I get the bartender's attention and order another round. "I have to tell you, it feels pretty good coming clean. I don't think lying is for me."
"I'm sure there are some lies you're planning on keeping." Duke's in control of himself now, his voice smooth and practiced. "Can't lay all your shit bare."
He props his forearms on the bar top, not looking at me. Millions of dollars, and the fucker looks like he could grace a magazine cover for women to drool over, but he's so threatenedby me he's trying to dictate what I do. The lies I tell, the truths I uncover.
"You know, Duke, it's looking like I might. And that scares you, right?" He is ramrod straight, nothing moving, save for a tic in a muscle near his jaw. "The question is, why?"
He says nothing.
"Why, oh why?" I wax poetic, ready to break into iambic pentameter. Did pissing off Duke just become my favorite pastime? Possibly.
"You could let her out of your agreement," I murmur, discreet.
He flinches. Finally, a break in that stone cold veneer. "That's right, bud. She told me."
He bends his head, turning it my way so I can see his lips when he says under his breath, "You're the dalliance."
"I can honestly say, that's something I've never been called."
"Your fucking one-liners are obnoxious."
"That's a matter of opinion."
"She talked to me recently, wanting to know how we were going to address"—he gives an uncomfortable cough—"our personal needs. I told her we could have adalliance," his eyes meet mine pointedly, likenow are you understanding?.
I already knew what he meant, but the explanation of it blows my mind. Is this what mega-wealthy people do? Make marriage a means to an end? And consider sex adalliance,a task completed?
"Gives new meaning toget in, get off, get out."
I wait for him to take the bait, to give me more shit for my one-liner, but he ignores it. "I'm guessing Daisy has chosen you?"
Is this smooth faced fucker actually asking me this question? I swipe a hand down my face. I can't decide if this conversation is real, or if it's the worst dream I've ever had. But here's what Iknow for damn sure: I won't be talking about Daisy in this way. Anything Daisy and I do in the future, or have already done, is not up for discussion with anybody else.
I'm about to tell him just that, but he opens his mouth and says, "It might be hard for you to believe, but I genuinely care about Daisy. If it were only about me, or Daisy, I would back out. But this isn't just about us."
The bartender sets down two of our five beers. I grab one and chug half. "Mrs. St. James."
He nods.
"I don't know her nearly as well as you, but something tells me she wouldn't want her daughter marrying somebody she doesn't love."
Duke takes the other beer, drinking deeply like me. "She most definitely would not. But who's going to be the one to tell her? You? You're going to drive onto the St. James farm in that big, loud truck? Dog trotting by your side? You're gonna tell them that even though you've been passing yourself off as Peter Bravo, you're really Penn Bellamy and now you're all grown up and here for their daughter?"
"Fuck you," I say under my breath, but his words hit where he intends them. He's not wrong, and he knows it. Who am I to show up at the St. James house and tell them I'm back? What is it I bring to the table?
The bartender delivers the remaining three beers, and Duke offers his credit card to keep the tab open. When the bartender turns away, Duke says, "You should have stayed Peter."
I tap the bottom of my glass against the bottom of his. "You should do a better job hiding how much I intimidate you."
I spend the next ninety minutes getting to know Elijah and Chris. Duke retreats into himself, becoming a sullen motherfucker, and when he excuses himself to go to thebathroom, he returns with two shots of whiskey, both of which he takes.
"Is this your fault?" Hugo asks quietly when Elijah and Chris are in conversation about the financial markets. His gaze slices over to Duke, who sits between Elijah and Chris in the booth, in the middle of their conversation, but not taking part in it.
"You mean the petulant millionaire pouting in the corner?"
"Yep." Hugo stands, motioning me up with a lift of his chin. "We're grabbing refills," he announces to the table.
When our backs are turned, I say, "If anything, I'm the one who should be sad-eyeing my beer. He said some mean shit to me while we were getting drinks."
