Speakeasy (True North #5)(29)

My whole life I’ve never invited anyone to Sunday luncheon. At first it was because I always felt the stain of being that family with a part-time father.

And then we became the family with no father. We’re the kids who ended up living in the trailer park after our dad left and we lost our little house on the outskirts of Colebury.

The night before Dad left for the last time, I lay awake in my bunkbed, listening to my parents fight. “I didn’t do nothing!” my father kept yelling. “Shipley fired my ass, and you want to make it my fault?”

“It’s four jobs in two years!” my mother shrieked. “What are we going to do?”

I knew it was bad. I lay there listening and wishing my mother would just shut up. My dad had a bad run of jobs, but she wasn’t making it easier. I knew he’d retaliate by going on a bender. He liked to disappear for weeks at a time, with god knew who, doing god knew what.

My mother put up with a lot. But the night after Shipley Dairy fired my dad, I wished she’d just shut her trap so he wouldn’t leave again.

But he did. And that time, he never came back.

That had been fifteen years ago, and we had some dark times for a while. But these days we clean up nice. Benito brought a bottle of wine to go with the roast, and Damien is teasing him because it’s a rosé.

“So what?” Benito complains. “Mom likes pink wine.”

Our mother beams at him and lifts her glass for more.

I brought a growler of beer for the table and a four-pack of Heady Topper for my sister.

“You remembered!” she’d said when I handed it to her.

“Of course. Keep it cold until you’re ready to drink it with Dave.” The beer is unpasteurized and needs to be stored cold.

She’d squirreled it away in her car before dinner so nobody could claim it. So now I’m passing around my homemade ale.

Zara and my brothers each take some and compliment the flavors. “It’s hoppy,” Benito says. “I like it.”

“It’s beer, therefore I like it,” Damien mumbles.

Otto passes the growler and says nothing.

Fuck. I need him to taste it and to be impressed. He’s the only one in my family who has the means to invest in my brewery plans.

“Here,” Zara says to me after I clean my plate. “Hold Nicole so I can finish my dinner.”

I take the squirmy toddler and push my plate out of the way so she can’t knock into anything. “Hello, beautiful,” I say to her. “Who’s your favorite uncle?”

“Ack,” Nicole says.

“That’s right, babyliscious. Ack is the man. Now—remind me. What’s his name?” I point at Benito.

“Bimbo,” she says.

Everyone laughs. God, I love this kid. “Don’t ever change, Nicole.”

Benito rolls his eyes. He doesn’t really mind that his favorite one-year-old has shortened “Benito” to “Bimbo.” But the rest of us will never let him live it down.

Let’s face it, I’m the bimbo in the room. I can’t stop thinking about the wild sex I had Monday night with May Shipley.

But when I’d dropped her off at her car, she’d begged me not to tell anyone.

“I won’t say a word,” I’d promised her that night. “It’s between you and me and the steering wheel.” Then I’d leaned over and given her a nice, slow kiss—one that had me thinking I should invite her upstairs.

But May nipped that idea in the bud by giving me an embarrassed wave and jumping out of my truck without another word.

So here I sit at the family table, thinking about her anyway. Maybe I’m obsessed because the whole thing was so unexpected—so spontaneous and wild. When I agreed to accompany her that night, I didn’t have any expectations. She needed a friend at her side, and I was willing to be that guy.

Two hours later she was grinding on my dick, moaning in my mouth, desperate for release. And I’m the guy who gave it to her.

Mmm. Now I feel all sexed up in the wrong company. While Nicole plays with my phone on the floor beside my chair, I’m supposed to sit here and listen to William Otello Rossi—Uncle Otto to most of us, except for Zara who calls him “Bill” just to be a bitch—treats us as his inferiors.

It’s a blast.

“Otto.” I push my luck, because I can’t help myself. “Try the beer. It’s a winter ale with a little spice to it.” I sip my own glass and sigh, because my beer is excellent.

“It is tasty,” Benito agrees. “But why do I get the home brew when Zara gets the fancy shit?”

“Because I did him a favor this week,” Zara says.

“And my home brew is fantastic,” I add. “You should be so lucky. Otto—taste it.”

My uncle gives me a long stare. “I’m sure it’s good beer,” he says.

“Then have some.” I grab an extra glass I got out of the kitchen for exactly this purpose. And I pour him a little taste of it. The man already poured himself a glass of wine, but I need to wow him with my winter ale.

Otto swirls the beer around in the glass and checks the color, as if he’s a Paris sommelier. Then he tastes.

I wait for the praise, because this beer is seriously good.

“Not bad,” he says, setting the empty glass down.