Three
ASH
Cole leans over to look at my place card, and I can smell the bourbon on his breath. He shakes his head and says, “Bummer. We’re not sitting together. How will I survive without you?”
I run my tongue along the front of my bottom teeth and try not to appear fazed by the markings on my card. “I thought it was a bit strange that my original table number was crossed out, and that my new table number appears to have been written on with a crayon.”
“Marker, actually.” My brother turns the card over a few times and then brings it up to his nose. “Cherry-scented, I think. Look, I know these sorts of functions aren’t really your thing. I know you’d much rather be home staring at yourself in the mirror. It says a lot that you’re here supporting Jacob.”
I drain my whiskey and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, regretting my decision to drive tonight. “You know damn well why this isn’t my thing.”
Cole shrugs and looks around the room. “Because there aren’t enough mirrors?”
My voice takes on an icy tone when I remind myself that my father would be pissed if I gave my brother a noogie in the middle of a fundraiser. “You know that Jacob is the only reason I’m here. Add free drinks and a tray of pigs in a blanket, and I’m golden.”
Cole wraps his hand around my forearm and searches the room like a desperate man. “They have pigs in a blanket?”
Shaking my head, I gesture to the kitchen area. “Dude tried to sell me on bacon wrapped around some green shit. He said it was the same thing. He looked offended when I told him he was an idiot.”
Cole shakes his head and stares down at the floor. “Foodies. Ruining one cocktail hour at a time.”
Taking in a long breath, I search the familiar crowd, making sure no one can see the hatred behind my Sanders smile. “I just don’t understand why Jacob or anyone else has to throw a party just to get the bitches and pricks of Baltimore to open their wallets. ‘Here’s a two thousand dollar plate. Give me two thousand and one dollars, and we’ll call you a benefactor.’”
While I’ve distanced myself from the Sanders name, Cole remains loyal to our father, doing his bidding without question—sometimes without consideration of ethics or morals.
He yawns like he’s tired of my near-constant complaints. “And you wonder why I had you moved to the singles table.”
My hand grips my glass so tight that my knuckles ache at the pressure. I turn to him slowly, hoping to slow down time. “Singles table?”
He smirks and pats me on the shoulder. “You were the one who said you were ready to settle down. You even used the word commitment without gagging.”
I growl under my breath and smack his hand off of me. “I meant that I was thinking about getting a new mattress. I just got out of a relationship with someone who should have been committed to a mental ward. That’s enough commitment for me. If I remember correctly, you were the one to set me up with her and, if memory serves, you were the one who suggested the restraining order a few weeks later.”
Talia isn’t the first slightly-deranged woman I’ve found myself running from. I’ve come to the conclusion that insanity is a recessive trait inside the DNA of women I’m attracted to. Something about me seems to activate the gene.
Cole closes his eyes, but I can tell that that jackass is fighting down the urge to smile. “Ah, Talia. Despite her aggressive tendencies, she was so sweet. Remember when she baked us that banana cream pie? I mean, sure, it was full of laxatives, but the whipped topping was incredible. I should see if her psychiatrist can get the recipe for us.”
Shivering at the memory, I run my hand up and down my arm to try to get rid of the goose bumps. “She sure looked sweet swinging that hammer at me.”
Cole shrugs. “Look. It’s been nine months since she tried to whack off your favorite body part. Nothing was permanently damaged, and you’re alive to whine about it. Win, win. Let it go and trust your pecker with someone else.” He wiggles his eyebrows, and I decide to shave his brows off the next time he passes out on my couch.
“Mayor Peterson!” Cole breaks away and introduces me to an older, round man and his younger, less curvaceous wife. Her boobs introduce themselves by rubbing against my right arm while the mayor showers us with his saliva.
I excuse myself and wipe my face with the shreds of my napkin, praying the mayor doesn’t have a saliva-bred disease. I decide to Google his health history as soon as I get back home. One can’t be too careful with politicians. Lord only knows what communicable diseases they carry.
Stealing another glance at my place card, I weave my way through the other tables, stopping every now and then to talk to the power wigs in the room.
I turn away from Paul, or Dean, or Ricky, or whatever-the-hell-his-name-is and spot my table number. Like a hawk, I zoom in on the back of a long, familiar neck and stop in my tracks when I see the empty seat next to her.
After years of self-reflection, I accept the fact that making good decisions isn’t something I’m very good at. Hence Talia and her pink-handled hammer. Although I would never admit it out loud, Cole has always been the brains of our family while I’ve been the charming one—the poster boy for the Sanders name.
