Caged (Mastered, #4)(134)
Both Molly and Amery groaned at Presley’s pun.
“How are things going with Deacon’s family?” Amery asked.
“They’re a bunch of rich *s, for the most part. We’re at a country club right now, and I want to stab myself in the eye with the tiny olive fork so I have an excuse to leave.”
“Try to remember you’re in love with him, not his family.”
“So noted, boss.”
Guilt prodded her. If Amery had forgone a trip with Ronin to catch up on work, then Molly should be in Denver working alongside her, not stuck in Texas, where she seemed to be of little value to anyone.
She needed to talk to Deacon right away.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
THE morning had started out with a bang, but this night was fizzling.
Immediately after they’d arrived, Deacon’s dad started dragging him off to meet people. When it seemed like he might be able to spend more than five minutes with Molly, some crisis had occurred at Hardwick Designs, so she’d disappeared with her cell phone to do her job and troubleshoot the problem.
He wasn’t sure how much time had passed since Molly had left him waiting by the door, but he was bored out of his f*cking mind. It led him to imagine how Molly must have felt, left to her own devices all day and most of tonight.
He’d make it up to her.
In trying to avoid the bar—too tempting to get liquored up—and steering clear of his dad’s intention to introduce him to everyone and their f*cking dog, he meandered down the hallway.
It’d been years since he’d stepped foot in the Barclay Country Club. Looked like the club still put up pictures of members and their accomplishments. Even club members’ grandchildren’s accomplishments were lauded.
These people needed to get a damn life.
But he couldn’t help smiling when he saw the newest photo on the wall. A picture of Warren after he’d won the annual junior division golf championship.
Deacon meandered, recognizing few faces in the pictures. He stopped when he reached the last grouping of photos and saw a picture of his granddad at a ribbon-cutting ceremony. The caption read:
Jefferson Westerman, at the official opening of the new golf-cart cleaning facility, generously donated by his sons, Bing and Clark, of JFW Development, in his name.
The picture was at least twenty years old. Strange to think his granddad had always looked that age to him.
There was an even older picture next to it, with the entire Westerman family. No caption indicating the occasion. But Deacon had a vague memory of the official family photo. Mostly of Clive bawling like a baby so the photographer had to retake the picture a million times. In the photo, he and Dante sat side by side, dressed identically. Even studying the picture now, he didn’t know which one of the blond mop-headed twins was him.
Next in line was a picture of Tag in a cap and gown. The caption listed him as class valedictorian. He snorted. Tag had always been an overachiever.
Interesting there wasn’t a picture of Clive and his accomplishments. Oh right, because he was a f*cking no-talent weasel suckling at the teat of JFW.
The last image with the Westerman name caught his eye. The caption card beneath the picture read:
The Westerman twins, Deacon and Dante, enjoying a round of golf with their grandfather, Jefferson.
Deacon went utterly still. As shocking as it was to see himself with hair, it was even more shocking to realize that he’d seen that face recently. And not in the mirror.
He raced down the hallway and froze in front of the picture of his cousin Warren.
The kid looked so much like the Westerman twins at that age, it was uncanny. A warning zipped down his spine and he scrutinized the photo more closely. It went beyond a first-cousin family resemblance—Warren had been adopted and he shouldn’t look anything like them.
But Warren didn’t look a little like them; he looked exactly like them.
Head spinning, Deacon fell back onto the bench against the wall and stared at the picture, unable to tear his gaze away from it. He’d lost his virginity at age nineteen. So even if he’d knocked that first girl up . . . Warren was fifteen—not eleven—so the math didn’t work.
But it worked for Dante.
He remembered his anger, guilt, and jealousy the night Dante had died, after he’d confessed he’d lost his virginity and he’d been having sex with some girl Deacon didn’t know.
A girl who’d gotten pregnant?
A girl who’d given the child up for adoption?
It couldn’t be coincidence that his aunt Annabelle, who’d tried for years to have a child, had adopted that baby boy.
Which meant . . . his mother had known Dante had left a child behind. But why wouldn’t she raise the child herself?
Because she’s a selfish, mean, nasty bitch. She didn’t want you. Why would she want a sniveling kid?
His stomach twisted. Did his dad know about this?
There was only one way to find out.
By the time Deacon reached the private dining room, he’d hit the boiling point. He stalked over to where his mother sat beside his father. He looked around. Didn’t look like his mother had invited her own sister and her family to the party.
Because someone like Clive or Tag, who’d known him and Dante growing up, might see the resemblance in Warren—even when Deacon himself had blocked it out.