“Mother,” I announce as I approach the table.

I hear it in my voice immediately. That slightly nasal, terrifically WASPy air that taints it whenever I step back into the world of the one-percenters.

I’m meeting her for our once-a-month lunch to catch up with one another. Gwendolyn Conners is the quintessential society matron, complete with a flawlessly maintained face, perfectly coifed hair, and a bona fide Chanel suit.

She graciously accepts the kiss I plant on her cheek and smiles at me as I sit across from her. As usual, the smile fades into something approaching a kind of sad fondness when she studies me, which always makes me feel like a pathetic wretch.

“How are you, Rhys?”

“Rest assured, working hard to maintain my status as the black sheep of the family.”

That effectively sticks a pin in the bubble of any maternal benefit-of-the-doubt that might have decided to rise to the surface.

Mother sighs and closes her eyes, slowly shaking her head with resignation. It’s better than the alternative, a lunch where I sit in a cloud of unwarranted guilt while she hangs onto the hope that there might be some sort of reconciliation between my father and me.

“Really, Mother, I’m fine,” I assure her, all hints of teasing gone, if only to fill in the abyss that threatens to widen between us over lunch.

The waitress comes over to take our drinks; Pellegrino for her, bourbon, neat for me. That earns me an almost imperceptible tightening of the lips, which I ignore. It’s happy hour somewhere in the world. As for noon in New York City, yours truly already knows he’ll be needing a drink.

“So how are things at the Connors residence?”

“Your father sends his regards.”

“Now, now, Mother, can we at least save the lies until after I’ve had my drink?”

This time her lips tighten enough to show the fine lines surrounding her mouth. With Rhys Conners as a son, those lines had plenty of opportunity to develop. “He does care about you, Rhys. You are his son after all.”

“In which case, feel free to return those regards to sender,” I say dryly. “Speaking of which, how is the paterfamilias doing these days?”

She sighs, noting the sarcasm in my voice. “I don’t know why you mock him at every opportunity. Your father is an important man doing—”

“Important work. Yes, yes, I know, Mother. Where would New York State be without The Honorable Clark Connors sitting on the bench? Heaven knows he was never shy about informing me and everyone else of that important work every chance he got.”

“He at least has something worth boasting about,” she retorts in uncharacteristically snippy fashion. I’m pretty sure her beloved son is the only one who can cause her to forget herself this way.

“Let’s not fight,” I say in a resigned tone, even though I’d be more than happy to go on pointing out the many flaws of my beloved father. He’s certainly quick to point out mine.

A soft smile appears on her face, the one that always forgives her notoriously wayward son. Even before the incident at Princeton, I was nothing but trouble. “He’s never been one to show his emotions, but I can tell he does miss you, Rhys.”

“Does he?” I say, completely unconvinced. I feel my anger start to bubble up again. “Or does he just miss the promise of what I once was? That perfect little clone of his who would go on to do bigger and better things.”

“Well, you certainly took care of that, didn’t you?” she says, getting testy again, as we dance around That Which Shall Not Be Discussed.

“And had lot’s of fun doing it,” I say with a grin, mostly to hide the sharp pain that hits me from that barb. “Besides, haven’t you noticed? These days a bit of scandal is good. Who knows? I could still become President. ”

“And that poor girl? What about her? Did she have fun…doing it? Would what happened back then be good for her?” she argues, the color rising to her cheeks with anger and embarrassment, now that the forbidden topic of discussion has been aired.

My grin fades. “You never even saw the video.”

Her eyes widen in something approaching horror. “Of course I didn’t!” she says. “And why on earth would I have wanted to? What kind of mother do you think I am?”

“The kind that might give her son the benefit of the doubt.”

“And tell me Rhys, what exactly would I have seen that might encourage me to do that? Frankly, I didn’t have to see the tape, because everyone—everyone,” she leans in closer to hiss this refrain, “knows what was on it and they certainly haven’t bothered to spare my feelings by keeping it to themselves, some in disgustingly gleeful detail. I can only imagine what that poor girl….” She stops, trying to regain her composure.

