"Bourbon is as clear as water before you seal it for aging," he remembered his father telling him, his lips somewhat slow and slurred in forming the words as he spoke. "Did you know that, Brandon? It gets its color and flavor from the smoked wood of the barrels. The longer you age it, the richer it tastes."

Brandon remembered being fifteen years old, sitting in his father's study one evening with a well-stoked fire aglow in the nearby hearth, both of them in facing leather armchairs with tumblers of bourbon in hand. Sebastian had let Brandon help him smoke a cigar, a pungent and admittedly s.h.i.tty-tasting thing, but Brandon had shared in it eagerly, pleased by his father's invitation and feeling very grown up.

"The author William Faulkner loved bourbon," Sebastian told him. He'd had several shots of bourbon by that point, and he was drowsy from it. "Did you know that? I've heard him quoted as saying, "The tools I need for my trade are paper, tobacco, food, and a little bourbon." His work The Sound and the Fury has always been a favorite of mine. Have you read it, Brandon?"

Yes, sir, Brandon wrote on a page in his notebook. Jackson made certain that he was well supplied with an endless a.s.sortment of reading fare, and particularly, literary cla.s.sics.

"Your grandfather met him once," Sebastian said. "In 1937, while Faulkner was writing screenplays in Hollywood. Presented him with a bottle of Bloodhorse and everything. You know you can't call it bourbon unless it's made here in Kentucky, don't you? Anyplace else, and it's just plain whiskey." He canted his head back, draining his tumbler dry, and Brandon remembered the play of firelight off the faceted gla.s.s, the amber-colored liquor.

"It's the limestone, you know," Sebastian told him with a wink and a smile. "All underground, everywhere. It gets into the water, makes our horses strong and our bourbon stronger."

Brandon smiled somewhat sadly, distracted at the wedding reception by these bittersweet recollections. As much as he had always been afraid of the Grandfather, he had idolized his father. To others among the Brethren, it had seemed like Sebastian spoiled or coddled Brandon, and it was true that Sebastian let Brandon get by with offenses he might have punished his other children for; that he was more likely to make time to spend with Brandon than even his eldest son, Caine. But that evening, as they had sat together drinking bourbon and sharing a cigar, Sebastian had let his thoughts slip, his mind unguarded.

"You're a good boy, Brandon," Sebastian had told him. If I had only been faster all those years ago, my mind more aware to sense the danger, you could have been so much more, he'd thought. I could have saved you from being ruined.

On the night Brandon had been attacked, his throat cut, his head bashed, Sebastian had wished for him to die. Brandon had sensed this as plainly as if Sebastian had told him aloud. Just like the Grandfather and everyone else among the Brethren, Sebastian had held no hope or expectation of Brandon's survival. What Brandon remembered as a tender and tearful vigil kept almost constantly at his bedside had in truth been his father's penance, reparations Sebastian had offered because he felt profoundly guilty for what had happened to Brandon.

Clearly, he hadn't meant for Brandon to be privy to this and hadn't even realized that Brandon had sensed these thoughts. He hadn't as much as averted his distant, distracted gaze from the fire as he'd harbored them.

Brandon had flinched as if he'd been slapped; he sat rigidly in the chair, stripped of his breath, stunned and heartbroken.

Sebastian had no idea that he'd known; when he'd turned his gaze back to his son, he had smiled with the same gentle adoration he'd always shown Brandon. "I think it's bedtime for us both," he'd said, leaning forward and slipping the tumbler from Brandon's hand, while Brandon had struggled to keep his face a stoic, unstricken mask.

Brandon watched the crowd of wedding guests suddenly turn their attention toward the main ballroom doors, where the bridal party began entering to delighted applause. His expression shifted, his mouth unfolding in a smile as he spied Lina being led across the threshold on the arm of one of the groomsmen. She was beautiful, her hair a corona of dark ringlets about her head, her cafe-au-lait-colored skin aglow as she smiled broadly, radiantly. Just the sight of her was enough to drive away the painful, poignant memories of his father and the heavy sorrow that had settled on his heart at the recollection. He watched her cut her eyes about the room, scanning the crowd, and when she saw him, her gaze settling upon him, her smile widened, leaving a warm, tremulous sensation to spread through him.

After she had been promenaded around the dance floor, and the bride and groom had officially made their entrances, Lina waded through the ballroom to reach him. Somehow, she'd come to have a flute gla.s.s of champagne in her hand. "Is your head hurting again?" she asked, her brows lifted in concern. "You're over here all by yourself."

