Chapter 12 Bitter Wine
Chapter twelve
Bitter Wine
Jace Irons trailed into the presidential dining hall behind the rest of the family—as usual. Dad slapped a hand on Colt’s shoulder. “That’s my son,” he boomed. “Tonight, we celebrate!”
Jace narrowed his eyes, a frown carved deep into a face covered in stubble, a face accustomed to being overlooked.
It didn’t matter what Colt might have done or said—he’d still have gotten a pat on the back.
He was the golden boy, with his golden-blond hair and muscular build, being the firstborn and heir apparent.
So what if he just got promoted to captain in the Iron Forces?
Any fool could march around in uniform. Dad hadn’t been a military man.
It’s not like Colt had followed in his footsteps.
“Come in and take your seats,” invited a sharply dressed host with a gracious bow.
The elegant dining hall, large enough to cram in half of Dominion, was decked out for Founding Day, with black and red streamers, banners, and bows, some yellow thrown in for contrast. A gentleman gave Mom a bouquet of spring flowers, accented with green fronds.
“Thank you,” Amaretta replied sweetly, taking them with a bashful smile.
His mother’s eyes twinkled as she inhaled the bouquet, and, for a moment, Jace forgot about Colt. They were here to celebrate. His brother shouldn’t take that away from him too.
“Here, Mom. I’ll put those in a vase of water and set them on the table.” Jace squeezed past the vice president and his wife, appearing instantly at his mother’s side.
“Thank you, firecracker.” She beamed, passing him the flowers.
Why’d Colt get Mom’s blue eyes instead of me? There was nothing wrong with Jace’s honey-brown eyes. Many a young woman had complimented them as his best feature. It was just that Colt got everything—everything Jace wanted, anyway.
By the time Jace placed a crystal vase erupting with fresh flowers on the table, everyone else had taken their seats, and he was stuck with scraps—a chair between Tabitha, Vice President Reagan’s daughter, and fat cousin Andrew Irons.
Nobody mentioned cousin Mateo Barrera anymore.
He’d vanished after mocking one of Luther Irons’ decisions.
Probably ran off to Tucson, where all the troublemakers end up.
“That’s perfect.”
At least Mom notices me. With a nod and a grin, Jace plopped into the vacant seat. “Well, ain’t you pretty as a picture this evenin’, Tabitha?” Dimples formed as bookends to his smile as he poured on the charm.
“Thank you kindly, Jace. As I recall, you played a mighty fine game the other night—scored two solo goals and assisted with another. Impressive.”
Jace let the heat fill his cheeks, soaking up her attention like a sponge. “It was just the Jacksboro Wildcats,” he answered modestly. “No point gettin’ outta bed if we can’t beat them.”
He lifted his wineglass and downed half of it.
“This evening’s entrée begins with a robust onion soup, served with corn tortillas and prickly pear fruit, followed by herb and butter-braised emu with mashed yucca root and—”
“Beef!”
The host paused, peering at Luther in trembling fear. “I beg your pardon, Mr. President?”
“I’m not eatin’ any goddamn emu,” he bellowed. “This is a special occasion, and I want a steak—a real steak, not some glorified chicken.”
“But sweetheart.” Mom turned to him, laying a delicate, bejeweled hand on his sleeve. “Emu ranching is one of the Republic’s most thriving industries. You helped develop it yourself—championed it, even. Don’t you think this is exactly the right occasion for emu?”
His expression morphed into a dangerous snarl, and he yanked his arm away. “Randall?” Luther turned to the vice president. “Wouldn’t you rather a juicy beefsteak than some dry, flightless bird?”
For some strange reason, Vice President Reagan looked startled, like a deer you surprise on a hunt. What a dweeb! The only reason Dad keeps him around is because his name still carries weight with the voters.
“Well, now, if beef’s available, of course I’d rather—”
“Bram?” Dad shifted to Colonel Bram Vexler, head of the secret police force. With a completely bald head and constantly dressed in black leather, the scarred man was the kind you wouldn’t want to run into in a dark alley.
“Nothing beats a perfectly grilled steak, Mr. President.” His voice oozed like a frog-infested mudhole. Didn’t matter. Vexler was on our side.
