Nightchild--The SeriesBook 1--Falling

Chapter 7

"I don't like being told what to do with my personal life," Nate glowered, looking around them.

"He didn't mean it like that! Besides, you're here...might as well sit back and enjoy it. Here, drink this," Heathe said, handing him a gin over ice.

The club was actually a huge room capable of seating fifteen hundred, maybe more, depending on how tightly they wanted to pack people in. For this first night, tables had been removed to provide more elbow room for the famous, infamous and just plain rich guests that were there to celebrate and wish John T. Grady and Chance Jennings the best of luck on their venture.

Men were dressed in anything from boots and jeans to black tie, but almost all sported the large traditional cowboy hat. Women also wore jeans or pants, while others strolled about in designer dresses or formal gowns. Jewels glittered as brightly against throats encompassed by collars of western cut shirts as those left bare by strapless frocks. Laughter and voices filled the air. This was no subdued pseudo-sophisticate dinner. This was a Texas bash; the room filled with people rich enough, powerful enough to need no pretenses. They were here to have a good time and a good time they were having.

Behind a long table below the stage, spanning its length, a space had been cleared and the polished wood floor shone with soft reflections as couples moved onto it to dance. An old time favorite was played by a local band hired to open for Chance and provide dance music throughout the evening.

"You're glad you came, aren't you?" Heathe shouted above the roar that vibrated the air.

"What makes you think that?" Nate hollered back.

"You've been tapping your foot, you're on your third drink and you've been grinnin' like a fool at that little blonde across the room for a good twenty minutes."

Nate, who had been leaning his elbows and back against one of the three long bars trimmed in heavy oak, stood erect to face Heathe and motioned for him to lean close, an angry scowl darkening his face. As Heathe bent his golden head, Nate's right hand came up to roughly rub across the top of the short hair, just as he'd done when they were kids. "Come on, let's get something to eat, Conan," he said, giving his friend's hard muscled stomach a playful punch as they sauntered off in the direction of elaborate buffet tables.

"Boys, glad to see ya'll made it!" John Grady had caught a glimpse of them as they made their way through the throng of people milling about and had followed. "See that table over there?" He pointed to the long one separating the stage and dance floor. "Fill your plates then come on over. I've saved ya places. There're some folks here I want ya to get acquainted with." Without waiting for a reply, he turned and was swallowed in the milieu.

"Damn! He's done it again! How the hell does he do it?"

"Do what?" Heathe asked, chuckling at his friend's bewilderment.

Nate shot him a sidelong glance. "You know exactly what he does. He tells people, not asks, but tells people what they're gonna do and it doesn't enter his mind they might not want to or that they might disobey his commands."

Heathe burst into a hearty bellow of laughter as he thought that Nathan Wade Stevens had obviously met his match in obstinacy, for he was not much different from the older man he had such trouble understanding. The problem was that it was usually Nate doing the telling, not the one being told.

"Come on, get your plate. You're gonna go over there and do what he wants, probably cuz you respect him, so let's get it over with," Heathe smirked knowingly.