Most of the time, my bad decisions can be blamed on a libido that won’t quit and the women who like that about me. But something about the writer makes me think she’s not all that impressed with me or my libido. Sucking on an ice cube, I delve into my collection of pornographic images that I’ve stored of my past partners. When I first saw her, she looked vaguely familiar. Gauging from her initial reaction, I don’t get the impression that we’ve met, but my mind is playing hide and seek with a distant image. It would be impossible to remember every single time I’ve unlocked a woman’s insanity. I have a pornographic memory, not a photographic one.
Based on her initial reaction to me, I get the sense she likes what she sees. Getting between her legs seems like it’s going to take more than my pretty face and tight ass. For the first time in a long time, I’m not sure I want an invitation.
Unlike most men, I don’t have a type. I don’t choose a girl based on her hair color or leg length. I don’t care if she’s tall or short or has hands the size of King Kong’s. But I do have a type I avoid. Namely journalists, or, as I like to call them, blood-sucking, narcissistic, power-hungry pigs. While it’s a lot to put on their business card, I’ve had enough experience with journalists to know they’re only ever after one thing: Attention. And they will destroy the lives of everyone around them to get it. No matter the man. No matter the woman. No matter that the woman is being consumed by cancer. No matter that she can barely hold her head up let alone defend her family against the constant barrage of rumors getting thrown at her family. No one is off limits to the pieces of shit that hide behind the constitutional rights they abuse.
While Calla Kennedy may be hot, I would be just another story to her—someone she can use to boost her fan base. I don’t mind when women objectify me in bed, but I do mind when people use my last name to further their own career.
I am just about to choose one of the empty seats on the other side of the table when Shawn Rethers slips into one of the chairs. While I normally wouldn’t mind sitting next to my brother’s friend, he’s been acting like a bitch lately. He’s usually calm and collected—calmly collecting compliments like some people collect rare coins—but he acted like a prick with Calla. He even acted like a prick with me when I questioned him about it after she walked away. Since his mood swings are as infantile as a tweeners, there is no way I’m sitting anywhere near him.
Looking down at my card, I try to rub off the marker to see what table number was originally assigned to me. I even hold the card up to the light to see if the number might have bled through the cherry-scented color.
Dammit.
I have two choices. Sit on someone’s lap at a different table for the entirety of dinner or grin and bear a conversation with a writer.
Rethers raises his eyebrows when I take the seat next to Calla. I ignore him and turn my attention to Calla. With her cynical eyes and adorable frown, I get the impression she’s not thrilled to be sitting next to me. For some reason, this makes me feel so much better.
Calla looks at someone behind me and her face breaks into a radiant smile. I’m so shocked by the change in her appearance that I almost forget I don’t like her.
“Jacob!”She pushes her chair back to stand, but the woman on the other side of her begins talking, leaving Calla no choice but to turn away from us.
I release my breath feeling like a kid who just got out of a lecture and stand.
“There he is. The man of the hour.” I look up and down his ill-fitted suit, hating that he didn’t take me up on the offer for a new one. “Clean up nice, man.”
Even though his rented suit jacket covers both of his full sleeve tattoos, Jacob carries himself like a man you do not want to cross. I’ve seen women and children take one look at his dark skin and fierce features and cross the street to get out of his path. His shoulders carry the weight of hundreds of people, while his heart forgives the prejudice of millions.
I met Jacob a year ago when our paths crossed at a charity basketball match. My brother begged me not to play on his team, reminding me that I’m the worst ball player in the history of the human race. My pride kept me from agreeing with him until a little boy tugged on the bottom of my T-shirt.
“Please, Mister. Please don’t play. I hear you as bad as a gummy worm trying to shoot a ball.”
It took ten minutes for the crowd to stop laughing and settle down. It took me twenty minutes to forgive my brother for paying off the seven-year-old. Thankfully, the kid made twenty dollars off of the deal, and I didn’t have to show the crowd exactly how horrible I am at any sport that involves a ball.
Jacob was one of the sponsors for the match and sat next to me for the entire two hours. In between quarters, or innings, or whatever the hell basketball uses, Jacob and I hit it off. At first, our collaboration was one of convenience. Me helping him out with his new non-profit while he helped me learn a bit about basketball. I still can’t play for shit since Jacob plays as bad as I do, but the resulting friendship is worth every hit I take to my pride every time I play basketball with my brother.
Jacob now shakes his head like an arrogant little shit, but his smile makes him look ten years younger—so does the Tootsie Roll he pops into his mouth. While some people smoke or drink when they’re nervous, Jacob prefers the chewy candy. “What’s up, Gummy? Thought you weren’t going to show. Heard you complained there weren’t enough mirrors.”