Luther’s demanding ire softened to playful humor as he swung a hand onto Colt’s shoulder—conveniently sitting to Dad’s right. Whatever.
“What about you, son? What should we eat to celebrate your promotion and the founding of our great nation?”
Colt’s response was thick honey, dripping slowly from a wooden drizzler. He shrugged, assuming a bashful look. “You know I don’t care what we eat. It’s good company that matters, and you all are family—the best.”
Jace drained his glass and tapped the stem on the table. “I say if Luther Irons wants steak, Luther Irons should get steak. Does anyone disagree?”
The host had turned as white as the bleached tablecloth running down the center of the long oak piece.
Jace found it comical and lifted his empty glass, signifying he wished it refilled.
The wine server, a pretty young woman in a white apron, her red hair twisted and pinned on her head, scurried over with an open bottle.
Jace eyed her invitingly. “Thanks, kitten. Got plans later?”
Her eyes rounded, and her cheeks flushed. “Really, Mr. Irons. I’m just a servant.”
“So? Still a woman, ain’t ya?” He winked and grinned to let her know he was teasing, and she was under no obligation—though he wouldn’t object if she agreed to his proposal.
“I suppose I can rustle up some steaks,” the host said, forcing a nervous smile. “But it will take a little longer.”
“Go on, then,” Luther ordered with a laugh. “Bring the soup and the other crap so we don’t starve. Then I want perfectly grilled steaks—got it?”
“Yes, sir. Right away, sir.” The quivering man practically flew out of the dining hall. Jace laughed.
“What’s funny?” asked Cousin Andrew.
Jace wrinkled his nose. Was that smell coming from Andrew? How could they be related?
“Rust it all, Andrew,” Jace swore quietly. “Have you no sense of humor?”
“Now, Colt, show everyone your new captain’s bars,” Dad instructed, pride resonating in his voice.
It wasn’t fair. There sat Colt, with his pretty wife, Harmony, and their adorable baby girl, Chloe.
How was Jace supposed to compete with a cute baby, for ruin’s sake?
Did Dad announce Jace’s soccer goals or their big win? No.
Jace brooded. He drank. He flirted with Tabitha and the waitress. Who knew? He could get lucky. After ten minutes of boring chatter, Jace had had enough.
“Hey, Dad, did you get the report about Redline Munitions’ projections?” He lifted hopeful eyes to Irons, who sat three meters away at the head of the table, dipping a tortilla into his soup. The president glanced up at him for the first time, as if only now recognizing Jace was present.
Jace might not be as strong and heroic as his big brother—didn’t want to copy him anyway—but he followed his father’s humble beginnings by forging his own career path in industry.
He started at the plant before Luther was elected president, and now, at only twenty-six, he had risen to a management position.
Between that and his sports competitions, Dad should take notice.
“Director Ren handles all that,” Luther answered, biting into his sopped flatbread.
Jace continued, undeterred. “We got a new shipment of sulfur in from old Fort Stockton in the southwest desert. Add that to the saltpeter and charcoal the factories here in Dominion have been turning out, and soon the Republic will have more bullets and dynamite than all the other kingdoms put together. Colt and the army can’t do much without our ammunition, huh, Dad? ”
“Yes, yes,” he answered patronizingly. “You’re doing well too. Your little factory makes a huge contribution to the Iron Forces. Hey,” he added, turning his enthusiasm up a notch from nil to one. “Someone’s keeping tally of how many rounds you’re producing, right?”
“I think so,” Jace answered hesitantly. Counting wasn’t his department.
“When you get to a million, we’ll have a big to-do. A fair, with a pie contest and games for the kiddies. We’ll fly banners and sell raffle tickets. One lucky winner gets the millionth bullet—that sort of thing. What do you think?”
Luther Irons glanced around the table, expecting full cooperation.
He got it. Everyone echoed what a brilliant idea it was, and the discussion devolved into planning a site for the event.
Jace splashed his spoon into an empty soup bowl and swigged more wine.
Glanced at Colt. His brother didn’t seem to be engaged in the discussion.
Instead, he beamed at his pretty wife, bouncing a laughing baby on his knee.
Maybe it’s not his fault. Everything just comes so easy for him, like he was born under a lucky star or some such New Religion crap. You wait, Golden Boy. My time’s comin’.