Page 2 of Wicked Games
“Define fun?” I asked wryly with a quirked brow, making her blush. I was sure she meant snorkeling and scuba diving, and I did those things, but I mostly spent my time in the arms of beautiful men.
“I don’t really want to know, do I?” Mother asked.
“No, you don’t, but I got a lot of satisfaction from your gift.”
“At least pointing out my shortcomings as a mother has wiped the sour look off your face,” she quipped. “Ryder, please don’t blow this opportunity. Especially not on a night when we celebrate the local LGBT artists. I would think you would use tonight to meet…” Her words died in her throat. “Is that Archie White? Do my eyes deceive me?”
Archie was someone I once loved back when my life was so much simpler. Two guys met during their college days, felt the spark, and acted on it without games and subterfuge. Hell, it seemed like a different lifetime. My mother had never approved of our relationship because she said we were two very different people and wouldn’t last. I’d made an ass of myself when I returned to Cincinnati eight years after our breakup to take my new position at the museum. My encounters with Sebastian had left me bitter and jaded, and I thought reconnecting with Archie, a person who had truly loved me, would help me find my way back to the person I used to be. I discovered Archie had moved on and fallen in love with someone else. I hadn’t taken it very well, and I owed both him and his boyfriend a huge apology.
“He’s here with Ollie,” I informed her. Archie’s boyfriend was an out and proud pastor who also happened to be a wickedly skilled artist. His drawing of the Roebling Bridge had created quite a stir, and I suspected it would sell for a nice sum during the auction.
“Oh, he’s taken then,” Mother said, not bothering to disguise her relief. “Ryder, you need to plaster a smile on your face and circulate amongst the artists and guests. If you’re lucky, I might have a surprise for you later.” Surprises on gala nights for me usually equaled a heist.
“Thank you, Mother, but I’ll pass.”
“Ryder, you don’t—”
I raised my hand to cut her off, and a waiter thought I was calling him over. He was fine as fuck in his black tuxedo, and he cast appraising eyes over my body. I discreetly winked, letting him know I was interested in finding a quiet corner later in the evening. After he was gone, I looked at my mother once more. Most would describe Celeste Jameson as a classically beautiful woman with her blonde hair, fair skin, light blue eyes, and dainty features. You only had to look into those blue eyes for a few seconds to discover there was no warmth inside the woman. She was my mother, and I loved her, but I didn’t like her very much. I used to adore the very air she breathed, and I wondered, not for the first time, where things had gone so wrong between us.
“You were going to introduce me to a man who you believe is worthy of sharing my life. Let me guess,” I said then took a quick sip as I pretended to ponder my next words. “He’s tall, dark, and handsome.” My words conjured up the image of Sebastian, which made my chest hurt from the pain and humiliation of his betrayal. “He’s well-connected with a big…” I let my words trail off for effect, earning a hoity glower from her. “…balance in his checkbook.”
“You’d be wrong,” my mother said in a singsong voice. “You’ve had terrible luck with brunettes, dear.” She had no idea how true her words were. “I have a particular blond in mind.” Poor soul, whomever he may be.
“Mother, leave Ryder alone. He’s only been home for two months, and you’re already trying to marry him off.”
“Iris, how good of you to—” Mother’s words died in her throat when she saw what my younger sister was wearing. “What the devil are you wearing?”
“It’s the Chanel gown you bought for me, Mother,” Iris said, turning a slow circle to show off the full effect.
“Which you’ve taken scissors to,” she said, pointing to the jagged, uneven layers of soft pink fabric ending several inches above Iris’s knees, “and paired with black fishnet stockings and biker boots.” Each word was spoken in a higher octave until I worried our mother was seconds away from rupturing an artery in her brain. God, I loved my sister. I had loved her since the moment they brought her home red-faced and squalling. She was still every bit of the hellraiser she was then, and I never wanted to see her brilliance diminished.
Iris raised her right foot, showing off the red, signature heel of Christian Louboutin. I had no idea a person could buy designer biker boots. Mother made a hissing sound of disapproval.
“Mother, why don’t you find the ladies’ room and compose yourself,” I said calmly into her ear. “Your face has turned an unnatural shade of red that matches the heels on the Louboutin boots. People are starting to stare.”
“They’re not looking at me,” Mother hissed before she spun as elegantly as she could in her floor-length formal gown made of aqua blue silk. It reminded me of the water off the coast of Fiji.
“Atta girl, Iris,” I said, clinking my champagne flute to hers.
My twenty-eight-year-old sister looped her arm through mine and smiled impishly. “Thank you.” Iris then cleared her throat and said, “‘Where have we gone wrong with our children, Edmond?’” She clutched her imaginary pearls and schooled her stunning features into the appalled expression we’d seen on Mother’s face when she said those words to our father. “I’m suffocating more and more every day in their home, Ry.”
It didn’t slip my notice that she hadn’t referred to the mansion in Indian Hill as her home; it wastheirhome. I knew exactly how she felt. Where had the warmth and laughter gone? I hardly recognized it as the same house we grew up in. Hell, for that matter, I hardly recognized my parents. Edmond and Celeste seemed like strangers to me and to each other. While I would never categorize them as Ozzy and Harriet, they had at least liked one another.
Just because I was a bitter, angry person didn’t mean my precocious sister needed to be. “I have a spare bedroom in my apartment. Move in with me, Iris. It’ll be like old times.”
“You and me versus the world?” Iris asked.
“Exactly. You have an engineering degree from Vanderbilt, so use it. Live your life for you and no one else. You also have access to your trust—”
“Don’t,” she said abruptly. “You didn’t use the money our grandparents set aside, so neither will I.”
“I haven’t used it yet because I haven’t found a suitable purpose. If it came down to being miserable with my circumstances, you better believe I’d access the funds I needed to improve my life.”
“You mean like the time you lived in squalor while licking your wounds after getting fired from a prestigious museum?”
“I wasn’t desperate enough,” I told her.
“No, you thought it was a well-deserved punishment.” I wanted to tell her she was wrong but couldn’t. “Then there was Cairo.”