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MADDOX

The sun streams in through the window in the one-bedroom apartment I keep above the haberdashery. I fell asleep on the couch last night—there’s a fifty-fifty chance of that happening any time I watch TV in the living room after ten. I yawn, stretch my arms over my head, and meander to the kitchen to put a pot of coffee on.

Funny that Alissa is British. I’ve always felt like I should have been born British. I love a cup of tea in the afternoon.

God, Alissa…

She crossed my dreams several times, and I woke up with a hell of a boner.

I grab my phone and check the time. Seven thirty. I have an hour and a half before opening time. Good.

Coffee’s done. I grab a mug from my cupboard—my favorite, the one that looks like an upside-down top hat; a gift from my mom for my eighteenth birthday—and pour myself a cup. I flip the TV from the streaming channels to a news network just to have a little white noise in the background. I couldn’t possibly pay attention to the news right now, just like I couldn’t pay attention to the TV show I was binging last night.

For the last fourteen hours or so, my mind has only been able to wrap itself around one thing.

Alissa Maravilla. The girl who entered my shop on a whim last evening.

The girl who I’m taking to the club tonight.

There’s something about her that intrigues me. She has an air of innocence, but I also sensed a curiosity, a hunger almost, for something a little dark. She’s grown tired of routine and is looking for something a little spontaneous, a little dangerous, even.

I think she’ll like my club.

I’ve never taken a woman there.

I usually go there to meet women. Occasionally I’ll bring my best friend, Harrison, as my wingman. He’s an attending physician at a hospital downtown.

Wait a minute. He might work at the same hospital as Alissa, come to think of it. I don’t know the name of his hospital, but I know it’s downtown, near the Loop. Alissa said she works at St. Charles.

But before she got into nursing, she got two degrees in flute performance from Northwestern.

Not a bad school at all.

I go up there every few months or so. Sometimes I’ll go to the university library to find a book not available at Harold Washington downtown. The music school is built right on Lake Michigan, and it looks like a giant glass cruise ship pulled up to the shore. I’ve never been inside, but it’s hard not to notice it when walking through the university’s campus.

Every so often when I’ve been up there, I’ve managed to attract a co-ed. The Rolls-Royce is good for that. I’ll invite her to my place, fuck her brains out, and then call her an Uber back up to Evanston.

But not once have I taken any of them to the club.

I’m always allowed to bring a single guest. All members are. But Harrison is the only person I’ve ever brought, and that’s always to serve as my wingman.

I pay for his drinks, so I think it’s a fair trade-off. And Harrison occasionally will take a woman home himself. He’s a good-looking dude. People often ask if we’re brothers.

Maybe if this thing with Alissa pans out, she can come up with me to visit her alma mater. We can walk along the lake, take in the sights. She can tell me stories about her six years there. Maybe we could catch a performance of the music school’s symphony orchestra.

Classical music has always interested me, but I know next to nothing about it. My understanding of it begins and ends with old Bugs Bunny cartoons.

And yet she abandoned her chosen field, switched to nursing. Turned right back around and got a third degree in a completely unrelated profession.

What is her story?

One thing is for sure. There is more to Alissa Maravilla than meets the eye. I can’t wait to get to know her better.

I can’t wait to get inside her tight little body, either.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. We have our first real date tonight. Last night was a chance meeting. Doesn’t count.

She perked her ears up at my name. But she wasn’t quite able to figure out where she had heard it before.

She’s either a fantastic actress or she actually has no idea who I am. Who my family is.

A lot of the women I’ve dated over the years have come to me solely because of my last name. They know that the Hathaways are a local political dynasty, and one of the first things they ask me is if my father was Henry Hathaway, the former mayor.

I usually sigh and say yes.

It’s the truth. The truth I can’t escape.

Once they learn, however, that I have no political ambition, they usually run for the hills. If that doesn’t get them, once they find out that I’ve been cut off from my family’s riches, they’re history.

But Alissa seems to be interested in me despite not having any of that information. She’s from England, after all—God, that accent of hers makes me insane—and would have no reason to know much about my family’s political connections. Only people who grew up in and around Chicago would know anything about us.

Those who do know are aware that my father’s final term ended fifteen years ago, right before I turned twenty. He was dead within a year.

Some say the stress killed him. While his twelve years in office were mostly successful, his approval ratings plummeted in his final year, and he left the mayorship in disgrace.

I was his one shot at continuing his legacy, and later, redeeming it.

