Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 77170 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77170 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
But I am a bartender—a makeshift therapist.
“What else is troubling you?” I ask.
“Does there have to be something else?” He shoots the fourth drink. “My birth mother was raped by three masked men, all of whom are now dead, so there’s no—”
I hold up a hand. “Wait, wait, wait… How do you know they’re all dead? Does that mean…”
He shakes his head. “No. I don’t know who they are. My mother told me they’re dead. At least that’s what her mother told her.”
“Hmm…”
Wendy could have had them taken care of. It’s certainly on brand for her from what I know. Or…Wendy may know who they are, which means…
Fuck. I need to keep my head on straight.
“Hmm…what?” Pat lifts his eyebrows.
“Nothing. Go ahead.”
“Right. Anyway, there’s no way for me to know for sure which one fathered me.” He closes his eyes for a moment, exhales. “Does it really matter? Genetics are genetics, right? Maybe there’s a reason I’m a bad seed. Maybe there’s a reason why I got involved with the likes of Brittany Sheraton. Why I did what I did to Diana Steel and the Pike sisters.”
I scratch an itch on my temple. “What are you talking about? How are you involved with Brittany Sheraton?”
“So Ava hasn’t told you the whole story.”
“I’m not sure Ava knows the whole story.”
“Brittany Sheraton is kind of screwed up. Plus, her dad blames the Steels for the loss of his business. It’s a long story. Talk to Brock Steel. He knows all about it.”
“I see.” I wipe the bar down with a cloth. “How about you? Tell me about your adoptive parents.”
“What the hell business is that of yours?”
I hold up a hand. “Hey, man. I’m just trying to be a friend.”
“Right.” Pat narrows his eyes. “And I’m just that gullible, Murphy. I know you’re almost engaged to Ava Steel. You’ll be a Steel before I will.”
“I don’t know about that.” Though admittedly, the idea makes me happy. “Currently you’re already a Steel.”
“Descended from the bastard half brother. I don’t even know who his mother was.”
“I don’t think anyone does.”
“And there’s no way to find out, short of finding his grave, exhuming his body, and doing a DNA test.” He sighs, rubbing his forehead. “And even then, what would it yield? Without knowing who the DNA belongs to…”
“Nothing,” I say. “It would yield nothing. You’re going to have to get used to the fact that you’ll never know.”
“Just as well. I sure as hell wish I didn’t know about my birth father.”
“You don’t want to tell me about your adoptive parents, then?”
“Why the fuck do you care, Murphy?”
“I’m a bartender. It’s what I do. I listen.”
“Right.”
“Ask any bartender, Lamone. They’ll all tell you the same thing.”
He sighs. “My birth parents were okay. They didn’t think they could have kids, so when they adopted me, it was a big deal to them. They were great parents up until the time I was about nine or ten years old.”
“What happened after that?”
“A damned miracle,” he says. “My mother got pregnant.”
I nearly drop the cloth I’m holding. “Oh?”
“So once they realized they could actually have their own biological child, they stopped caring so much about me.” He taps his fingers on the bar.
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Yeah, whatever. The problem is, the baby was…”
“What?”
He inhales, lets it out slowly. “The baby was stillborn. A little girl. They named her Patricia Rose.”
“Patricia? After they named you Pat?” Man, that’s weird.
“Yeah.” He frowns. “Except I don’t think my name is actually Pat. According to some PI, my birth certificate says Baby Boy Wingdam, which makes sense. But apparently I wasn’t adopted by Peter and Julie Lamone and named Patrick John Lamone. I was adopted by some family named Clark who named me Daniel. Which is another question I have. Why did my birth parents change their names and mine? It’s got to have something to do with this Wendy Madigan and Steel stuff.”
He’s babbling now. Too much information. “Wait, wait, wait. Back up a minute. Your baby sister was stillborn.”
“Yeah.”
“So your parents…”
“They never stopped mourning her. They didn’t give a shit about me anymore.”
Man, no wonder he’s so screwed up.
They changed his name from Daniel to Patrick. And then, when they had a baby girl, they called her Patricia.
It could mean nothing. Maybe they just like the name in its masculine and feminine form.
He shoves his glass at me.
“I’m going to have to cut you off, Lamone.”
“Really? After that sob story I just gave you?”
“Yeah.”
“Fuck you, then.” He opens his wallet, lays down a hundred-dollar bill. “Will this help you?”
Pat Lamone works over at the hotel. He rents a room at Mrs. Mayer’s house. Why the hell is he carrying around hundred-dollar bills?
I slide the bill back toward him. “Afraid not.”
“Well then, fuck you to next Sunday.” Lamone rises and then stumbles, falling to the ground.