My thoughts turned even darker as I watched Titan press his hand to the small of Vanessa’s back and guide her closer to the bar. I wanted to rip that fucking hand off.
“Hey, man. You having fun back here?” Trey’s voice pulled me back to reality. He nudged my shoulder conspiratorially.
I forced a smile for his benefit. “Don’t I always? Just waiting to see you get that award and give your speech.”
Trey’s eyes widened. “I have to give a speech? No one fucking told me that.”
I grinned, and this time it was sincere. “I’m kidding, man. You just have to smile and look pretty for the camera. And watch your language. You shouldn’t be dropping the F-bomb around these kinds of people.”
Trey rolled his eyes. “That stop you?”
“Don’t worry about me. But you better clean it up before you get to the Point, or they’ll clean it up for you.”
He breathed a heavy sigh. “Okay, okay. I get it. You and my mama both. Seriously.” He jostled my shoulder again. “You’d think with all this ink you wouldn’t be such a drag.”
“Don’t make me teach you some manners, boy.”
Although it was likely that Trey’s mama had already beaten manners into him. She was a tough woman. And probably the major reason why he’d been accepted to West Point. The day he’d gotten his congressional nomination…I’d shed a tear, though I’d never admit it. It was a hell of an honor, and there wasn’t another kid who deserved it more. It had started with him asking me about some of my tats. What they meant—especially the military ones. I’d given him bits and pieces about my history in the service. Honestly, there was plenty I couldn’t tell, but I could give him the basics. He’d latched on to it like an infant on a teat. I could understand the appeal. There was something about honor and serving your country that reached into your gut and made you want to be part of something bigger than yourself. At least that was what it had done for me. The military had taken my punk ass and turned it into a hell of a soldier. I’d taken bullets for my brothers. Had watched one throw himself on a grenade to save another. The brotherhood was something civilians would never understand. I was glad that Trey would get to be a part of that.
“Con, you good, man?” Trey asked, as I realized I’d let myself drift.
“Yeah, just thinking about some shit.”
A tall, thin man took the stage and spoke into the microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen, dinner service will begin shortly. If you would, please begin to make your way to your seats.”
“That’s your cue. Better go find the head table, man.” Trey smiled again and took off toward the front of the room.
I looked toward my table, but a blonde heading in the opposite direction caught my attention. It didn’t take a genius to figure out which way I went.
I saw him watching me. But even if I hadn’t seen him, I would have felt him. Con was… potent. A heck of a lot more potent than the wine swirling in my glass as I stepped away from a group of society matrons. My one glass. Because that was all I ever allowed myself at events like these. Why? Because a lady was never tipsy in public. I broke that rule at my own peril. Like the anniversary of my mother’s death two years ago. I remember drinking three glasses of wine at dinner that night. Obviously that day wasn’t one my father handled well, and he handled it even more poorly when we stayed home. Something about sitting around the dining room table my mother had loved so dearly would set him off every single time. So, instead, we went out, and our quiet family dinner had deteriorated into my father asking me why I hadn’t brought a man up to snuff yet, and pointing out that my mother would have wanted me settled and having babies of my own by now.
Three glasses of wine had loosened my tongue and glazed over my good sense. I’d said something about Mother probably being too worried that my finally-skinny figure would be ruined by pregnancy and would have probably suggested I hire a surrogate. To this day, I could feel the sting of the back of my father’s hand as it connected with my cheek.
He’d never struck me before or since.
We’d both sat in stunned silence in our private dining room at his favorite restaurant and, face throbbing, I’d quietly excused myself from the table.
I’d never looked at my father quite the same after that night. Did any girl look at her daddy the same way after he backhanded her?
An hour later I’d found myself wandering the French Quarter. I’d lost myself in the revelry, and while, at first, it had been comforting, I’d started to panic as the crush had become overwhelming. Con had been a lone familiar face in a crowd of strangers. I’d tripped over a curb and crashed into him. Instead of being the too-good looking punk with a chip on his shoulder I’d remembered from high school, he’d been drunk and charming. His arms had been strong and steady when they’d wrapped around me and kept me from face-planting onto the dirty sidewalk.
His teasing had made me smile, when all I’d wanted to do moments before was cry. I’d needed more of that—more levity and lightness to smother the horrible darkness that had stalked me all night. I’d needed to forget.
So I’d taken an insane leap and let him lead me back to Voodoo and up the stairs to his apartment. Being laid out across Con’s bed and catching an eyeful of what he was packing in those ripped up jeans had sobered me up pretty damn quick. Good God. Even intoxicated, Con was… an experience. My cheeks burned just thinking about him.
The unforgettable night had given way to my hangover and the harsh light of morning: If my father ever found out… that backhand would seem like a love tap. My father’s judgment of Con had come down early—just after he’d arrived at the Leahy's as a foster and decided to test their boundaries. My father had found Con passed out drunk, lying against our fence, and their interaction hadn’t gone… smoothly. My father had thought he was trouble then and had never missed an opportunity to comment over the years about what a disgrace Con was to his adoptive parents.