“Aberlour,” Oliver said, and it wasn’t anger, not really. It was—hell, what was it? Aberlour knew it. He was familiar with this sigh, the tilt of Oliver’s head, the resigned look and dropping of his shoulders.
Disappointment. That was it. He knew he’d get it eventually. It was always what he got in the end.
“What are you boys conspiring about?”
A high-pitched voice with a strong southern accent called out from behind them, making Aberlour flinch. Cunt McQueen draped herself over Oliver’s shoulders. She hung from his neck, her perfectly manicured nails an inch from Oli’s throat.
Made up like some department store doll, she projected the very image of a perfect American housewife. Aberlour could see why Oliver had chosen her. She was photoshoot ready. Perfectly done, hair commercial curls, minimal but artfully done make-up. Big blue eyes, dazzling smile, and the personality of a carrot. What else could a man possibly want?
“Abby, you remember Aberlour of course,” he said, clearing his throat. Suddenly, he adopted a remarkably different look. He straightened his shoulders and his smile became forced. Just like a Ken doll in every respect: plastic look, plastic smile, plastic posture.
“Of course! How are you, Gavin? Oliver’s so glad you came! He didn’t think you would, but I insisted he send youan invite,” she said, her tone friendly and melodious. She took professional, phony bitchiness to a whole new level.
Gavin. Nobody called him Gavin. He’d punched the teeth out of people for far less than that. He was tempted to do the same now. He wondered how Abby would look with all of her front teeth missing. That helped ease the killing instinct just a smidge.
Gavin. The fucking nerve of her. She was so fucking arrogant. He’d been Abe before—well, before Princess McFuckface had come around.Abby, Abe, they just sound so similar, she’d whined that night at the bar where he’d had the misfortune to meet her that first time. Ever since, Oliver had called him nothing else but Gav, Gavin, or Aberlour.
Fucking Gavin. Fucking Oliver. Fucking bitch.
“Thanks,” he muttered, just to have something to say because he couldn’t remember what she’d said.
It might have been the wrong answer because she seemed confused for a minute, looking back at Oliver like he might translate that for her. Oliver didn’t comment.
“We’re going to go sit down for dinner soon. I sat you with some of Oli’s friends from high school, I hope that’s okay. I tried to get you next to some of Oliver’s ex-teammates, but none of them RSVP’d, so—”
“Abby—” Oliver warned. She was well trained, the bitch. Turning to look at Oliver, she projected carefully crafted confusion.
“Hard to RSVP from the grave, sweetheart,” Aberlour advised with a sneer, then chugged the rest of his beer while fighting the urge to knock her ass to floor.
“Oh—right—” she started to say, but Oliver didn’t let her finish. He gave her a small smile and a quick shake of his head, as if censuring a child who’d committed a minor mistake. Likeshe hadn’t attended their fucking funerals. She couldn’t be that fucking clueless. Could she? Heartless bitch.
“I’ll be off,” Aberlour said, slamming the empty bottle down on the bar. “Congrats again, best of luck to you both,” he said, politely but emotionlessly. He clamped down hard on saying another fucking word. His sense of self-preservation kicked in, screaming at him that his heart and mind had to be protected from any further attacks, or he’d kill someone.
Abby stared at him without any signs of remorse or comprehension. Maybe she was the village fucking idiot after all.
“But what about dinner?” she asked in that sorority-girl whine, just as Aberlour turned and left.
He had no more words. Not for her, not for anyone. He needed another drink. A stiffer one. The kind of drink that just keeps on coming until it drowns out everything else. Beer sure as hell didn’t count.
He pushed through the front door and searched for his old truck, surrounded by BMW’s and Mercedes Benz’s, along with the occasional Jaguar, making it easy to spot.
It was cold and wet. Streetlights shone down on the rain-soaked pavement. His rapid heartbeat reminded him too much of being on the battlefield again, which was too damned close to exactly how he felt just now.
“Gavin!”
Oliver. Fucking Oliver. Never knowing when to let Aberlour walk away. His voice was unmistakeable as he chased him down.
“Gavin!”
Aberlour determinedly refused to turn around for Oliver. He’d done so too many times and look where it had gotten him. No-fucking-where. He’d learned a hard and painful lesson and was smarter now.
“Abe!”
Like a fucking weak-assed bitch, he turned around anyway. Guess Oliver was really good at training his bitches.
“Go back inside, Oli. Hard to have an engagement toast without the groom-to-be,” Aberlour growled angrily.
The moon was obscured by heavy cloud cover, and in the dimly lit parking lot, Oliver looked more like the man Aberlour had fallen for than the Ken Doll about to get hitched. It would have been so easy to pretend he’d forgotten all this engagement and wedding bullshit. So easy to reach out to Oli. To accept—whatever it was that he would offer just so Aberlour didn’t have to be sofuckingalone anymore.