He smiled and shook his head. No, I'm fine, he signed. I just don't know anybody except you.

She laughed and shook her head, grasping him by the arm. "Come on, then," she said, tossing her head back and downing her champagne in a single, deep gulp. Although the entire prospect of the wedding and her partic.i.p.ation in it had seemed a major source of stress for Lina, all at once, she seemed at ease to Brandon's observation. He suspected the gla.s.s of champagne had most likely not been her first. "They're about to set up the buffet for dinner. Sit with me and I'll introduce you to everybody."

He let her lead him across the room and to a formally set dinner table. Lina offered introductions all around to the other bridesmaids and Brandon smiled awkwardly under the unexpected weight of their sudden, curious gazes. As he lowered himself into a seat, politely waiting for Lina to sit first, a chorus of whispering voices-the bridesmaids' thoughts-fluttered through his mind.

One of her brother's students, one of them thought, a redheaded, slightly overweight woman who cut her gaze along his form slowly, as if eyeing a dessert tray. He recognized her dimly from one of the photographs at Lina's apartment. d.a.m.n, I could teach him a thing or two...

Mm, honey, thought another, a willowy blonde who smiled at him as she took a sip from a half-empty gla.s.s of champagne. Like the redhead, she, too, seemed familiar to him, distantly recalled from one of Lina's photographs. Wrap that up ... I'll take him to go.

Deaf and mute, Lina said, thought another, a mousy-haired young woman with heavy cheeks and round, melancholy eyes.

Such a shame. He's so handsome, too...

Brandon pressed the heel of his hand against his brow, closing his eyes for a moment. G.o.d, stop it, he thought, struggling to close his mind, to somehow control whatever portion of his telepathy had suddenly, unexpectedly stirred. Get out of my head.

"Brandon?" Lina asked, touching his shoulder.

He opened his eyes and looked at her. The voices were gone, his mind his own once again. But for how long this time? he thought. He didn't know what was triggering the episodes, much less how to prevent them.

"Are you alright?" Lina asked, and he nodded, forcing a smile for her.

The rest of the meal went without incident. The bride and groom had arranged for an expansive dinner buffet for their guests, followed by helpings of Italian cream cake and dancing. The ballroom lights dimmed to near black, and a dizzying, sparkling array of strobe lights and neons flashed above the dance floor. Brandon watched with curious interest as people abandoned their tables and began to dance, raising their hands skyward and gyrating to music he couldn't hear. The ba.s.s was loud enough to feel in the air, faint vibrations he felt through his chair, in the tabletop beneath his palm, and could see against the surfaces of ice water and coffee in cups near his place setting.

The bridesmaids and their respective dates left the table to join the growing throng on the dance floor. By now, a majority of those remaining had been drinking steadily and heavily over the course of the past several hours, and the entire ballroom had shifted toward a decidedly raucous atmosphere. Brandon glanced at Lina and found her leaning over in her chair, her leg crossed, her right foot propped against her left knee. She'd kicked of her sandals and slowly ma.s.saged her foot. He could see dark weals along the top, where the sandal straps had pressed too long and hard against her skin.

She looked up at him and smiled. "The hazards of being a woman," she remarked. She was thinking about leaving. He could sense it, and see it in the way she kept letting her gaze wander around the room, as if she was looking for someone. Jude Hannam, the man they'd met outside of the Chinese restaurant, the man in the picture she kept hidden in a frame at her apartment, was supposedly at the reception somewhere, and clearly Lina didn't want to run into him. He knew she would rather leave than risk seeing him, and this left Brandon admittedly disappointed. Aside from the freak incidents in which his telepathy seemed to swell uncontrollably, he'd actually been having fun. Neither one of them had touched much of their dinner, content to laugh and talk together in sign language, enjoying the fact that no one else at the table could tell what they were saying.

He liked being with Lina. The past two days had been wondrous for Brandon, as if he'd been able to somehow step beyond the confines of his life-who and what he was-and become someone else in her company. Somebody different, better; somebody unafraid of his future and unenc.u.mbered by the past.

She said something to him, catching him by the hand and startling him from his thoughts. He blinked at her, puzzled, her comment lost to him, and she laughed. "Dance with me," she said again, leaning forward and playfully exaggerating her p.r.o.nunciation. She kissed him when she was finished, awarding him a quick, light peck on the lips that left him wide eyed and startled all over again.

"Come on," she said, rising to her feet, tugging against his arms, and it didn't matter if she'd just suggested they go trudging barefooted against a bed of molten rock. He would have followed her willingly, gladly.