Calla makes a strange noise, sounding like she’s choking on her own tongue. When visions of mouth-to-mouth resuscitation invade my thoughts, my eyes gravitate toward her lips. Thankfully, she turns away, and I’m left staring at that blonde knot at the back of her head.
Jacob leans in. “So?”
After a seconds pause, I press my lips together into a tight line. “Is there more to that question?”
The corner of his lips tips up into a half smile. “I’d expect you to have more to say about her. You’re not exactly shy when it comes to discussing beautiful women.”
Shaking my head, I run my hand down my tie. “Woman are God’s greatest design, man. You know this. Which woman are we discussing in particular?”
“Cal.”
In spite of the dull hum of conversation around me, every other voice drops away. Time seems to move in slow motion, but connections quickly form in my mind. Holding my hand up in front of me, I feel the deep crease between my eyebrows press in against my skull.
“Calla.” Her whispered name slips out from between clenched teeth. “Are you telling me this is your Cal?”
For all of Jacob’s talents, being subtle is not one of them. His obnoxious, knowing smile paired with the quick arch of his eyebrows tells me he knows why I’m shocked to shit.
“I thought she was an eighty-year-old priest!”
Jacob rubs his chin as if confused. “No, man. They don’t let women become priests.”
I smack his shoulder. “You didn’t tell me he…she…was—” I wave at the back of her head, “—like that.”
Jacob sniffs. While some people might think he has allergies, by the way he now folds his arms, I know his quick inhale is more of a warning. “Like what, exactly?”
The truth is I never really asked Jacob too much about his best friend, Cal. I never had to. He would go on and on about him/her every chance he could. I don’t know how the hell I missed something as important as a pronoun. He said Cal was the reason he got off the streets, the reason he started his non-profit. Cal was the courage he needed to reconnect with his mother and find his way back to church. I unknowingly put his friend up on some sort of pedestal—some sort of altar. Hell, I was getting oddly jealous of their bromance, wishing I trusted someone like that.
Since I’m having a pretty good hair day, I decide not to risk an ass-whooping but mirror his stance with a hard set in my jaw. “You described her like she’s some sort of saint, and all I’m saying is I wouldn’t hold my breath for the Vatican’s call.”
No matter how proper he looks in his suit, Jacob now looks like he wants to rip my tongue out. Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out another Tootsie Roll and unrolls the paper. Shit. Two Tootsie Rolls. That’s never good.
After a few beats, his anger slips away, and he pats me on the shoulder a bit too hard. I’ll probably have to walk like Quasimodo for the rest of the night. “She’s good people, Gummy. One of the best. She’s an advice columnist for teens. Damn good at it too. She connects to people, connects to kids in ways most adults can’t. And I didn’t want you to know she’s like that cuz’ I know how that mind of yours works.”
I breathe in sharply and growl my response. “You saying I’m not good people?”
He looks down at Calla then leans in. “I’m talking about that other mind of yours. That mind cares more about the packaging than the present underneath. I don’t even want you to admire her wrapping. She’s not your type.”
Anger creeps up my spine as I step forward and reassess the whole ass-kicking thing. “You saying I’m not good enough for your Cal?”
He nods but tries to cover up his smirk. Jerk-off fails miserably. “Yes, that is exactly what I’m saying, but in case you need further clarification…You are not good enough for my Cal.” He throws his head back with an easy laugh, and I have the strangest urge to pinch his Adam’s apple.
Calla snaps her attention back to us. Her immediate cynical expression calms a bit of my anger, and I quickly shake my head with my hands out in front of me. “Don’t look at me. I said nothing.”
She picks up her folded napkin and lays it delicately across her lap. “I get the impression you have a corrupting effect on people.”
Jacob chuckles and wishes me luck, kissing Calla on the cheek with a noisy smack of his lips. “Seriously wish I could stay and watch this, but work before pleasure.”
Pulling out my chair, I smile at the woman now sitting on the other side of me. Fluttering her fake eyelashes and saggy chest, she introduces herself with an accent that screams of Italy. She’s just about to launch into a conversation when I look back to Calla.
I can’t believe this is the same person I pictured in a priest’s robe, offering me bread and wine, and forgiving me for all of my sins—even the sins I committed in a church. Thankfully, my lower brain helps take the sting away by painting a picture of Calla in a sexy nun costume. This visual paired with the fact that she’s only an advice blogger has me reconsidering the entire evening.