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car. I want to party. I'm having a hell of a good time.” He lurched forward again and, much to her horror, disappeared into the crowd. She found him again, sitting astride the horse they were using to pull the hayride. The horse was getting skittish, and the handler was asking him to get off, to no avail. He had completely stopped the ride, as people around them watched. It finally took three men from the catering staff and the host to get him off. He had been shouting “Yippee-kie-yay!!!” while kicking the horse. She wanted to kill him.
Their host helped her get him back to the car. He passed out in the front seat, and she drove him home. She couldn't wake him up when they got there, and she left him to sleep it off in her car. She felt him slip into bed with her at seven o'clock the next morning. When she got up at nine, he was dead to the world. He didn't come downstairs till noon, wearing dark glasses and complaining about how bright the sun was. She said nothing as she sat in the kitchen and read the paper, while he poured himself a much-needed cup of coffee. He came to sit down next to her a few minutes later, and she finally looked up and said good morning. Her tone was like ice.
“That was quite a party last night,” he said, trying to sound casual as she stared at him. “I guess I had a lot to drink, judging by the size of my hangover today.” He laughed. She didn't.
“Yes, you did” was all she said.
“How bad was it?” he asked cautiously. He didn't remember a great deal about the night before. She did.
“Very bad,” she answered, listing his exploits. Among them, she mentioned his grabbing her behind, which had blown their cover forever among her acquaintances and friends. “My favorite, of course, was the incident with the horse. You looked absolutely charming, scaring the horse and the children, playing cowboy and shouting 'Yippee-kie-yay.' I think everyone from here to Chicago heard you.” She was not amused, nor was he. He didn't want to be treated like a child, or scolded by her. He was an adult, and could behave any way he wanted, or so he said. He told Sasha he'd been behaving sensibly for a long time. He needed to let some steam off.
“I told you, Sasha. You can't control me. My family tried to, and I'm not going to let you do that to me. Everyone needs to let their hair down sometimes. So fucking what if I did?” He was being extremely defensive, and felt like shit.
“You embarrassed me,” she said, looking at him. He had started to push the dial toward impossible again, and it had been going so well. She was willing to stand up beside him, and go out into the world with him, even her world, but not if he behaved like this, and claimed rights of total freedom just because he was an artist. If he didn't want to be controlled, then he had to learn to police himself. “I'm not going to go out with you if you act that way,” she said sadly, even more upset about it because he wasn't in the least remorseful.
“Then don't,” Liam said, sounding belligerent. “You sound just like my father, and I'm not going to take that shit from you. You can't punish me and leave me home because I have a few drinks at a party.”
“You had a few dozen drinks, and you saw to it that everyone in the place who cared to watch knew that we're involved with each other.”
“I'm tired of keeping it a secret.” It had become less and less of a secret during the month they'd been in New York. Bernard knew before that. Marcie knew. Tatianna knew. Xavier knew. And God only knew who else suspected. As long as he behaved, she was willing to come out of the closet with him eventually, but not if he acted like that.
“Then act like a grown-up, and it won't have to be a secret.”
“If you loved me, you wouldn't want to keep this a secret.” He sounded like a wounded child, which was how he felt. He wanted her approval, and for her to be proud of him, not ashamed.
“I do love you, but I'm not going to let you make a spectacle of me. It's tough enough with our