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“Where’s Dylan?” she asks, blinking deer-caught-in-the-headlight eyes.
“Funny, I was just asking Evie the same question,” Glenn says. He slides the table marker into his pants pocket and extends his hand. “Glenn Reynolds. Nice to meet you.”
Becky yanks her hand back, her face turning in on itself like she just stepped into something foul the cat hacked up. “Glenn Reynolds from Dallas North High School?”
He grins. “I think we did go to D North together, darling. But from the looks of tonight, we’ve come a long way since then.”
The reception’s in the ballroom and Historical Society connections or no, I’m thanking God we’re seated at a table on the outskirts because Becky’s on the opposite side of the room. Glenn doesn’t drink when he plays poker but he’s been pounding back the single malt scotch from the cocktail part of the evening to the speeches, which is where we are now.
“Have a little something to drink, sweetheart,” he says, slurring into my ear, running his hand up and down my arm. “You’re so uptight. You never seemed that uptight at the games. Did Church Boy McAlister do anything special to warm you up? I guarantee you I can do better than that loser.” He wiggles his tongue in my ear and I lean away from him and glance at my watch.
Another hour drags by and I’ve successfully made it through the dancing and the bouquet and garter toss without heaving up the salmon salad or even going to the bathroom. I just know Becky will follow me in there and demand some kind of explanation.
“Sweetheart,” Glenn says in a sing-song voice. “I didn’t pay Maze-on five thousand for just any old wedding date, you know. I want the Dylan McAlister special. I want you to pull my zipper down, take my cock in your mouth. Make me a happy man, Evelyn. Daddy Glenn is such a good tipper.”
Ugh. I push back from the table, “Excuse me,” I say, smoothing my skirt and grabbing my clutch. “I’ll be right back.” I get all the way to the edge of the ballroom before Becky’s up out of her chair, her round eyes focusing on me, looking like the suburban version of the girl in that spy movie who was dipped in gold. Jesus, how am I going to get through the rest of this evening?
I pick up my pace and exit the ballroom just in time to run right into someone else I don’t want to be seeing tonight, or ever for that matter.
Patrick McAlister glares at me and I can practically see the steam puffing out of his nostrils. “You.” He’s not dressed for a wedding. He’s wearing a polo shirt, khakis, and runners. He’s got a bit of sunburn on his face or he’s just wound up.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, my heart clattering off my ribs before it drops like a stone to my stomach. I don’t really need to ask because I already know.
“You and I need to have a little talk.” He takes me by the arm and hustles me down the hallway.
We stand outside the club’s front doors. “Of course, Becky Littlefield called me. She of all people knows what’s at stake,” he says.
“You can think whatever you want, Patrick. I hate to be a bitch about this, but you and Becky aren’t my concern. Dylan is.”
“Wow, because you getting pawed in public by creepy Glenn Reynolds just screams how much you like my brother.”
“He was not pawing me.”
He holds out his phone and pulls up the photos. There’s Glenn with his arm draped over my shoulders. There’s Glenn, rubbing his hand up and down my arm. There’s me watching the bride and groom’s first dance while Glenn downs another Scotch and stares pointedly at my boobs, his snake tongue slipping between his thin lips.
“You think the prodigal son can return with his prostitute girlfriend and all will be wonderful?”
“Not a prostitute,” I say. “Escort.”
“Huge difference, Evelyn. You think the church is going to be down with that? We’re such good Christians that we welcome the poor, the tired, the unwashed among us? I. Don’t. Think. So.”
“I don’t care what Lighthouse thinks. I care about Dylan.”
“Then you need to rethink what you’re doing. Dylan’s finally back home. He’s here to see Mom. That’s the story that will play out when people find out about Mom’s cancer surgery. The last thing in the world any of us needs right now is the story about Dylan’s girlfriend ho-ing around with some other guy, especially ho-ing around professionally for money.”
“You’re an asshole.” I blink back tears.
“I’m entitled to be an asshole, Evelyn.” He pulls out his phone. “This is my world. It’s my life, not yours. These aren’t your people. Not your flock. This isn’t your safe haven. You need to let Dylan get his life back together. Because the only thing that you are in his life right now is a big. Fucking. Liability. I’ll be CFO of Lighthouse in a few years. I’ll be shepherding its image. I can’t allow Dylan to fuck things up like the Dixie thing almost fucked it up.”
“You slept with Dixie.”
“She threw herself at me. It was a thing. It wasn’t supposed to get out. Dylan had to pull a hissy fit, leave her, and abandon the whole fucking church. The gossip nearly burned the roof off this parish. I’ll be inheriting the Lighthouse legacy, the empire. Not Dylan. That’s in writing, signed, notarized, and resting in multiple safe deposit boxes at Dad’s lawyer’s offices.”
A man pulls up in Patrick’s cherry red truck, slips the engine in idle, and walks to the passenger side, pretending he’s not paying attention.
“Dylan doesn’t want what you want,” I say, my voice hushed.
“Dylan wants money or he wouldn’t continue to play the game. Do you have any idea how much money is in Lighthouse Cathedral? Do you have any idea how much –” He stops and smacks his head with the heel of his hand. “What am I even asking? Of course you do. I will not have this church brought down by some two-bit whore who spreads her legs for a living. Jesus might have forgiven the sinners but I’m not as nice as Jesus, Evelyn. Compassion isn’t a spoke, let alone a wheel in my wheelhouse right now. Your suitcase is in the truck. Get in.”
