The defensive note in his voice deepened her concern. When people started making excuses for their inebriated state...wasn’t that a sign of an addiction problem?
She cursed her stepmother for putting all these absurd ideas into her head. Her father wasn’t an alcoholic. He didn’t have a drinking problem, he hadn’t had an affair and he certainly hadn’t fixed any Warriors games to make a profit.
Right?
Her temples began to throb. God, she didn’t want to doubt her dad, the man who’d raised her alone, the man who up until a few years ago had been her closest friend.
She opened her mouth to apologize, but he cut her off before she could. “I’m sick of these accusations, you hear me?”
She blinked. “What? Dad—”
“I get enough flak from Sheila. I don’t need to hear this shit from my own daughter.”
His eyes were on fire now, his cheeks crimson with anger, and she found herself taking a step back. Tears stung her own eyes. Oh, God. For the first time in her life she was frightened of her own father.
“So I made a few bad investments. Sue me,” he growled, his champagne glass shaking along with his hands. “It doesn’t make me a criminal. Don’t you dare accuse me of that.”
She swallowed. “I wasn’t—”
“I didn’t fix those games,” he snapped. “And I don’t have a drinking problem.”
A ragged breath escaped his lips, the stale odor of alcohol burning her nostrils and betraying his last statement. He wasn’t just drunk—he was wasted. As she stood there, stunned, a tear crept down her cheek.
“Hayden...honey... I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you like that.”
She didn’t answer, just swallowed again and swiped at her face with a shaky hand.
Her father reached out and touched her shoulder. “Forgive me.”
Before she could respond, Jonas Quade approached with jovial strides, clasped his hand on Presley’s arm and said, “There you are, Pres. My son Gregory is dying to meet you. He’s the Warriors’ number-one fan.”
Her father’s dark green eyes pleaded with her, relaying the message he couldn’t voice at the moment. We’ll talk about this later.
She managed a nod, then drew in a ragged breath as Quade led her dad away.
The second the two men ambled off, she spun on her heel and hurried to the French doors leading to the patio, hoping she could keep any more tears at bay until she was out of sight.
EIGHTEEN
“I really wish you hadn’t dragged me here,” Becker groaned as he drove his shiny silver Lexus in the direction of the Gallagher Club. “My wife is pissed.”
“Come on, Mary doesn’t have a pissed bone in her body,” Brody replied, thinking of the tiny, sweet woman who’d been married to Sam for fifteen years.
“That’s what she wants you to think. Trust me, behind closed doors she’s not very nice.”
Brody laughed.
“I swear, she almost tore my head off when I told her I was going out with you tonight. It was last minute, so we couldn’t get a babysitter for Tamara. Mary had to cancel her plans.” Becker grumbled under his breath. “I’ll never hear the end of this. Thanks a lot, kid.”
Sam’s words might have evoked guilt in some men, but Brody couldn’t muster any. All day he’d been trying to come up with a way to see Hayden and make things right. Sure, he could’ve just called her, but the way things ended at the penthouse the other night left him cautious.
Luckily, Hayden had mentioned she’d be at the Gallagher Club tonight, and he’d spent the entire afternoon wondering how he could show up there without appearing desperate. The answer had come to him during a call from Becker, who’d phoned to discuss a charity event they were participating in next month.
Brody wasn’t a member of the Gallagher Club, but Becker was, and so he’d promptly ordered his best bud to brush the dust off his tuxedo.
He felt bad that Becker had been raked over the coals by his wife, but he’d make it up to him.
“Why didn’t you get Lucy to watch Tamara?” Brody asked. He’d been over to Becker’s house dozens of times, so he’d spent quite a bit of time with Becker’s two daughters. Lucy was fourteen, ten years older than her sister, Tamara, but it was obvious to Brody how much the teenager loved her baby sister.
“Lucy has a—God help me—” Becker groaned “—boyfriend. They’re at the movies tonight.”
Brody hooted. “You actually let her leave the house with the guy?”
“I had no choice. Mary said I couldn’t threaten him with a shotgun.” Becker sighed. “And speaking of threats, she said to tell you she’ll be pissed if you don’t agree to spend a week at our lake house this summer. She renovated the entire place and is dying to show it off.”
Brody usually tried to spend his summers in Michigan with his parents, but for Becker, he was willing to alter his plans. “Tell her I’ll be there. Just name the date.”
Becker suddenly slowed the car. “Oh, shit.”
A small crowd of reporters hovered in front of the gates of the Gallagher Club. A few turned their heads at the Lexus’s approach.
Rolling up the windows, Becker said, “Obviously, the vultures are following Pres.”
He suppressed a groan. “Are you surprised? Someone on the team came forward and confirmed the rumors. The press is salivating.”
Becker drove through the gate and stopped in front of the waiting valet. Lips tight, he got out of the car without a word.
The second Brody’s feet connected with the cobblestone driveway, one of the reporters shouted at them from the gate.