I can't dance, he signed to her as she led him onto the dance floor.

"Sure you can," she said.He shook his head, shying back a step. Lina, I can't hear the music... he began to sign.

Lina laughed. "You dance with your feet, Brandon, not your ears," she said. "It's easy, a slow song, even. All you do is step from side to side."

She drew her arms around him, her fingers settling lightly against the back of his neck, her body pressing suddenly, wondrously against him. "Put your arms around my waist," she said, looking up at him.

He did, sliding his hands around the slim margin of her waist, the satin of her dress cool and slick against his skin. He touched the small of her back, where the outward swell of her b.u.t.tocks began its shapely descent to the strong, lean lengths of her legs.

Touching her, standing so close to her, caused his body to react; he felt sudden heat stir powerfully in his groin, and all at once, his gums tingled, beginning to swell. He could smell her, perfume and lotion and lipstick and champagne; he could smell the heady scent of her blood beneath all of these.

He stepped back quickly, his eyes wide, his hands jerking away from her. I can't do this, he signed.

"Yes, you can," she said, catching his hands against her own, smiling at him.

He glanced around as she tried to step against him. People are watching, he said, feeling foolish. He could see Lina's fellow bridesmaids as they swayed and danced with their partners. They watched out of the corners of their gazes, smiling softly, with the same sort of piteous charm typically reserved for watching a toddler try to climb a steep flight of stairs. They'll laugh at me- Again, she caught his hands, staying them in mid-motion. "No," she said. "They won't."

She slipped her arms around his neck again and there was no escaping her. He closed his eyes for a moment, the fragrance of her body and blood having more powerful, immediate impact on him than any shot of bourbon or gla.s.s of champagne. Christ, she feels good, he thought.

"I'm going to tap my hand to the beat," she told him, patting her left hand against his shoulder demonstratively. "All you need to do is step with me in time to that. OK? I've taught plenty of people to dance-including Jackson. And he's a big, clumsy ox compared to you. So you can do this, alright?"

She grinned at him, her cheeks glowing with bright, champagne-infused cheer. He was helpless against her, and relaxed in her embrace, relenting. He let his hands slide around her waist again.

"Here we go," Lina said, patting his shoulder lightly. She moved to her left, and he moved with her, stepping abruptly onto her foot. She sucked in a hissing breath through her teeth and he stiffened, trying to pull away, his eyes round and sheepish. "It's alright," she said, tightening her arms around him. She smiled for him and shook her head. "Forget about it. Try again." She offered him a playful little shake. "Come on, loosen up, Brandon. You're as stiff as a board. This is supposed to be fun."

She moved again, and he stepped with her, feeling her body rock gently against him. Her hips swayed as she danced, undulating slowly from side to side, and the more they danced, the closer Brandon drew her against him. After a few long moments, she stopped marking the time against his shoulder with her hand, and he felt her fingertips dance lightly against the nape of his neck, twining in his hair. She was so close to him, when she lifted her face, her cheek brushed against his, and he could feel her breath against his throat, brushing against his ear. He was powerfully, poignantly aware of her heartbeat thrumming through the front of her gown and against his chest, and of the motion of her hips, the wondrous sensation as she moved against him, nearly grinding now, slowly deliberately.

G.o.d, I could do this for the rest of my life, he thought, drawing the sweet scent of her hair against his nose. Every day, always.

She leaned her head back and smiled as he met her gaze. "See?" she asked. "I told you..." He leaned toward her, letting the tip of his nose brush hers, her breath flutter against his lips as she spoke. "... this was fun." Brandon closed his eyes, meaning to kiss her. He felt her hands slip abruptly away from him as she stepped back, and he opened his eyes, bewildered. He watched Lina flap her arm, a quick and angry gesture, her brows furrowed, her mouth open and moving, and he realized someone had come up to them on the dance floor and caught her by the elbow, interrupting them.

Not someone, he thought, recognizing the clean-cut, handsome black man who stood before him on the dance floor. Jude Hannam.

Chapter Eleven.

"Get your hand off me, Jude," Lina snapped as she wrenched herself loose from his grasp. She'd somehow managed to avoid running into him all evening long, and had even entertained the fleeting and stupid notion that he had already left the reception.

That, on top of several gla.s.ses of champagne, had left her confidence bolstered, and was why she'd invited Brandon to the dance floor, rather than just suggesting they leave.

