I swigged the rest of my drink. All the booze in the world couldn’t wash away the blood on my hands.
Only justice would wipe away some of the guilt I felt—and even that would be a far cry from absolution. The memory gave way to the need to pound my frustration out on a bag. I hated the restrictions of this fucking monkey suit. I hated the polite conversations humming around me. This wasn’t my world. I didn’t want it to be my world. If it weren’t for Trey, I’d get the hell out of here right now.
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.