“Of course not, Dad. Of course not.” My tone drips with sarcasm. “So, Mom, got any new nose jobs lately?”
This sends her into another fit of giggles. I love my mom, I really do, but sometimes she’s a fucking embarrassment. Everyone in this town kisses her ass, though, because she’s loaded. Long before Dad ever swept her off her feet, she was wealthy beyond means. From the moment he took her out on their first date, he’s been proving to her family that he’s a worthy husband who isn’t reliant on their money.
So that makes us doubly rich.
But when you have a flighty mother and a career-hungry father, you’re left with an emotionally neglected kid with fucked-up genes added to it.
“Kathy, my esthetician, says she has a little brother your age. Offered to set you up,” Mom reveals. “But he’s a bartender.” She cackles. “I told her you were dating someone.”
“Wendy,” Dad mutters. “It’s inappropriate to set your son up on a date.”
“I didn’t set him up,” Mom huffs. “If I did, it’d be with that gorgeous new resort owner. What’s his name, Curtis? I can’t remember.”
“Peter Lombardi. And he’s not…”
My brow lifts, waiting for him to finish that statement.
“He’s not like Ashton,” he finally grits out.
“No one is,” I tell Dad with a wolfish grin.
“I just don’t understand why you get weird about the whole thing,” Mom says after she drains her fourth glass of wine. “It’s just two boys. Nothing wrong with that. You always wanted two sons. Maybe one day you’ll get your wish. All that hard work is paying off.”
Dad’s nostrils flare. “You’ve had enough to drink.”
“I’m gay. I sleep with men. If we don’t talk about it, it becomes a dirty little secret.” I laugh when Dad cringes at my words. “Kind of like that time Mom was getting plowed by her yoga instructor. Remember that, Mom? What was his name? Raul?”
Dad slams his fist down on the table, making all the dishes clatter and the glasses slosh. “Enough.”
“Raul was just a phase.” Mom waves her hand in the air like it’s nothing. “You got your apology.”
A black 1965 Porsche 356 SC Cabriolet.
Apparently, your Latino lover mishap can be forgiven to the tune of three hundred thirty-four thousand dollars. Mom promised to go to marriage counseling. I got dragged into therapy for shits and giggles. Dad got a fucking car.
Fun times in the Carter family.
“Am I excused?”
Dad growls. “You’re shitfaced, Ashton. No, you’re not excused. You’re going to get some coffee in you before you go anywhere.”
That would mean too many hours to sober up while under Dad’s disapproving stare.
Hard pass.
“I’ll call an Uber.”
Mom’s overly filled upper lip curls up. “Lord no, baby. Those things are filled with needles and coke dust and ejaculation.”
I snort out a laugh, earning another glare from Dad. “Where the fuck did you learn that?”
“Esther from the club. She saw a news program about it.”
Mom’s second favorite thing, only slightly behind getting wasted just to piss her husband off, is gossiping with the other Stepford wives at the country club they’re members of.
“Steven can drive you home,” Dad grumbles. “I’ll drop your car off tomorrow.”
I don’t want to hitch a ride from their driver—yes, they have a goddamn driver—because Steven has hated me ever since high school when he had to drive me around to every place my parents dictated I go, all the while I was making out with whatever guy I could con to come along with me.
I’m pretty sure Steven’s been an unwilling witness to a couple of back seat blowjobs too.
He never seemed so happy as to see me go off to college.
But riding with Steven is still the better of the two options. If I have to sit here for another minute with Dad, I’ll slit my wrists with a fucking steak knife.
“It’s been real, and it’s been fun,” I say, standing and subsequently swaying, “but it hasn’t been real fun.” I toss my key fob at Dad.
Mom starts giggling again. “Come here, rascal, and give me a kiss goodbye.”
I round the table and bend to kiss her cheek. “Until the next torture dinner, Mommy Dearest.”
She starts laughing again, much to Dad’s annoyance.
“See you around, Daddy-o.”
“Try it again sometime when you’re sober,” Dad snaps.
I give him an exaggerated thumbs-up and cheesy smile before strolling out of the restaurant. I’m wearing a stupid dinner jacket—this place won’t even let you in unless you’re wearing one—and I’m eager to strip out of it. The host at the stand, a guy close to my age and a little on the small side, blatantly checks me out. Usually, I’d take the bait, flirt in front of my dad to get a rise out of him, and then have this dude choking on my dick before poor Steven even pulled out of the parking lot.