Here we go. Never mind that “everyone” who supposedly knows what’s on that tape is full of shit. There are only a few people who have actually seen it. Everything else is based on rumors, speculation, and outright lies. I realize trying to defend myself at this point will only make things worse—I’ve tried that before—so I sit back in silence. Fortunately, the waitress is back with our drinks before I think about changing my mind. I grab the glass of bourbon and take a long swallow.

As soon as she leaves, my mother continues in a more conciliatory tone. “Let’s not discuss this any further. What’s happened in the past is over and done with.”

“But apparently not forgotten.”

She gives me a mild look of reproach as if to say, “can you blame us?” but doesn’t vocalize it. No sympathy there, not when it comes to The Scandal that tore this family apart for good. Even Mr. XO and his debauched radio show wouldn’t be able to compete with that, not that either of my parents know anything about them.

I take another long sip and place the glass down on the table. “You can tell Dad that I’m not doing anything that might embarrass him again,” I lie, mostly for her sake.

“Rhys, has it occurred to you that he cares about you beyond just how you reflect on him? That maybe he’s concerned about your welfare? Has it occurred to you that I’m concerned about your welfare as well?”

“That last part I can at least believe.” In the beginning, she did try to offer me money to support myself, but I was too stubborn to take it. Familial betrayal is a helluva motivator for self-destructive behavior.

She gives me a tight-lipped look. “Dare I ask how it is you are supporting yourself these days?”

Once upon a time, such a question wouldn’t have needed to be asked. As the son of Clark Connors and, more importantly, Gwendolyn Connors (née Asheton, of the Connecticut Ashetons) my path in life was firmly secured around the silver spoon shoved firmly in my mouth at birth. A Princeton degree, impressive pedigree, and, best of all, a trust fund worth more than some people would earn in their entire lives, had me breezing down the road of success on cruise-control—until my life took a jarring detour. The degree was snatched right out of my grasp junior year. The pedigree was officially tainted by my own hand. The trust fund was immediately dissolved, leaving me to sink or swim on my own. Fortunately, I’m a good swimmer.

I lean in with a wicked grin, feeling decidedly devilish again. “Are you sure you really want to know?”

I watch the flash of panic shine in her eyes and feel ever so slightly guilty. Despite being slightly less problematic than what happened at Princeton, if either of my parents actually did learn what I do for a living, they’d probably have a heart attack. I’m sure “sex jock” would be an embarrassing contrast to the admirable labels of “law firm partner” and “chief surgeon” being bandied about at the country club by the other proud parents. I fall back into my seat and give her a sympathetic smile, deciding to do her the favor of leaving her in the dark. “Don’t worry, Mother, it’s nothing that would land me in jail.”

“So you’re able to support yourself?” she asks in a deceptively idle tone. It strikes me how far I’ve fallen from the life I used to know. The idea that someone could survive on less than an eight-figure—in her case, make that a nine-figure—net worth is probably beyond her comprehension.

“And then some, Mother. Frankly, I’m probably doing better than Dad, at least in terms of his public service salary.” I can’t help the mild bit of condescension in my voice, which she most definitely notes. “It’s a shame what they pay government workers these days.”

She purses her lips and looks down at the table with mild embarrassment. Like all members of a securely well-heeled, blue-blooded lineage, she thinks discussing money, especially salaried money, is gauche.

At least I’m not lying for once. My first contract with Eros was two million, which was more than enough for my meager lifestyle at the time. When they renewed, the pay was doubled. This last renewal, complete with a multi-year guarantee, is more than enough to live a fairly lavish lifestyle, even in SoHo. Certainly enough for frequent stays at the Sexton Hotel.

“Speaking of public service, I have an exciting bit of news that I think you should hear sooner rather than later,” she says, the expression on her face brightening.

