriment in the room at a delayed pace, a tale told by the trailing, interrupted bursts of remaining laughter.

Dad sits forward quick enough to make his drink slosh over the rim and puddle on the carpet. “Declan. How was the Gaineses' reception?”

“Floral.” I level my gaze on Jacob. “Mitch asked about you.”

Dad sobers and turns to look at his protégé. “You didn't tell me you were invited.”

Jacob tilts me a grin and glances furtively at Dad. “Didn't think he'd miss me.”

“Your absence sort of stood out when every single friend of his showed up to support the marriage. But I guess you have your priorities, don't you?” I lift my hands to my hips and turn my attention on my father. “Forging and cultivating close relationships. Isn't that what you've taught me is one of the key elements to success?”

Let Jacob try escaping this avalanche with his typical lobbing of snowballs.

Jacob sets his drink aside and says to my father, “I only meant to relieve any undue stress on Mitch's important day. He's never liked me very much, but I hope to change that in the future.”

My disbelief announces itself in the form of a short burst of laughter. It wasn't even until recently that any of us have seen Jacob for who he really is: a master manipulator. In fact, I probably wouldn't even be in this mess if I'd never spoken to Dad about him. I never expected Dad would find a sliver of empathy large enough to extend this sort of gold nugget to Jacob or anyone else.

I sneer. “You're so full of shit, Donnelly.”

Dad rises and holds up a hand. His eyes narrow very slightly. “Let it go, boy. It's fine. Sit. Have a drink with us and relax.”

I shift my weight and start out of the room. “No, thanks.”

Jacob follows me as far as the teleporters in the hallway. “Come on, Dec. One drink.”

I spin around and get in his face. “I see what you're doing.”

He holds my gaze for a long time before saying, “No idea what you mean.”

I nod and stand back, throwing up a smile so large his flinches. “Mm-hm. Sure. Just watch your back, Donnelly. I am my father's son.”

Jacob watches wordlessly as I get into the teleporter and disappear. I'm so damn pissed by the time I reach the lobby exit that I don't even want to go home. I want nothing to do with my father. He feels like more of a traitor than a parent right now. I could return to the reception, but Mitch and Ella are scheduled to leave for their honeymoon in an hour, so there's no use.

Giovanni's is a short walk downtown and has been like a second home to me for almost a year, the only place where I've been able to center my focus. Not this last month, though, thanks to my predicament.

The restaurant is quiet when I enter, and the host, an older man named Tony, smiles at me. “Declan. Haven't seen you in a while.”

“I know,” I say, yanking my tie loose and stuffing it in my pocket. “Giò
around?”

“In the back. You know the way.”

The quiet dining room gives way to a kitchen bustling with banging pots and beeping timers. I wave at Alessandro, the sauté chef prepping for dinner, and he nods with a smile while singing along to an operatic tune playing through an overhead speaker. He'd once had a career at a famous opera house in Venice before finally giving in to the passion that now calls to me. He's the one who helped me plan my coming year abroad.

I pass two more rows of stainless tables before finding Giò rolling tagliatelle out of pasta spread on a large cutting board. He grins. “Didn't think I'd see you for a while. Come to gloat about your new corporate life?”

“Just the opposite. Need a hand with the dinner rush?”

He chuckles and shakes his head. “Grab an apron.”

 • • • 

Mitch twirls his freshly tanned wife on the dance floor under the glow of the ballroom chandeliers. Their smiles practically have stars attached. Mitch hasn't had a chance to give me the details of his honeymoon yet, but it's obvious the two weeks away have pushed the couple toward a state of bliss nobody expected. They're the talk of the ball, a yearly event Burke Enterprises puts on to say thank you to clients and close friends.

My father dances with a young woman he hired from an escort service, and he actually looks to be enjoying her company. I'm glad he feels comfortable. It means he has faith in my ability to run the details of the event without his aid.

Much to Jacob's disdain.

The look on his face was priceless when I told Dad I'd proactively met with the planner and would be taking over. Along with all the other duties my father has me performing, I made decisions that ranged from what string quartet to hire down to what antipasti to serve with what brand of champagne. I handpicked linens and flowers and flatware. By the time Jacob tried nosing his way in to “help,” he discovered there was nothing left to do but watch me succeed.

Other than two cases of glassware arriving in shattered pieces, the event runs smoothly. I haven't had much time to enjoy it myself, but I'm damn proud of what I've accomplished.

With everything under control for the moment, I begin making my way around the room to check on our guests. I've been doing this with Dad since I was old enough to walk, learning by example what it takes to host the annual affair. I know most of the guests by name, and when I meet those I don't, I stamp their identities into my memory the way I've been taught.

I'm speaking to a couple who have been close to my father for years when Jacob catches my attention. He's elbowing his way past guests, dragging a wide-eyed date behind him. Something about the way her gaze darts around as if seeking help pulls at me, and an immediate instinct to follow becomes my first priority.

“Mr. and Mrs. Thomas, please excuse me,” I say, too focused on Jacob and the girl to give the couple a parting smile.

I smile at everyone I pass, shaking hands and kissing cheeks, trying to appear calm and at ease, while my heart seems prepared to jump through my rib cage. That fool is going to make a scene. I know it. Maybe I should let him; it would piss Dad off so much he'd probably put this game to an end. But my family's name is attached to this event, and I can't have Jacob defacing it, no matter how much I need him to fail.

I take the stairs down into the lobby of Burke Enterprises. Chatter and music and laughter become muffled the farther from the party I get. And the closer I get to Jacob, the more distressed I am by new sounds: a whimper, a plea, a barked order to be quiet.

Security guards look up from the semicircular desk as I stop in front of them, resting my hands on the marble top. “Where is he?”

They don't hesitate to respond, knowing exactly whom I mean, and point to a room reserved for personal belongings the guests may have stowed away temporarily.

I don't bother pretending my agitation now, and I dart right over and into the room. I'm momentarily blinded by the brighter lights inside and first make out a row of purses and briefcases. Under a table, several more items lay strewn as if tossed in a haphazard manner, and I don't doubt it. Jacob has the girl bent over the top, wrists pinned to the center, and her dress hiked up.

“Get off her,” I order. “Now.”

I can't believe the fucking nerve of this asshole. Not that the girls hired to attend events
haven't
accepted money for sex, but it isn't in their job description to be anything more than arm candy. I have no doubt this girl in particular has said no to Jacob's sexual advance.