Page 32 of Emmett
He’s right; tomorrow is huge. It will be our biggest opening since the collective, and that was more than two years ago – and my name wasn’t anywhere near it. That was all Dad and Davis. I just got to go and enjoy the party. I’minvolvedin these things now, and that’s honestly a little bit terrifying. We’ve put so much time, so much work, and a good amount of money into this. Not just the business itself, but the opening party, too. If it fails…
IfIfail…
I stop, resting my fist against the wall that leads out of the room. “Hey— are you going to bed?”
“I don’t have to.”
Christ, this feels so stupid. “Do you think we can hang out for a sec?”
“Yeah,” he tells me, his brow creasing just enough to tell me that he’s concerned. “Yeah, bud, of course we can.”
I follow him to the living room and settle onto the couch, where he throws me a controller for the Xbox before grabbing one for himself. I know that he’s probably dying to get upstairs and knock out for the night, but he drops onto the couch next to me and loads up a game, without prying or trying to get in my head.
What was supposed to be ‘hanging out for a sec’ quickly turns into hours of competitive simulated racing. We try to stay quiet while we play – not even because we don’t want to bother the girls, but more because we don’t wantthemto botherus.
I think the last time that we sat down together to play a game like this was just before I moved into my apartment. We spent way too long in front of the screen and ate way too much pizza that night. He’d bought me an Xbox to take with me so we could play together in the new place, too – which I could have done myself, but I think the gesture of giving me one was important to him.
We played on his N64 almost every day while I was growing up. I didn’t think much of it when I was a kid, but as an adult, I realized that it was the one thing that he had kept for himself. Everything else, he’d given up or sold to make sure that I had everything I could want or need. He only kept one thing for himself, and even that, he shared with me.
It’s almost three in the morning by the time we finally shut down the game and head up to our rooms. I find myself actually glad that I asked him for some time; if I hadn’t, the spiral would have started. I probably would have wound up in the water. I would have screwed up everything for tomorrow.
FOURTEEN
Nash
Leaning back in my chair, I kick my feet up onto the desk in front of me and clip off the end of the cigar in my hand before bringing it to my lips and lighting it. I puff on the smoke, letting the taste of cognac and vanilla swirl over my tongue while I stare at the text message on my phone’s screen.
Logan: I can get you on the list, but they can’t find out it was me.
Perfect.
A grin spreads across my face as I pull in a few more puffs of the flavorful smoke before setting the cigar into an ashtray I’d brought over with me.
I throw my feet off of the desk and amble through the hall toward my bedroom and into my closet. I’ve got more suits in here than I care to count, but as I quickly scan over my options, running my hands over their fabric, I realize that none of them are right.
In less than two hours, my stylist is here with an array of options; Armani, Gucci, Givenchy. Blue, black, slate gray, white. Every color, fabric, and pattern imaginable.
I slip a few of them on, bored with the neutral tones. There will be swarms of people in neutrals.
My hand lands on a Givenchy suit the color of a fine bordeaux, and the choice is made for me: this is the one.
•
This party is almost as obnoxious as the men behind it. Crowds of people, most of them made of at least fifty percent plastic and the others dressed in loud and busy ensembles as if they’re peacocks trying to win over a mate for the evening, swarm around one another. Loud, bass-heavy music fills the space and cocktails slosh about as their carriers lift them in greeting with one another.
As I file through the groups of people here, making my way toward the bar, I finally see what I came here for. He’s making fucking googly eyes at some blonde bimbo with her tits hanging half out of her dress while she fondles his bicep, and it sets my teeth on edge.
I shove through the last few feet of people between us and clamp a hand down over the Fowler kid’s shoulder, feeling his body tense under my touch as if he already knows who it is.
“Who gave you permission to flirt with her?” I growl into his ear.
He turns to face me, the golden honey of his eyes distorted by the neon lights overhead, and he glares, but I watch as his chest rises and falls. I watch as his jaw tightens, the muscles in it flickering with tension.
“Well,” he says, “I guess that would have been me.”
“You’ve forgotten who you belong to,” I remind him, moving closer until my mouth is less than an inch from his ear, and the musk and cedar of his cologne fills my nose. “I don’t like to share my toys.”
A hand pushes hard against my chest, but I don’t budge. “I am not your toy,” he argues.