Reckless Kiss

I don’t like secrets and I don’t like being treated like a child. More importantly, I’m frustrated I haven’t had a chance to mention my date for Saturday. It’s time King Triton and I had a sit-down.

5

Deacon

“Damn, it’s been a while since we’ve done this.” Rich grips my shoulder as he leans back on the leather barstool, a whiskey in front of him.

He’s wearing jeans and a plaid button-down, and his dark blond hair is a shaggy mess. A ball cap sits on the polished-wooden bar beside him. I’m in my usual, custom suit, but my tie is in my pocket. We’re having drinks at the Fillmore, a historic, wood-paneled pub in the heart of downtown.

“So you’re back for good?”

“For now.” I’m nursing a vodka, and my mind is miles away, wondering what Angel did today, missing her. Last night wasn’t enough. I want to see her again. “You must’ve been in the field.”

“Yeah, had to meet with a rookie BP head in Arlington. He wants me to research some land out past El Paso for them to drill. It could take a month.”

Rich’s job as a landman sends him all over the state researching mineral leases, working for the big oil guys. He’s damn good at his job and set up to make a killing, and the better he gets, the longer he’s gone.

“How does Maggie feel about that?”

He tosses back the rest of his whiskey and signals for a refill. “She’s working on her journalism career.” A hint of bitterness is in his voice.

“Give me a break.” I exhale a laugh before sipping my vodka. “You two love each other.”

Richland Wells, Maggie Cox, Lincoln Beale, and I grew up in the same exclusive, gated community, the children of too-rich parents who spent most of their time socializing.

While the three of them attended private school here, I was the lone wolf of the pack, shipped off to boarding school every fall.

After my mom died, my dad threw himself into his work, and when I was home, my family was maids and gardeners, the cooks who rotated through our kitchen.

“What about you?” Rich grins, and I shake off the dark mood trying to creep into our happy hour. “Still giving away all your time to charity cases?”

He loves giving me shit about my pro bono work. “There’s more to life than making money. Remember?”

“Because you never had to worry about it.”

“Like you did.”

He cuts his eyes, and I regret my casual jab. All our families depended on the oil industry in one way or another, but when the embargoes hit and the market flooded, Rich’s family bore the brunt. It was so long ago, I tend to forget them living in that big, empty mansion, making weekly stops at the food bank, and pretending like nothing had changed.

Poverty, like loneliness, leaves a mark, even now, when everything comes quick and easy for us.

“You shouldn’t give those people charity.” He takes another sip. “They’ll only resent you for it later.”

“Those people.” I huff before taking a hit of vodka. “What do you know about it, Ross Perot?”

“I know what I hear.”

My eyebrows quirk, but I’m not listening to his arguments against doing good. It’s the same logic that keeps any progress from being made, that keeps old grudges alive. “It’s the same as I do for my friends in Harristown.”

“They’re your people. They get it.”

“You’re too young to talk so old.”

“Why?” Blue eyes cut up to mine, and I see sincerity there. He really wants to know. “Why waste your valuable time helping people who don’t like you?”

I think about my answer. I have a clear memory of the Christmases I spent alone with only a maid to open presents with me. She said I reminded her of her son, who she lost after her divorce. Even when she smiled, her eyes were sad.

“I guess it’s for Erin.”