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Chase chokes on a laugh, his fist coming up to cover his mouth.
“No.” Thomas’s disapproval isn’t as polite now.
“Tommy?”
“No.” His nostrils flare, which for some reason, amuses me. And Chase, judging by the smile on his face.
“T-Moore? The Tom-bomb?”
“No.” This said through clenched teeth.
I sigh at his inability to joke, but figure I’ve messed with him enough. I got what I wanted, anyway—Chase smiling. Heck, even Em seems amused.
“He always did insist on Thomas. Even as a child,” she says, as if apologizing for her son.
“That is my name.” Thomas bristles.
I bite my lip to keep from laughing, ’cause it’s funny seeing a grown man actually bristle.
“If you’d wanted to call me Tom or Tommy then you should’ve put Tom or Tommy on my birth certificate.”
Thomas’s attitude hasn’t changed, but at least Chase doesn’t look so tense. I grab his hand again under the table, relieved when he doesn’t re-establish his death grip.
“I don’t know, brother,” Chase drags out, his trademark smirk in place. “There’s always T-money. Has a certain ring to it.”
“Here are your drinks.” Stacey places tall glasses garnished with celery, bacon, and blue cheese-stuffed olives in front of Chase and me, then refills everyone’s water.
Chase takes a long pull on his Bloody Mary. “Damn, that’s good.”
“So good,” I say after taking my own sip. Or gulp. Okay, I’d sucked down half the spicy drink, and I’m blinking fast so my watering eyes don’t overflow.
“Best Bloody Marys in Manhattan,” Stacey says with a smile, obviously choosing to ignore the tense atmosphere around our table. “Have you had a moment to look over the menu, or would you like more time?”
“We still need a minute,” Thomas says.
With a nod, Stacey departs.
Great. If we prolong ordering anymore, this brunch is going to take forever. Not that it doesn’t already feel that way. I nibble away on my tall drink’s garnish. Between the bacon, celery, and olives, it hits most of the basic food groups and could maybe amount to brunch in a glass.
“Now, if you’ll just listen.” Thomas glares at his brother.
That quickly, the smile drops from Chase’s face.
“I’ve been trying to inform you that Moore’s—”
“Shut. Up.”
My mouth drops at the murderous glare on Chase’s face and the venom in his words.
Chase leans forward toward his brother. “You lost your right to inform me of anything having to do with Moore’s when you dropped the failing family legacy on the dining room table and washed your hands of it weeks ago. You don’t get to call me, expecting me to listen to whatever the fuck you think is important. You lost that right years ago when you couldn’t be bothered with your second-rate younger brother and you shoved your head so far up Stan’s ass you basically became his butt puppet.”
This time I’m choking on a laugh. But really, butt puppet?
“Chase, dear,” Em tries, reaching one of her hands out across the table for his.
Chase immediately sits back, hand out of reach. “No.”
Em stills. The sadness in her eyes pulls at me, but Chase must be blind to it. Or immune.
