Page 4 of Home to Me (The Andrades 2)
Nick shrugged and turned to look down at the crowd below. He had a growing list of issues but none he wanted to discuss with her. He wasn’t about to tell her anything personal, so any reference to his brother or mother was not possible. He doubted she wanted to hear about Rena.
I wanted to be alone tonight. To some, finding solace at Club Skal might have sounded like a contradiction, but he was more comfortable there than anywhere else. Serge Boyd, the club’s owner, had even given him his own VIP section for his twenty-first birthday.
Not long ago Nick would have turned the balcony into a party that would have gone on until dawn. None of his friends wanted to grow up to be king or CEO. They were famous for being young, rich, and wild. Who wants to be first in line, when second has all the fun with none of the responsibility? For a long time he’d lived by that philosophy, but something had clicked within him when he’d been with his brothers on Isola Santos, the island of his ancestors. He’d stood there with generations of his family, many of whom had built successful financial empires or birthed football teams’ worth of new Andrades, and felt ashamed of the path he’d chosen. At the wedding reception, his uncles had spoken of family members who had passed—his own father in particular. They’d told stories of how each generation of Andrade worked hard to make sure the next was taken care of, and how proud Gio Sr. must be when he looked down on his sons.
Proud of me? I don’t think so.
I’ve done nothing with my life.
That realization had given way to another one: And I won’t if I keep drinking.
He hadn’t touched a drop of alcohol since.
The woman moved to stand in front of him and said, “I know how to cheer you up.” She leaned down, placing her hands on both of his shoulders, and hovered her lips just above his. “Remember that night at Siviti’s?”
He did, but the memory didn’t move him or his cock. He took her hands in his and stood. “It’s been a long day, Melissa. You should—”
Her face went red and she pulled her hands from his. “My name isn’t Melissa.”
Fuck.
“Like I said—long day. I came here to clear my head.”
She stood before him angrily and stared up at him, refusing to let him off the hook until he remembered her name. He tried, but the times they had spent together had always been after he’d given himself over to a substantial buzz.
If she’d ever said her name, he hadn’t heard it.
And it had never mattered until just then. I think it starts with an M . . .
“Michelle . . .”
“Megan,” the woman hissed. “My name is Megan.” She reached down, picked up her drink, and threw it at the front of his pants.
Nick jumped back, but it was too late. The vodka darkened a large circle around his crotch and spread down one leg. He grabbed a napkin from the table and wiped as much off as he could. “Why the fuck would you do that?”
Megan stood angrily in front of him. “Maybe now you’ll remember me.”
Shaking his head, Nick said coldly, “Get out.”
With a snarl, Megan said, “You used to be fun. No wonder you’re alone tonight. You’ve been a real drag lately.”
Nick merely raised one eyebrow, then looked at the stairs leading back down to the club. His meaning was clear.
Megan’s beauty diminished as her features twisted. “What a waste of time. I should have slept with Harry instead of you. At least I could have said I fucked a prince.”
After she left, Nick looked down at his pants and swore. The damp area was much darker than the rest of his pants. If she’d poured it on any other part of his body he would have walked out of the club and gone back to his hotel room to change, but photo hounds would love a picture of him looking like he pissed himself. He took out his cell phone, called downstairs, and spoke to the club owner. “Do you have a spare pair of pants down there?”
“Should I ask why?” Serge joked.
Nick wasn’t in the mood to tell Serge, but not because he thought it would surprise him. Nothing shocked Serge. He often said Nick reminded him of himself when he was younger, back before he’d created Skal. There were worse people Nick could imagine himself becoming. Serge was well known for owning a successful club that was packed every night with regulars drawn from the global Who’s Who list.
And when Nick was in town, he was one of them.
“A spilled drink. Nothing big, but I do need a change of pants or the use of your dryer downstairs.”
“I’ll send someone up for your clothes. I can’t have you in the kitchen half dressed or my staff will get nothing done.”
