Page 38 of Arranged Devotion
I join him on the sidewalk outside the venue. The driver leaves to find a spot while Dad checks his phone one more time, still scowling. I try not to connectRussianswithBaranovbut find it difficult.
“You two are late.” The door pushes open and Luke comes out. He’s in dark slacks, a white shirt, no tie, top buttons undone, his unruly dark hair messy, his eyes glassy, probably from drinking. He shakes Dad’s hand firmly and punches me softly on the shoulder. “You holding up?”
“She’s fine,” Dad snaps, shoving his phone away. “What’s this event for, again?”
“Children’s hospital.”
Dad’s face pinches. “Nothing I hate more than children and hospitals.”
“Come on, Dad, have a heart. Imagine all those poor sick kids?”
“I’ll let the doctors deal with them.” He turns to me. “Behave yourself tonight, Regan.”
The unspoken threat dangles between us.If you don’t, I will make your life hell. I smile sweetly and clasp my hands in front of me. “Yes, Father. I look forward to meeting my future husband.”
He grumbles and stalks off, disappearing into the gallery, another suit in a sea of them.
“What’s up his ass? He seems like he’s in a shitty mood. Worse than usual.”
“I’m not sure. He mentioned something about Russians.”
Luke runs a hand through his hair. “There’s always some Russian making a problem these days.”
“You good?” I touch his arm and shift closer, trying to see if I can smell how much he’s been drinking. “Should I be worried?”
“Nah, not at all.” He beams a charming smile and pats my back. “Dad’s pissed and you’re fretting. Story of my damn life.”
“Dick.” I elbow him in the ribs. “Did you meet my fiancé yet?”
“Not yet,” he wheezes, rubbing his side. “Shit, Regan, you still hit me like we’re fucking kids.”
“Don’t forget it.” I straighten myself and smooth my dress. “Keep out of trouble tonight.”
“Shouldn’t I be saying that to you?”
“Probably.”
I wade into the party with Luke on my heels.
I’ve been to dozens of these gatherings over the years. Auctions for charity, dances for sick puppies, thousand-dollars-per-plate fundraisers for politicians that’ll fix all our problems (and be very amenable to Whelan clan business), that sort of thing. I’ve never been comfortable in these spaces, but at least they’re familiar, and immediately faces jump out at me. Colleagues of my father’s, men and women who circulate in the same social worlds.
“Oh god, is that Molly Moran?” I whisper to Luke as I grab a glass of champagne from a passing tray.
“I know, right? She looks drunker and drunker every year.”
“And so skinny.”
“They got pills for that now.” He nudges me, snickering. “There’s old man Keegan.”
“He touched my ass a while back and said I was going to make some Irish husband very happy.”
Luke’s nose wrinkles. “Shame nobody’s put a bullet in his head yet.”
“There’s still time.”
We circulate, shaking hands, saying polite hellos. I know my role after years of long practice. Simple, easy smiles, a firm shake, mindless pleasantries. Life is always good, Dad’s health is amazing, the construction business is even better than we ever dreamed. In rooms like this, there are no problems, no hints of weakness, no sniff of failure or strife. We present a united front, no matter what. Because if we don’t, Dad will know, and he will be pissed.
After about a half hour, I find myself standing in front of a massive painting in the back room. Luke’s gone, disappeared a few minutes ago to get us new drinks, but I have a feeling I won’t be seeing him again anytime soon. Instead, I’m studying a naked woman, painted in brutal strokes of greens and blues, her body supine on what looks like a garage floor, her eyes wide and bloodshot. I chew my lip, trying to decide if it’s brilliant or something a toddler would make during a temper-tantrum.
