Having a family was a part of a bigger plan. A vision. I wanted to build an empire far bigger than the one I’d inherited. A dynasty that stretched across much more than the oil tycoons we currently were.
However, I had every intention of doing it in my late forties and with stipulations that would make most women run for the hills and throw themselves off said hills for good measure.
Which was why marriage had been off the table.
Until this week, when my friend and lawyer, Devon Whitehall, urged me to get hitched to douse some of the flames directed at Royal Pipelines and myself.
“Well, Athair,” I said tonelessly, “I’m happy Hunter exceeded your expectations in the heir-producing department.” The writing was on the wall, smeared in my brother’s semen from that time he dragged us all through PR hell with his sex tape.
“You know, Kill, sarcasm is the lowest form of wit.” Sailor shot me a piercing glare, taking a sip of her virgin Bloody Mary.
“If you were a selective conversationalist, you wouldn’t marry a man who thinks fart jokes are the height of comedy,” I fired back.
“Farts are the height of comedy.” Hunter, who was only half-evolved as a human, jabbed a finger in the air. “It’s science.”
Most days, I doubted he was literate. Still, he was my brother, so I had a basic obligation to tolerate him.
“Congratulations would have been sufficient.” Sailor poked the air with her fork.
“Bite me.” I downed my brandy, slamming the glass on the table.
“Dear!” Mother gasped.
“You know there’s a term for people like you, Kill,” Sailor grinned.
“Cunts?” Hunter deadpanned, pressing two fingers to his lips and dropping an invisible mic to the floor. One of the help poured two fresh fingers of brandy into my empty tumbler. Then three. Then four. I did not motion for her to stop until the alcohol nearly sloshed over.
“Language!” Mother threw another random word in the air.
“Yup. I speak at least two fluently—English and profanity.” Hunter cackled.
He also used the word “fuck” as a unit measurement (as fuck), engaged in grotesque carnage of the English language (“be seein’ ya,” “me thinks”) and up until marrying Sailor, had provided the family with enough scandals to outdo the Kennedys.
I, however, avoided sacrilege of any kind, held babies at public events (reluctantly), and had always been on the straight and narrow. I was the perfect son, CEO, and Fitzpatrick.
With one flaw—I wasn’t a family man.
This made the media have monthly field days. They dubbed me Cold Cillian, highlighted the fact I enjoyed fast cars and wasn’t a member of any charities, and kept running the same story where I rejected an offer to be on the cover of a financial magazine, sitting next to other world billionaires, because none of them, other than Bezos, was anywhere near my tax bracket.
“Close, honey.” Sailor patted Hunter’s hand. “Sociopaths. We call people like your brother sociopaths.”
“That makes so much sense.” Hunter snapped his fingers. “He really breathes new death into the room.”
“Now, now.” Jane Fitzpatrick, aka Mother Dearest, tried to calm the discussion. “We’re all very excited about the new addition to the family. My very first grandchild.” She clasped her hands, looking dreamily into the distance. “Hopefully one of many.”
So rich, for someone who had the maternal instinct of a squid.
“Don’t worry, Ma, I intend to impregnate my wife as many times as she’ll let me.” Hunter winked at his ginger bride.
My brother was the poster child for TMI. And possibly pubic lice.
The only thing stopping me from throwing up in my mouth at this point was that he wasn’t worth wasting food over.
“Gosh, I’m so jealous, Sail! I can’t wait to be a mother.” Ash balanced her chin on her fist, letting out a wistful sigh.
“You’ll make a wonderful mom.” Sailor reached over the table to squeeze her hand.
“To your imaginary kids with your brother-in-law.” Hunter threw a sautéed bite of potato into his mouth, chewing. Ash went crimson. For the first time since dinner began, I was faintly amused. My sister nurtured a hopeless obsession with Sam Brennan, Sailor’s older brother and a guy who worked for me on retainer.
The fact she was a wallflower and he was a modern-day Don Corleone didn’t faze her in the least.
“What about you, mo òrga?” Athair turned to me. My nickname meant My Golden in Irish Gaelic. I was the proverbial modern Midas, who turned everything he touched into gold. Shaped and molded in his hands. Although, judging by the fact I’d given him nothing but bad press ever since I inherited the CEO position, I wasn’t sure the moniker was fitting anymore.
It wasn’t about my performance. There wasn’t a soul in Royal Pipelines who could surpass me in skill, knowledge, and instincts. But I was a soulless, impersonal man. The opposite of the patriarch people wanted to see at the head of a company that killed rainforests and robbed Mother Nature of her natural resources on a daily basis.
“What about me?” I cut my salmon into even, minuscule pieces. My OCD was more prominent when I was under pressure. Doing something ritually gave me a sense of control.
“When will you give me grandchildren?”
“I suggest you direct this question at my wife.”
“You don’t have a wife.”
“Guess I won’t be having children anytime soon, either. Unless you’re impartial to ill-conceived bastards.”
“Over my dead body,” my father hissed.
Don’t tempt me, old man.
“When are you announcing the pregnancy publicly?” Athair turned to Hunter, losing interest in the subject of my hypothetical offspring.
“Not before the end of the second trimester,” Sailor supplied, laying a protective hand over her stomach. “My OB-GYN warned me the first trimester is the rockiest. Plus, it’s bad luck.”
“But a good headline for Royal Pipelines.” Father stroked his chin, contemplating. “Especially after the Green Living demonstration and the idiot who managed to break both her legs. The press was all over that story.”
I was tired of hearing about it. Like Royal Pipelines had anything to do with the fact a dimwit had decided to climb up my grandfather’s statue on the busiest square in Boston with a megaphone and fell.
Athair helped himself to a third serving of honey-baked salmon, his three chins vibrating as he spoke.
“Ceann beag has been the media’s darling for the past couple of years. Nice, hard-working, approachable. A reformed playboy. Maybe he should be the face of the company for the next few months until the headlines blow over.”
Ceann beag meant little one. Even though Hunter was the middle child, my father had always treated him as the youngest. Perhaps because Ash was wise beyond her years, but more than likely because Hunter had the maturity of a Band-Aid.
I put my utensils down, fighting the twitch in my jaw while slipping my hands under the table to crack my knuckles again.
“You want to put my twenty-seven-year-old brother as the head of Royal Pipelines because he managed to impregnate his wife?” I inquired, my voice calm and even. I’d busted my ass at Royal Pipelines since my early teens, taking my place at the throne at the cost of having no personal life, no social life, and no meaningful relationships. Meanwhile, Hunter was jumping from one mass orgy to the next in California until my dad dragged him by the ear back to Boston to clean up his act.