Page 2 of Bombshell

Two huge fireworks soar above the others, and when they explode I can feel my breath catch, waiting for the sound to make its way to us. Crashing cymbals join in time with the thunderous boom of the explosions, and the surging triumph of the music sends a collective ahh through the crowd.

I see Ginny looking up into my brother’s eyes, her face a portrait of adoration.

“Being here with you—I feel like I’m in a dream,” Sterling says softly. We watch, his arms wrapped around me and his chin on my shoulder, the music rising and falling as the lights of the fireworks burn arcs in the sky before collapsing towards their reflections. They match the swell and crash of my heartbeat. With each, I become more aware of him. With each, I fall a little more in love until I no longer want to see the fireworks themselves—only how they are reflected in his eyes.

“Count on my family to go big,” I say, and for once I’m nearly proud of my brother. As far as I know, he has never had to plan so much as what to eat for lunch—and this definitely took a lot of planning. Of course, he might have done it just to impress people. It’s the kind of thing our father would do for a party. But I’d rather believe he did it for love. I’m proof that even a MacLaine can fall head over heels.

“I’m beginning to see what you meant when you said you wanted a big wedding,” Sterling says, an easy smile stealing across his face.

“I knew you’d come around,” I pull his chin towards me and kiss him, his stubble lighting my skin on fire.

The final crescendo is intense, the horn players discarding their stops and playing at full volume as the cymbals crash over and over again. Two final booms bring the orchestra to its final flourish, and the strings draw quickly to one last, soft run of the melody, bringing the room to silence.

By the end, my ears are ringing from the noise. I see Sterling’s mouth move but can’t make out what he says. Although his lips seem to form the word champagne before he releases me to disappear into the sea of people, all applauding with the same contented grin he wears.

“And he had a hell of a time,” says a young man a few feet away, talking as loudly to his date as only the recently deafened can. I recognize him as one of my brother’s friends from prep school.

“She couldn’t make up her mind about the colors until just a couple of weeks ago, and he had to send them to China so the fireworks would match exactly,” the man explains. His date looks rapt, like she would have his children on the spot if he promised to do something like this for her. “He hired the company who did last year’s Fourth of July fireworks over the White House to deal with it. I guess he didn’t dare upset the bridezilla with the wrong color scheme.”

So much for romance. It seems my brother bitched about having to wait on his wife, then made a phone call. I wonder how many minutes it took him to arrange this. Five? A whole ten? Not that it stopped him from bragging to his buddies. It’s just another wealthy pissing contest between billionaires. If he couldn’t use it to make himself look good, it would be a bad investment.

The deejay begins playing something much softer, and my eardrums appreciate it. When another couple of minutes pass without Sterling’s return, I search the crowd for him. The ten-foot-tall champagne fountain, lit with an artist’s care, shows no sign of him, nor does the table holding the remnants of the wedding cake.

Just then I hear something that makes my blood run cold. It’s a sound I’ve heard often at Windfall, and my ears catch it despite the noise all around me. No one else seems to have noticed, but I do. Somehow—even at a distance and through thick walls and carpet—the spite in my father’s voice carries all the way to me. Everyone at Windfall has felt his voice cut through them. It had been that way since as long as I can remember. My body’s conditioned to respond to it like a survival mechanism.

I whip around, now desperate to find Sterling.

But he’s not here.

Sterling, who is in love with me. Sterling, who is completely caught up in the romance tonight. Sterling, who wouldn’t leave me, isn’t here in the ballroom.

And my father is spitting venom.

2

Sterling

I want to give Adair a night like this.

The thought turns over in my mind, again and again. She deserves to be the center of attention, to have everyone care about what she thinks and what she wants—exactly what her family will never give her. The problem is that I can’t imagine how I’d do it. I told her earlier that I imagined a small wedding, attended only by people we care about. But what would that actually look like?

Me, her…and Francie? Who else is there? Maybe Poppy and Cyrus? In a room rented by the hour from the rec center near our place in Queens? Or maybe we could do it in Central Park, fast, so no one will be able to ask if we have a permit?

She says it doesn’t matter to her, but that’s a lie she’s telling herself. She doesn’t know what it’s like for her stomach to grumble with hunger, or to be bone tired but unable to sleep over worries about money. Her heart means well, and she loves me, which is something like a miracle, but she doesn’t know what she doesn’t know.

What I know.

I duck into the men’s room, considering what major I should declare. Economics or business? They’d help me make the most money. But something steady, like medicine or law could give us a nice life, too. It’s the only shot I have at keeping her: becoming a man who deserves her. I’m no nearer the answer when I toss a hand-drying towel in the bin by the door, and shoulder my way back into the hallway.

“I’d like to have a word,” a croaky voice says behind me.

It’s Angus MacLaine.

His wheelchair is almost baroque—trimmed with carved wood, upholstered with green velvet, and tasseled with gold thread. It’s motorized, of course, and I can’t help noticing how he sits on it, like it’s a throne, rather than in it. He twiddles the carved marble joystick that controls his chair, already turning his back to me and making his way to an office room farther down the hall.

I hate that he thinks I’ll just come along because he said so. I hate even more that I do.

I’ve always known this was inevitable. I had to meet him in private at some point. I’ve managed to avoid it purposefully mostly because I couldn’t be sure I wouldn’t haul off and hit him. Now? I’m not ready. I haven’t thought enough about how to play it. Should I be defiant? Honest about how he treats his family? Or should I be cordial, like all that matters is avoiding the worst outcome? I just don’t know. When he asks me my intentions, do I tell him the truth?