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“Daddy!” she exclaims as she hugs him, then does the same with everyone else as various greetings ring the air.
I stand with my arms crossed, thighs spread, and watch. It’s my tough guy pose. I’m not intimated by these people. I already don’t like dear old dad for the way he’s been treating Evanee. Don’t like the mom because she lets the old man get away with it. The brother wears a sneer as he looks down his nose at me. The wife is examining me with interest and the sister’s watching the brother’s wife with the eyes of a pissed-off cat.
Greetings are made. Mr. and Mrs. Whittaker. Lyle and Brooke. Mrs. Whittaker offers me a limp handshake and a smile that could freeze hell. Evanee looks like her except my girl’s perfect and the bitch in front of me thinks her daughter’s slumming.
Mr. Whittaker shakes my hand in an iron grip trying to convey to me that he’s the head of the household and criminals like me don’t intimidate him. I let him carry on with his posturing because I know who I am. I have nothing to prove.
Neither suggests I call them by their first names. Too bad for them.
Mason attempts to emulate dad with his handshake. “Nice to meet you, Casper. Good that Evanee’s finally met aniceguy.”
His wife tickles my palm as she takes my hand, her eyes holding mine in the same way the passarounds used to look at me. Not happening sweetheart. Not now. Not ever.
Alison is introduced but doesn’t offer her hand. “Nice ink,” she says with a sour face.
I throw her a half-smirk. “The artist’s a club brother. An asshole, but talented. You want the name, I’ll pass it along.”
The hostility between sis and me flies right over Mama Brooke’s head. “Alison, you will not disfigure your body with such a disgusting practice.”
“Mom!” Evanee scolds while Alison smirks like the pot-stirring shit she is.
“No problem, babe,” I say, watching as her parents cringe. “I’m not a fan of dye jobs, but not everyone agrees with me.”
Mom gasps in outrage as she touches hair the wrong shade of red for her pale complexion. I don’t give a fuck. Fair’s fair, bitch.
“Let’s go inside,” dad says as he puts his arm around Evanee’s shoulders and guides her inside. Everyone follows, me bringing up the rear. Naturally.
I look around the big marble-floored foyer. It’s typical rich folk – got the money so spend it on shit they don’t need. “Nice place you got here, Lyle,” I say thinking the first thing we’re gonna get straight is I’m never gonna call him or his wife by anything other than their first names.
“We make do,” Lyle says carelessly. “Sometimes I think it’s too big, but when family gets together like this, I think it’s not big enough.”
Alison rolls her eyes at her father as I say, “Don’t have that problem, Lyle. One dad. No kids.” I look at Evanee who’s watching me with bemusement. “Yet,” I say with a wink.
“Is that the engagement ring?” Jennifer says, grabbing Evanee’s hand and checking it out. “It’s so cute.”
Evanee pulls her hand back. “Yes. Like yours. Adorable.”
I got the basic background about the family from Evanee, but not the dynamics. Gonna be a fun night.
We enter the room off the foyer, which is this big room with sofas and chairs, lots of pictures, even a baby grand. “Nice,” I say to Evanee, nodding.
She tries to move towards me, but her mother sidelines her. “Notice the George Rodrigue?” she asks, pointing at a painting of a blue dog. “It’s an original.”
“It’s beautiful,” Evanee says, her eyes filled with appreciation.
I don’t get it, but I file the name of the artist away for future reference. I may lack in a lot of areas, but my memory ain’t one of them.
“You a scotch man, Casper?” Lyle asks as he heads towards a bar.
“I drink it. Prefer beer.”
Mason and Jennifer are sitting side by side on a sofa that looks as hard as Hangman’s chair. Brooke has seated herself on the love seat, dragging my girl with her. “Evanee will have red wine, of course.”
Gonna be a long night if I can’t get my girl alone so I can fuck her under her father’s roof. I know it’s juvenile, but emotional maturity has never been one of my strengths.
“Just a moment,” Lyle replies as he digs around in the bar fridge. “Casper, are you a Guinness man or do prefer Stella Artois?”
I prefer something I can spell, I think, but don’t say. “Either will work, Lyle.”
