The Pediatric AIDS foundation was having a ball. I hated it. Everyone there was trust fund, or old money, or new money that had married old names. No one really worked for a living and none of them would come within ten feet of a child with HIV or AIDS. They were there for the booze, the gowns, the food, the name dropping.
The speaker was an actress who'd grown up outside the city and had been nominated for an academy award, but was best known for her tan lines and fake blonde hair. My brother was getting properly drunk and still looked resplendent in his tuxedo, even dancing with old Mrs. Howell and keeping steady.
His hair was that dark brown that almost looks black but under direct light is red and brown and an explosion of colors. His tux had a navy and maroon vest that made him look less pale and he had his share of followers. I myself was cornered early by the event chair, Susan Hornsby and her hangers-on Marcia, Ellen, and Jane, who wanted me to pronounce her name "Ja-Nay." Freak.
I wore a floor-length Dior in lilac silk, my hair piled up in curls, the only jewelry was the amethyst earrings, short but heavy in a flower arrangement, and the heavy matching necklace. The set had been my mother's but it looked far better on me.
My mother had been a Hyde, as in Hyde Park, a section of Chicago. She was old-world Irish and had married my father, a poor steel worker. She'd descended into alcoholism and other things, taking my brother and I to Detroit to live in the ghetto rather than face her old friends, these people.
I buried her when I was seventeen and for my brother's sake I had come into this world. For his kids I made nice but I was not getting up on stage. No matter how these people begged.
At long last dinner was about to be served, the ten minute warning came, and I made my way to Andy's table. He was sitting, and he was soused, signaling for another drink. I caught the waiter's eye and shook my head, nodding to the water glass.
"Fuck you, I can drink if I want."
"Don't make an ass out of yourself. Look around the room. Someday Andy Jr. and Katie will be marrying the kids of these people. So make a good impression."
The waiter came back with water and went to poor but Andy threw his hand over the glass. "She doesn't speak for me," he slurred as water splashed off his hand. "Bring me champagne."
Our table was still mostly empty, just the Howells and us, the others desiring a fashionably late entrance. The waiter nodded. "Of course sir." He left, refusing to meet my eyes.
I stayed standing, to enjoy the greater height and authority it gave me. "Andy, fine. Just sit there, drink yourself to death, but be quiet."
"You're such a bitch."
I bit my tongue as Mrs. Howell gasped.
"Am I interrupting anything?" A man said behind me. My heart froze as my brother looked up without a spark of recognition.
I straightened and turned slowly. Sure enough, wearing a crisp tux, clean shaven, hair manicured, and looking nothing like himself, was Patrick Crilly. Or, the man pretending to be Patrick Crilly.
"What the hell are you doing here?" I asked harshly.
"I might ask you the same thing."
Well, hell. I had never expected to find anyone from that world here. My head was swimming and I couldn't think straight. Patrick looked around me to Andy with a forced smile. "Might I borrow your wife for a moment?"
What?!
Andy choked. "Wife? My god," he shuddered. "She's my sister."
The raging tightness left Patrick's shoulders but he still looked at my left hand. I bunched it into a fist as he grabbed my wrist. "Excuse us, then."
"Who are you?" Andy said, standing.
"Patrick, a friend of Aileen's from...work."
"Andrew Reilly," Andy said and shook his hand. Patrick's eyes slid to mine with triumph at learning my last name.
"I'll be right back, Andy." I let Patrick strong arm me to what would soon be the dance floor, but for now was the congregation space for the meet 'n' greet.
"Well, well, well. First and foremost, Miss Reilly, you look good enough to eat."
I blushed and stepped back. "What the hell are you doing here? This is a thousand dollar a plate benefit for people who've already donated at least five grand."
"Answered your own question."
"There is no way that little garage of your makes that much money."
"There's no way your operation does."
"That's where you're wrong. Don't lump me in with all these trust-fund babies. Everything I have I worked for."
"I know your brother by reputation. He's spoiled and pampered, and definitely a trust-fund baby."
"He's my half brother. His side is rich, mine wasn't."
He cocked his head. "I just learned more about you in one minute that I have in a whole year."
"What do you want, Crilly?"
He stroked my arm and smiled that devil's smile. "That should be obvious."
I yanked my skin from that tempting touch. "I was willing to pork the mechanic, but I don't touch old money."
"You have such a way with words, Aileen."
"I'm curt, remember?"
"I remember lots of things."
Oh, hell, my knees were going to give out. "Well, hope that gets you through the night. Goodbye, Crilly."
He grabbed my arm. "Call me Patrick."
"I don't think I'll call you at all."
He only smiled as I pulled away to my boring table.
I was complimented on my beauty, as I should have been. The women picked in my mother's family for generations had been picked like prize horses, not to fill coffers, but to provide beautiful children. Even my brother had chosen a wife who was mentally unhinged but gorgeous, a California blonde, all legs and boobs and no brains.
Dinner was good, as it should be for that much money, and as coffee and dessert was rolled out the speeches began. The major contributors were thanked with a spotlight, and Andy and I got ours and had to stand. The next contributor was one Patrick Wolfe, AKA Patrick Crilly.
"You work with him?" Andy asked.
"Why?"
"The Wolfes made their money in shipping in the south. They financed half the civil war, tried to buy into steel, and settled on Wall Street. That man is richer than Croesus, sis, way to go."
I felt ill. Every other woman in the room was preening for the young man with the mega bucks. Why the hell would a trust fund kid own a garage? Well, to be fair, if his family didn't make anything what did he have to do other than sit around and accrue interest?
Fuck. I'd been intimidated enough when he was just a mechanic, but now?
"I'd like to leave."
"No," Andy said gruffly. "We're dancing and then you're going to charm that man there, Michael Marks." He pointed to a well built man in his fifties with silver hair next to a young woman with fake red hair almost my shade. "He runs the school I want Andrew Jr in, and I'd really like to pork his wife."
"You want me to play wing man for my own brother?" Gross.
"You promised you'd be good." The threat was always there. He knew things, things that would bury me. He knew less than he could, more than he should.
"Fine then."
When people began to stand and the band started up we made our way over and Andy introduced us. The man was James Montgomery, and he was leering at my breasts. We shook hands and he led me out while his wife Jenna made googoo eyes at Andy.
I tried to make intelligent conversation but he wanted to take inventory of my breasts so I made really loose allusions to sex if Andy Jr. got into his school. He promised to have his secretary put my call through, somehow forgetting it was my brother who'd be calling.
Just when I felt ill because of the small thing poking my hip I saw Patrick behind James, tapping his shoulder. "May I cut in?"
James looked at me as if I'd argue and for a moment I wasn't sure who was worse, and then James stepped aside. The next thing I knew I was looking up at Patrick and feeling a little bewildered.
"Wolfe, hunh?"
"Don't hold it against me, Reilly. Why don't I know that name?"
"My father was poor, and he worked in steel. His parents were born in County Cavan, the name wouldn't mean much to you."
"If your brother is a half, why the same name?"
