Caged (Mastered, #4)(80)
“Well, they each have only one kid now.”
That pulled her attention away from her dessert. She looked at Tag. “Did one of them have a child die?”
Total silence.
Tag’s gaze moved from Deacon to Molly and back to Deacon. Anger flared in his eyes. “She doesn’t know?”
Deacon remained statue still.
A bad feeling took root. “What don’t I know?”
“Jesus. What the hell is wrong with you?” Tag demanded.
“Shut your f*cking mouth, Tag.”
“What is going on?” Molly asked Deacon.
He wouldn’t even look at her.
Tag said, “Molly—”
“Leave it be.” Deacon slammed his fist on the table. “I’m f*cking warning you.”
Whatever this was, it was bad. She locked her gaze on Tag. “Tell me.”
“This should’ve come from him, not me.” Tag paused, giving Deacon a chance to jump in.
But Deacon stayed frozen in place, hands in fists, his jaw clenched, his lips firmly closed.
“Deacon had a brother. Dante. He died when he was fifteen.”
The blood drained from her face. Deacon had a brother he’d never mentioned? Why would he keep something that big from her?
“You had no right,” Deacon said in a quiet, deadly voice that made the hair on the back of her neck stand up.
“She’s your girlfriend—the first one you’ve had since—”
“Shut up!”
Molly gaped at Deacon.
Tag kept talking. “She should know this about you because it sure as f*ck changed you. It changed all of us, but we haven’t locked it away like you have.”
“It’s not locked away. It’s with me every goddamn day.”
Molly found her voice and addressed her surly, secretive boyfriend. “How old were you when he died?”
“Fifteen.”
That jarred her. If Deacon had been fifteen and Dante had been fifteen . . . Her stomach clenched. “My god. You were twins?”
“Identical twins. Now you know, so can we please f*cking drop it?” he snapped.
“Drop it? First I find out that your family is in the oil business, which I didn’t have a clue about.” Something occurred to her. “Is your family like J. R. Ewing—Texas-oil rich?”
Deacon didn’t respond.
Floored by these revelations, she addressed Tag. “I’m right, aren’t I?”
“Yes, darlin’, you are. We’ve got the Ewing family drama, too, because of it.”
“Right. So he’s heir to an oil fortune, his twin brother died, which would both explain why he doesn’t do family shit . . . What else has he kept from me?”
“Don’t answer that,” Deacon said tersely.
Then something that’d been niggling in the back of her mind solidified. “Wait. If your fathers are brothers, then why don’t you two have the same last name?”
“Bingo.” Tag looked back and forth between them. “I’d tell you to ask Deacon why he legally changed his name from Westerman to McConnell, but since he hasn’t told you f*ck-all about anything else, I doubt he’ll come clean about that either.”
She faced Deacon and whispered, “Who are you?”
“This”—Deacon stood and jabbed his finger at Tag—“is why I stay the f*ck away from you.”
“You aren’t honestly blaming him—”
“Yes, I am.” He whirled around. The panic, horror, and anger in burning in his eyes scared her. “Drop it, right now.”
“You’re an ass,” Tag snapped. “This is all on you.”
The second he turned back to rip into Tag, she snatched her purse and raced out, just as the waiter came in, buying her time to get away.
She’d made it down the stairs, out the front door, and almost to the parking garage entrance when she felt a hand on her shoulder.
Molly reacted as she’d been taught. Grabbing the forearm below the elbow, she twisted her body into his, jamming her knee up while trying to inflict damage on his arm.
Deacon easily countered her moves. “What the f*ck? Why would you attack me?”
“Instinct from self-defense classes.”
“I’m not a f*cking threat to you.”
“You’re right. Because I don’t even know you.” She tried to level her breathing. “Go back to your cousin.”
“I don’t give a shit about Tag. He never should’ve—”
“Told me something that should’ve come from you?”
His jaw tightened and his eyes went icy. “No. He shouldn’t have invited you to dinner without asking me first.”
Any sadness and shock she’d initially felt had been replaced with anger. She wanted to scream at him. But she forced herself to start down the sidewalk.
“Don’t you f*cking walk away from me.”
She stopped and spun around. “That’s all you have to say to me?”
“I won’t be guilted or goddamn browbeat into talking to you about this until I’m ready.”
“And when will that be? You could’ve shared this major life-changing, traumatic event with me when you came to Nebraska and stood by my side every damn hour of the day. I asked you how you knew so much about dealing with grief. I asked you,” she repeated, “and you told me nothing. Nothing.”