20. The Revelation #3
I shiver at their words, already craving the next round, but of course, there’s a charity event going on outside, and our disappearance will be noticed if we stay away too long.
Lachlan tucks himself away, his collar still perfect. “You look beautiful like this,” he says, stroking my cheek. “Fucked and used by two men. How did I ever live without you, Stella?”
Hunter withdraws, wipes his cock with a cloth, and zips up his tux pants. He looks perfect, not a strand of dark hair out of place. But the big man had a good time. He leans in to kiss me tenderly, straightens my hair, adjusts the straps of my gown, and gives my ass a soft, proprietary slap.
“See you back at the table,” he says, and then he’s gone, just like that.
Lachlan waits until I catch my breath, then kisses me as well, soft and slow, and winks.
“You’re incredible, star girl.”
I fix my dress, find my composure, and take a few deep breaths.
Oh my god, did that just happen? But it did.
I can feel the slow, warm drip of their combined semen seeping from my asshole, and there’s nothing I can do about it because my panties were torn from me, the scrap of lace now completely useless.
At least my dress is floor-length, so no one will see.
Taking a deep breath, I walk back to the main hall, legs trembling, cheeks burning, while trying to look normal.
No one seems to notice my absence, or if they do, they don’t mention it. The speeches are still droning on, the waiters moving like wraiths through the aisles.
I slip into my seat, smooth the napkin over my lap, and pretend to listen as the head of the board blabs about “community outreach.” My father glances at me, eyes narrowing just a shade, but he says nothing. Hunter’s hand lands back on my knee under the table, like a promise.
The next course comes, and I shovel in a bite without tasting.
The speeches end within minutes, thank god, and people get up to mingle and chat, the mood in the massive room relaxing visibly. I take the opportunity to grab myself a second glass of champagne at the bar when I hear a voice behind me—warm, female, a little too loud.
“Stella, darling! There you are.”
I turn, and for a second my brain blanks.
The woman is beautiful, in the way women in movies are beautiful—cheekbones, the hair, the velvet dress clinging to curves with zero effort.
Her skin is tanned, her hair a mass of butter-yellow, and when she smiles, the lines at her eyes and mouth only make her look more alive.
I blink. “Brenda?”
She beams, swoops in, and pulls me into a hug. I smell Chanel and a faint, earthy tang—wine, maybe, or just life out west.
“Look at you!” she exclaims. “All grown up.”
I am so stunned I can’t speak. My mother—my actual, biological mother—is here, in this room, in a gown the exact shade of blood, hair down, arms toned, laughing as if she’s at a party for her own birthday.
“I thought you were in Wyoming?” I manage, the words tripping out.
She shrugs. “I was! But your father called last week, said this event was important. He’s always so dramatic, but how could I say no to a free trip?”
She points with her champagne flute, and I follow her gaze to Thomas, who’s now standing at the edge of the room, watching with the careful air of a man waiting for an explosion.
“I missed you, sweetheart,” Brenda coos, and her voice cracks, just a little. “It’s been a while.”
“It has,” I say, and suddenly I feel sixteen again, the ache of being left behind sharp as ever. Of course, it’s been years since I lived with Brenda. But still, she’s my mom, and she has a right to pursue her own dreams now that the divorce is a done deal.
We sit, and she tells me about her new life—a house on the edge of a horse ranch, a boyfriend who’s “handsome and rough, like a real life Marlboro Man,” and a job at a gallery that is “mostly an excuse to get free wine.” She talks and talks, and for a while, I almost forget everything else.
I glance over her shoulder and see Hunter and Lachlan talking together, their heads close, the rest of the world shut out.
When I look back, Brenda is scanning the crowd, and her face lights up.
“There’s someone here you need to meet!” she says. “He’s the pastor at this church—Pastor O’Toole. Do you know him? I know you don’t go to church very often.”
My blood goes cold. How does Brenda know Lachlan? I thought she lived out in Wyoming now!
She stands, and before I can stop her, she’s waving at Lachlan, beckoning him over with a little flourish. “Lachlan!” she calls, loud enough for half the room to hear. “Over here!”
Lachlan looks over, freezes, then moves toward us, a faint smile on his lips. He looks at Brenda, then at me, then back at her. There’s a beat of silence, just a little too long, and then Brenda wraps him in a hug, her head coming to his shoulder.
“You look great, little bro,” she says, and I see his eyes close, just for a second. Why is she calling him “bro”? I realize that some men refer to other men as “bros,” but it seems odd coming from my mom.
But Lachlan doesn’t look surprised.
“Thank you,” he says, but his voice is different—soft, and almost predatory. “You look good too, sis.”
Brenda steps back, hands on his arms, and then turns to me with a huge smile. “This is my younger brother, Stella. Your uncle, sort of, but it’s all very complicated. Lachlan is the best person in the world and is the perfect person to be a pastor at your church. You’re the junior pastor, right?”
I look at Lachlan, my mouth dry.
He looks back, his jaw tight, eyes unreadable.
“Yes,” he manages in a tight voice. “I started last year. I assist Pastor Pam.”
“Well, isn’t that wild?” Brenda says, delighted. “What a small world!”
I hear the words, but they don’t make sense, not at first. Then the meaning sinks in, slow and sickening.
Lachlan is my uncle. My mother’s brother, though I didn’t know it, and obviously neither did he.
I can’t breathe. I can’t even move.
The noise of the room fades, the quartet in the corner nothing but a phantom. The only sound is the clink of my champagne flute as I set it down, careful not to break it.
Hunter is watching me from across the room, and his face is perfectly blank. He likely has no idea what’s going on, but can sense danger. My father is watching too, his expression calm, like he’s been waiting for this moment all night.
I stare at the gorgeous blond man I’ve been fucking for months, and I want to scream, or run, or just disappear into the dark space under the table.
Instead, I sit there, numb, as Brenda wraps an arm around my shoulders and laughs, and the world keeps spinning, oblivious to the earthquake at this table.
The glass on the table rings with the force of my hand, but no one hears it except me.