I brace myself, taking another long swallow of bourbon for good measure. The glass is almost empty at this point, and I keep an eye out for our waitress, knowing I’m going to need a replacement—sooner rather than later.

“Your father has decided to run for Congress.”

“Federal?” I ask, nearly coughing back up the swallow I took.

“Yes,” she says proudly. “He’s planning on vying for a seat on the Senate.”

I whistle as though I’m actually impressed. “Well, he always was one to aim high. What, no appointment to the Court of Appeals?” I ask. It’s the highest court in New York, my father’s very own brass ring. “Too conservative for the current governor’s tastes?” I add, trying to keep the schadenfreude out of my voice.

It doesn’t fool my mother. “He does have a better shot at winning an election rather than an appointment. Especially focusing on areas where we live.”

“Which is most certainly not New York City,” I add, not bothering to hide my grin.

“You could at least try to show a little support,” she admonishes.

“But more importantly, make sure I behave myself, right?” I ask with more amusement than bitterness. Why on earth would I support my father after what he did?

“You’ve been around politics your whole life, Rhys. You know how this works. No stone left unturned, especially when it comes to skeletons in the closet.”

“But mine have already been aired, no?” I point out.

“Yes, but that’s a known factor. Something your father assures me we can work with. We’ve already started a sort of conversation with the girl’s parents and—”

“Really?” I ask, leaning in with sudden interest. “What did she say?”

My mother blinks in surprise. “Not her. Her parents. Obviously, we weren’t about to disrupt that poor girl’s life with—”

“That poor girl is almost the same age as me now, Mother. So you can stop babying her, for Pete’s sake.”

“Something like that doesn’t just go away because you get older.”

“Perhaps you should talk to her directly, instead of her parents. You might learn a different story.”

Her eyes narrow, trying to scrutinize that statement. “What do you mean?”

“Nothing,” I say, falling back in my seat and finishing off the rest of my bourbon. Anything I tell her will just be a repeat of defenses I’ve made in the past, all falling on deaf ears.

She asked for it.

It was her idea in the first place.

She only cried foul because she later regretted what she’d done.

Even in my own head, they seem to mimic the pleas of many a sexual predator covering his own guilty ass. Mother’s right, what’s done is done. Everyone has moved on. Apparently.

“Perhaps this might be an opportunity for you and your father to start talking again?”

“The phone works both ways, Mother.”

“You know how your father is. All it would take is—”

“A little ass-kissing? A little falling on my sword? Maybe some literal self-flagellation thrown in for good measure?”

“Don’t exaggerate things, Rhys. Frankly, both of you have blown this whole thing way out of proportion. It’s gone on long enough.”

“Honestly, Mother, I don’t miss it. It wasn’t exactly easy growing up under his thumb. At least now I’m free.”

“After being granted every privilege in life, I should point out. You were sheltered and fed and provided for, quite luxuriously, I might add. Yet, you go on and on as though your life was so difficult.”

“You’re right on that count. Dad was nothing if not a provider, shelterer, and feeder. I can’t quite recall what he did beyond that though.”

“You weren’t exactly the easiest son in the world either. I should know better than anyone.”

“And yet, you’re the only one sitting across from me right now. Does Dad even know we have these little meetings?”

“I don’t keep any secrets from your father. Which brings us back to the topic,” she begins in that delicate manner she has when she’s about to touch on a subject she’d rather not. “If you have anything to reveal, now would be the time.”

She’s looking me squarely in the eye, waiting for my response.

“There’s nothing to report, Mom,” I say as simply as I can, making sure my face is a perfect mask of neutrality. “Tell Dad I wish him luck.”

She considers me long enough to make me feel uncomfortable. If there’s anyone on Earth who can read past my bullshit, it’s my mother.

She finally gives me one slight smile, then relaxes. “That’s good to hear, Rhys.”