I lock the door behind me, letting out a shaky breath. I bite my lip so hard it might bleed. And I begin my work.
As always.
Work was always something I dove into when life got its worst. And it’s a salve to me now, on the coldest of winter days, as I try to sweep the worries of the world behind me.
With a Nirvana playlist in my headphones and my fingers on the keyboard, I knock out a month’s worth of work in the span of ten hours, and as the clock ticks towards seven o’clock, I pack up my things, feeling more accomplished than ever.
With the majority of the office clearing out, I cut a path towards the elevators, desperate to sink myself into an after-work scotch when a text from Elsie hits my cell phone, stopping any plans I had before.
I open my Messages app, reading the tiny text on the screen:
Come over when you’re off work. We should definitely finish our talk. I want to hear all about Chicago.
I agree. More than she knows.
I shoot her a text back, reminding myself that it’s been hours since we’ve spoken. The Chicago trip is the last thing I want to talk about. But even in the midst of my annoyance with what happened to me back in the Windy City, I know I need to.
To purge myself of all the poison the fiasco has left on my brain.
I catch a yellow cab on the street, heading towards uptown. I bundle in my oversized coat in the back seat, and by the time I make it to Elsie and Brett’s extravagant apartment building, I’m almost half-asleep, my body taking over my brain as its tired limbs sink into the faux-leather inside the taxicab.
I thank the cabbie, tipping him generously.
I hop out of the car, heading towards lobby security as I do, the flash of what feels like five-hundred light bulbs go off in my face as a sea of reporters, holding a myriad of black and gray mics crowd the marble floors.
I nearly trot backwards, tempted to run as the microphones and large lenses swing towards me, each stoic face attempting to see if I’m a person of importance.
My heart starts to race, alarm turning my mouth into mush, as I stare at the chaotic scene before me. Until a very large man, decked all in black, steps forward, his touch surprisingly light as he taps my elbow, urging me forward.
I sigh so hard my body sags. I glance up into the familiar face.
“Phil, Jesus.” I glance over the noisy crowd being shuffled out of the doors by building security. “What the hell is going on?”
He shakes his head, his thick neck barely moving as he levels an annoyed glance over the rumbling mob. He glowers.
“A new development in the case.” He shrugs. “But it’s okay. Mr. Jackson and Ms. Carpenter are expecting you.” He finally smirks. “Come this way.”
He leads me all the way to the platinum-covered elevators, hovering like a protective blanket. We ascend like a bullet towards the thirtieth floor, and as the double doors leading to Elsie and Brett’s private hallway part, I remember where I am, who my friends are.
In the middle of my own misery, I’d almost forgotten.
I had my own problems. But none as pressing as the closest people in my life.
What was an ongoing argument with your ex-husband compared to the not-so-secretive life of a singing superstar and her TV-show partner?
What was selling your old marital condo compared to being the son of the most famous criminal in the country? I let Phil escort me all the way to the door, my own woes whisked away by those of my friends, as I lift my hand towards the pricey paint polished over their penthouse door.
I take a deep breath I can feel all the way to my toes, tightening my fist. And then I knock.
Chapter Four
HEATH
Happy hour is over.
I close the deep mahogany doors behind me, clenching my coat collar against the frigid cold.
The time on my watch says “I need a drink.”
As far as days and minutes ago, I’m already on Scotch-o’clock and by the time I head towards Le Petite Pony after spending all night and most of the day with my sister, I feel somewhat normal.
If normal means being-able-to-put-one-foot-in-front-of-the-other-while-fighting-the-urge-to-fucking-run.
Because that’s all my mind has been able to do since I landed back in New York. Run.
No one said coming back home would be easy…
But what I didn’t expect was that my face would be flashed on every TV screen from coast to coast, that my frown would be splayed across newspapers from here to Beirut, as social media users of all ages and colors debated on whether or not I was too pretty to play my rightful role.
A role I’d been auditioning for since I was twelve and old enough to know my father was the last person I’d wanted to be.
I’d been a hot-tempered teen once—tense and angry. Harvard Law School made me mellow. Dropping out made me sane.
Clutching my navy trench against the wintry wind, I inhale the warm air as I enter the bar with the name that sounds more “strip club” than anything else, my eyes roaming along the wooden expanse, gaze pivoting before at last landing on the tattooed man perched in the corner, his blue eyes alive with mischief as he chats with the bartender.
I stroll over, taking the empty seat beside him just as he looks up. He smiles, an expression that has frankly won the world over. He bares his teeth, punching me lightly on the shoulder.
“Fuck…” I exhale on a shuddering breath. “I must really like your ass to brave this icy weather. Missing West Coast hospitality more than ever right now.”
“West Coast hospitality?” My best friend Brett smirks. “It’s ‘southern hospitality,’ Heath. West Coast hospitality is not a saying.’”
“It should be.” I shake off ice. “They hand out triple non-fat lattes like candy.”
“Along with all the ‘hospitality’ you can get, huh?”
“You say ‘hospitality’ like it’s another word for ‘vagina.’”
He grins even wider. “In your case? It is.” He nods to the bartender before glancing back at me. “I know you well enough by now…” Motioning to the drink in front of him, he fingers its rounded edge. With a sigh, he says, “Or maybe you’re just like me. Stressed out from…hell, life, and ready to brave the cold for anything alcoholic.” He passes a twenty over the bar’s rough scratched surface. The barkeep takes it. “He’ll take the same as me, Kent,” he directs to the guy behind the wooden slab. “A pint of the Freak of Nature.” A local favorite brew. I raise a finger.
“Actually… I’ll take a scotch, if you got it.”
My alcohol tastes are as varied as my moods.
Tonight? I’m a scotch man. Dark and dry.
My attitude is slowly working its way up to aged whiskey, but I don’t tell Brett. I don’t want to ruin the meeting we’ve waited weeks to have. Or bring my bad attitude into a good friend’s life.
Good friend. I’m tempted to snort.
Brett Jackson is one of the only friends I have, if I’m being honest—something I’m going to have to be with myself now that I’m back in brutal-as-hell New York.
I take a sip of the dark drink before the bartender barely removes his hand from the glass. I exhale, needing the liquor more than life. I take a swig from the glass’s edge and swallow, glancing over at my best friend.