“Thanks.” There was a time when Nick’s popularity with women had been a badge of pride for him. None of that mattered anymore.
Before hanging up, Serge asked, “Nick, are you okay?”
“Yeah. Just wet.”
“I’m talking about you, not your pants. You haven’t been the same since you came back from that wedding. All you do is sit up there and sulk. Why not invite some of your friends by? Being alone isn’t good for you.”
“I told you I gave up drinking.”
“And how is that working out for you?”
“People are a lot more annoying when I’m sober.”
Serge chuckled. “That’s why I imbibe.”
“Apparently I’m not as much fun as I used to be. I’m surprised you haven’t rescinded my VIP status.”
“Never. You’re like a son to me, Nick. You and I, we belong here.”
A heavy feeling settled over Nick. “Do we? I don’t know anymore.”
“You know what your problem is?”
“Please, enlighten me.”
“You need to stay the hell away from your family. Stop trying to figure them out. You’ll only make yourself crazy. Do you want me to send up some girls? There are plenty downstairs who would jump at the invite.”
“Not tonight.”
“If you change your mind, call me. I don’t like to see you like this.”
“I’ll be in a much better mood when I have dry pants.”
“Okay, okay. I’ll send someone up for your clothes.”
Nick hung up, kicked off his shoes, and undid the top of his pants. The front of his shirt was damp, too, so he removed that as well. Thankfully, his boxer briefs were dry. He handed his clothing to the blushing cocktail waitress who appeared minutes later, then returned to his table with his seltzer water. He reached for it with a sigh.
Megan wasn’t the first to express discontent with him since he’d stopped drinking. His large circle of friends was shrinking fast. People he’d hung out with for more than a decade were more interested in getting on the list to the next big party than remaining in touch with him if he wasn’t going to be throwing it.
They said they were worried about him.
One phone call to anyone in that social circle could have had the balcony full of beautiful women and men who claimed to care about him. Maybe a few drinks didn’t matter one way or another. They’d take the edge off his anger—just as they had a hundred times before.
No, the cost of a night of excess would be facing himself in the mirror the next day and asking himself—once again—what he had ever done that his father would be proud of.
Why the hell do I care what a man like my father would think about anything? He was a liar and a cheat, and the biggest favor he did any of us was to die and reveal his double life.
Nick closed his eyes and thought back to his confrontation with Gio. It had gone badly, but that was nothing new for them. He didn’t care what Gio thought of him as long as he’d gotten his message. Their mother had been through enough. She’d survived the loss of her parents, the rejection of her in-laws, the death of her husband, and the realization that his infidelity had been substantial. Now she was facing her own mortality—and Gio was attacking her. It didn’t make sense, but it did need to end.
When Nick had given up drinking, he’d mistakenly imagined it would bring him close
r to his family. Instead, he was consumed with a level of anger he hadn’t felt since his father had died.
He hated that he kept going over what Gio had said. Why wouldn’t their mother let Luke look at her medical records? He didn’t want her to be ill, but he didn’t want to discover she’d fabricated her heart attack, either.
Serge was right. His family made him nuts.
He’d already failed as the good brother he’d temporarily convinced himself he could be. He was quickly proving himself to be a complete washout as a devoted son. I’m alone in my underwear in a dance club. Is this what they call rock bottom?
The temptation to call downstairs for a bottle of anything was strong, but Nick fought it and sipped his seltzer instead. He didn’t need a drink.
He needed something more distracting than a hangover.
Or someone.
He remembered the desire in Rena’s eyes even as she’d chastised him for kissing her. He could still taste her on his lips—still feel how she had arched against him, eager for more.
He left behind the unpleasantness of his day and gave himself to the fantasy of what he would do if she came to finish what their kiss had started. He’d push the prim hemline of her skirt up and slide his fingers into her while he fucked her mouth with his tongue. He wanted to watch her come again and again before finally sinking into her and taking his own pleasure.
***