That, and she'd wanted to be near to Brandon again. The champagne had left her feeling bold and somewhat reckless. She'd found herself sitting at the dinner table, her mind turning again and again to his kiss outside Joe's Wok. She'd wanted him to kiss her again, touch her once more.

Because I'm falling for him, she'd thought, as he'd leaned toward her while they danced, his nose trailing lightly against hers, his mouth so tantalizingly within kissing distance of her own. G.o.d-hook, line and sinker, head over heels, and all of that other bulls.h.i.t.

And then Jude had come along-d.a.m.n him-and ruined everything by grabbing her by the arm and practically jerking her back away from Brandon's embrace.

"What is going on here?" Jude asked, stumbling slightly and blinking at her through decidedly bleary eyes.

Terrific, she thought. He's drunk. That's all I need.

"Leave me alone, Jude," she said, drawing away as he reached for her. "Tell Ashlee to take you home so you can sleep it off."

"What's with you and this guy, Lina?" Jude asked, glaring at Brandon, wobbling unsteadily on his feet. He was more than drunk; Jude was s.h.i.t-faced, to judge by the pungent whiff of liquor Lina could smell even from her proximity. His voice was loud and sharp, and other couples around them faltered in their dancing, cutting glances in their direction, curious about the disruption.

Lina stepped toward Jude, her brows narrowed as she slipped easily into her cool, composed police officer mode. "Jude," she said quietly, evenly. "You're drunk and causing a scene. Where is Ashlee? You need to go home. I'm not going to talk to you when you're like this."

"Ashlee is in the bathroom," Jude said. "Where she's been for the better part of the last hour, puking up all of the champagne she's guzzled tonight."

Lina blinked at him, somehow not surprised by this. And yet, here you are, she said, equally unsurprised. Leaving her alone and sick as a dog, while you keep on partying. He hadn't changed a bit; he was the same selfish p.r.i.c.k he'd been when he'd left her, and that didn't surprise Lina either.

Jude stepped toward her, pleading with his eyes. "Remember you told me that I only f.u.c.ked her for the novelty of it, and once that wore off, I'd be sorry? You were right, Lina. She's just... eye candy, isn't that what you said once? Something for me to show off at company functions? You were right. You were right all along and I..." He sighed, his shoulders sagging, his expression growing mournful. "Christ, I miss you, Lina. I miss us. After I saw you yesterday, all I've been thinking about was how good things were between us, and how I f.u.c.ked that all up."

Lina glanced toward Brandon and found him blinking at her, bewildered and somewhat uncertain. Brandon, do you mind? she asked, signing. Give me a minute, let me talk to him. He's drunk and upset.

He looked wounded, but nodded, relenting, and she felt terrible. He turned and walked away, shouldering his way through the crowd and leaving the dance floor.

"What's with you and that guy?" Jude asked again as Lina grabbed the sleeve of his suit blazer and dragged him toward the nearest corner. "Christ Almighty, Lina, after all the s.h.i.t you gave me about Ashlee, and here you are, practically humping some white boy on the G.o.dd.a.m.n dance floor-"

"Don't make this a color thing, Jude," she snapped, shoving her forefinger in his face. "Don't you dare make this a color thing- you of all people."

"Look, I just want to talk," he said, holding up his hands in supplication. "Let's get out of here, you and me. Forget Ashlee, and f.u.c.k that guy. Seeing you yesterday... Jesus, it tore me up inside. And today, with you here, and you look so beautiful..." He reached for her. All of a sudden, he looked pathetic and miserable to her, his eyes filled with sorrow, remorse, and something deeper, heavier-loneliness.

"Let's get out of here," he said again. "I've been thinking about all of the things I threw away with you-the chance for something like this, a wedding, a family. I want that back, Lina. Let's go somewhere and talk, just the two of us. Let's work this out."

"There's nothing to talk about, Jude," Lina said, ducking away from his hand. G.o.d, two days ago, she would have given almost anything to hear him say those words. Two days ago, she'd missed Jude so desperately, sometimes she couldn't breathe for her loneliness. But that was then, she thought. That was before Brandon. "There's nothing to work out."

"How can you say that?" he asked. "Three years, Lina-we gave each other three years."

"Yes, and you're the one who p.i.s.sed them away, not me, Jude," she said.

"I know that," he replied. "Didn't I say that? I know I f.u.c.ked up. G.o.d, Lina, please, just give me a chance to make it up to you.

I'm not saying we can pick up where we left off, but we can try to start all over again."

"No, we can't," Lina said. She turned around and walked away. "Go home, Jude. Sleep it off. You'll feel like an a.s.s about this in the morning."

