Page 81 of Down and Dirty

Zach was not a happy camper.

It was Friday night, but was he out on a hot date, or at least out trolling for a hot date? Nope. He was sitting in an Italian restaurant in San Diego with his son, the sulker; his father, the celebrity show-off; his father’s girlfriend, Bridget, the dumb twit; and enough security guards to give the leader of a small nation heartburn.

“Yoo-hoo, Dr. Bratton!” a woman three tables over called out.

Bridget giggled — for about the hundredth time — and squirmed in her seat, which was a feat in itself, considering how tight her red silk slip dress was with the deep scooped neck.

His father flashed his twenty-thousand-dollar smile and gave a little Hollywood wave to his fan at the other table.

Meanwhile, Zach’s security squad, along with his dad’s, circled the wagons — uh, tables — a little tighter. What a great way to have a nice quiet dinner with family! Not!

People thought his dad really was the doctor from the soap Light in the Storm, a part he’d been playing for fifteen years. Hell, he probably considered himself that toney doctor from some daytime dynasty. He certainly dressed the part. Tweed sport coat with leather elbow patches. A sissy white scarf wrapped casually around his neck; he’d probably seen Cary Grant wear one. A hairstyle with just the right sprinkling of gray at the temples; it had probably cost five hundred dollars or more. And a George Hamilton suntan, of course.

A woman had tried to kidnap his father five years ago, believing Dr. Bratton could cure her husband of Alzheimer’s. Thus, his father always traveled with some well-dressed grunts who looked like they were straight out of The Godfather, whereas Zach’s security detail resembled special forces guys, which they probably had been at one time. His father employed his guards for show as much as safety. He’d certainly gotten a pig load of publicity over the kidnapping episode.

Meanwhile, his dad was talking to Bridget about an upcoming story line where he would be doing a liver transplant on his wife, who had been in a coma for five years after having been cloned into her own twin sister.

Bridget giggled.

His father smiled.

Sammy slouched and muttered something about assholes. Zach wasn’t exactly sure who he was referring to and wasn’t about to ask. Just then, he noticed that Sammy was wearing as much spaghetti sauce as he’d left on his plate. Dipping a napkin in a glass of water, he proceeded to put Sammy in a neck hold and wipe his mouth and nose and chin. With all the squirming, the napkin slipped from his hands and floated to the floor.

Bridget bent down to pick it up, and he and his son — five going on twenty-five — got a gander at a set of world-class hooters. She gave new meaning to cleavage.

“Behave yourself,” he whispered to Sammy, who he could tell was about to say something inappropriate.

“Did ya see that?” Sammy whispered loud enough for everyone within five yards of the table to hear. “Her nipples’re big as marbles. Uncle Dan sez big nipples, easy pickin’s.”

Zach rolled his eyes and clapped a hand over the kid’s mouth.

Lips twitched on a couple of the guards.

Luckily, Bridget was talking to his dad and didn’t hear Sammy’s remark.

“Uncle Dan said he would bring me a new video game,” Sammy whined to him.

“I know he did, but he was held up. He might not be able to come at all this weekend.”

Sammy’s eyes teared up. The least little disappointment seemed to set him off these days. He was getting spoiled, but it was hard not to spoil a kid who, until recently, had nothing.

“I can get you a video game,” he offered. “We can stop on the way home.”

Sammy’s blue eyes, which matched Zach’s own, lit up. No more sulks. “No Dora the Explorer.”

“Okay. But no blood and guts either.”

“Oh, I forgot. I got a little present for you, Sammy,” Bridget said, laying a square box on the table.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Zach said.

“I wanted to, but, really, I just happened to see them in one of those Rodeo Drive boutiques, and they screamed Sammy to me.”

Sammy was giving the box the evil eye. From a kid point of view, a square, flat box usually meant clothing.

Opening the box hesitantly… as if a snake might pop out — or clothing — he removed the tissue. Then Zach and Sammy stared incredulously at the tiny briefs with Hotshot printed on the butt and flames all over the black background.

“How come everyone always gives me underpants? Do I smell?” Sammy asked Zach.