She felt his hand close tightly, painfully against her arm and he jerked her around. "Let go of me, Jude," she warned, her brows furrowing, her hands closing into fists. She could have dislodged him easily, but didn't want to embarra.s.s him, or herself, by causing any more of a scene than they already had.

"Not until you talk to me," he said.

"I'm not dealing with you when you're drunk," she said, trying vainly to pull her arm away. "You want to talk? Call me when you're sober."

"Lina, G.o.dd.a.m.n it, I love you-"Jude snapped loudly, but as he reached to grab her other arm with his free hand, Brandon suddenly stepped into Lina's view, planting his hand firmly against Jude's shoulder and shoving him back. Jude stumbled more in surprise than from the force of Brandon's blow. He tripped gracelessly and crashed down onto his a.s.s against the floor.

"You son of a b.i.t.c.h...!" he said. He blinked up at Brandon for a wide-eyed, startled moment and then his face twisted angrily.

"Hey, that's my suit!" He glared furiously between Lina and Brandon. "That's my G.o.dd.a.m.n Dolce and Gabbana suit, you son of a b.i.t.c.h...!"

"Good night, Jude," Lina said, catching Brandon by the sleeve and wheeling him smartly about, marching him away. I told you to let me handle this, she signed, her motions sharp and swift.

No, you said let you talk to him, Brandon replied, his gestures equally short. And he wasn't talking. He was grabbing.

I can handle him, Lina signed. I can take care of myself. G.o.dd.a.m.n it, you of all people ought to know that, Brandon. I- "You son of a b.i.t.c.h, take off my G.o.dd.a.m.n suit!" Jude exclaimed as he grabbed Brandon roughly by the scruff of the coat and wrenched him around in a floundering semicircle to face him. His free hand was c.o.c.ked back, balled into a fist, ready to swing.

"Take it off, I-"

Brandon reacted, his fist whipping out reflexively, even as Lina cried out his name to try and stop him. He punched Jude in the face, and Jude flew backward off his feet, crashing to the ground, landing sprawled against the polished tiles of the dance floor.

The crowd fell quiet. The music continued to blare overhead, the strobe lights flashing, but everything else drew to an abrupt and eerie stillness as Jude groaned and sat up slowly, pressing his hand against his nose.

"Jude, are you alright?" Lina asked, hurrying toward him. He blinked at her dazedly, and she drew back to see blood seeping between his fingers.

"My nose," Jude said, only the words came out in a strange, pinched tone: mah node. He moved his hand momentarily, and it didn't take a genius to figure out his nose was broken. Already, it had started to swell; it looked puffy and slightly off-center, the tip of it mashed and b.l.o.o.d.y. Jude blinked at the blood on his fingertips and then toward Brandon. "He... he broke my G.o.dd.a.m.n nose." He bote mah G.o.dd.a.m.n node.

Brandon looked at Lina, stricken. I'm sorry, he signed. I'm sorry, Lina. I didn't mean...

Lina stepped back as several of the groomsmen came forward and helped Jude to his feet. They led him off the dance floor, and he moaned the entire way. "My nose...! Jesus Christ!"

Lina met Brandon's aghast gaze. I'm sorry, he signed again, and she walked toward him, taking him by the arm.

"Come on," she said. "Let's get the h.e.l.l out of here."

She waited until they were outside the reception hall waiting for a taxi before bursting into laughter. She laughed until she doubled over, whooping for breath, tears smarting in her eyes. She stumbled about, her sandals in her hand, her nylons ripped to shreds on the coa.r.s.e pavement beneath her feet, and she laughed her a.s.s off. She thought she might p.i.s.s her panties.

Brandon watched her uncertainly. Whenever he could catch her gaze long enough, he'd rub his fist in a circle against the lapel of his jacket: I'm sorry. Which would only make Lina laugh all the harder.

She knew he was upset, and she was only bewildering him, so at last, she struggled to control herself. She hiccuped for breath and dabbed at her eyes with her fingertips, trying to spare the d.a.m.nable mascara she was so unaccustomed to wearing. She stepped toward Brandon just as he moved to sign in apology again, and caught his face between her hands. She rose onto her tiptoes and pressed her fingertip against his lips. "Hush," she said. "Stop apologizing. I could kiss you right now, do you know that?"

His eyes widened slightly in surprise, the corner of his mouth lifting in a hesitant smile, but before anything more could come of the moment, their cab pulled up to the entry and honked its horn.