And I refused.

* * *

Dad has really pulled out all the stops for my eighteenth birthday. We’re in the Wrigley Mansion ballroom downtown, and he hired a decorator to outfit the entire place in my favorite colors, cobalt blue and mint green. A giant birthday cake stands on a small table at the room’s center directly under the grand chandelier, and everybody who’s anybody in the Chicago political scene is here. City councilmembers, party donors, and even several Illinois state senators are present.

We are the Hathaways, after all.

Dad is celebrating ten years of being mayor, and he’s been very popular. He’ll run for a fourth term in two years, and he’s a shoo-in to win.

I’m slated to go to Yale in the fall to study political science. I doubt they even looked at my application. They probably saw the name “Maddox Hathaway” on the top and admitted me right then and there. I spent a lot of time studying for the SAT and ACT, painstakingly wrote the perfect admissions essay, and did years of community service and extracurricular activities to pad my résumé, but my name alone is all I needed.

I didn’t earn my place there.

So I’m not going.

I’m going to tell them all tonight.

And it’s not going to be pretty.

I spend the cocktail hour shaking hands and receiving checks from family friends. I haven’t looked at any of them yet, but I know each one is good for at least a grand, if not more.

After I make my announcement, I’ll offer to give the money back.

Dinner is served—first a wedge salad, and then New York strip with garlic mashed potatoes as the main course, all my favorites—and then I’m expected to make a speech before they cut the birthday cake.

I slowly walk to the podium in front of my cake, which has been placed at a perfect height to frame my head and shoulders as I speak. Everything in this room has been intricately tailored to be a damned photo op. The photographer diligently takes his place in front of me.

“Ladies and gentlemen, on behalf of my father and the Hathaway family at large, I want to thank you all for attending my birthday party.”

My speech has been written for me, and a teleprompter is there to make sure I get it all right, of freaking course.

But fuck it. I’m going off script.

“Eighteen is a weird age. You’re legally an adult, but there are days when I still feel like a scared little kid. My brain isn’t even fully developed, but I’m supposed to decide right now how I’m going to spend the rest of my life.”

A few nervous chuckles resonate through the audience. My father narrows his eyes. He wrote my speech himself, and he knows I’m already straying.

“As you all know, I’ve been accepted to Yale, my own father’s alma mater, this fall, to study political science, continue the family’s legacy in the city of Chicago and the state of Illinois.”

Several people nod as murmurs fill the room.

“But…after weeks of thought, I’ve realized that I have no desire to go into politics.”

Gasps. Various women clutch at their necklaces.

Dad gets to his feet. “Friends, you all know my son is a bit of a joker sometimes…”

“No, Dad,” I interrupt, speaking clearly over his voice. “This isn’t a joke. I appreciate the work you’ve put in to lay a straight path in front of me, but it’s not a path I want to follow.”

Dad walks up behind the podium, pushing me out of the way. He nervously chuckles into the microphone.

“Ladies and gentlemen, clearly I need to have a word in private with my son. In the meantime, we’ll cut the birthday cake. Please enjoy it, and we’ll be back shortly.”

Dad grabs my arm and yanks me out of the ballroom into the mansion’s foyer.

He glares daggers into me. “You want to tell me what the hell that was about, Maddox?”

I whip my arm out of his grasp. “Dad, you never once asked me what I want to do with my life. You just assumed I was going to follow in your footsteps because I’m a Hathaway. Because that’s what we do.”

“Yes, Maddox. It is. ” He gestures around the lavish decorations. “Do you like all the bells and whistles? The pomp and circumstance? That doesn’t come for free, son. Our name commands respect, power even. It’s our duty to use that for the common good.”

I roll my eyes. “Don’t give me that bullshit, Dad. You don’t care about the common good. You care about collecting checks and paying for your luxurious lifestyle.”

“A luxurious lifestyle that has kept you in the best clothes, the best schools, the best upbringing that money can buy, Maddox,” Dad says. “I’m afraid this choice is out of your hands.” He grabs my shoulders and turns me around. “Now you are going to march right back in there and tell the invited guests that you were making a joke, one that fell flat on its ass.”

I turn back around, glaring at him. “No, Dad. I don’t want this life.”

Dad scoffs. “Then what the hell are you planning on making of yourself?”

“I’ve thought it over, Dad. And I want to take over Uncle Stephen’s old shop. The haberdashery in Uptown.”

Dad drops his jaw. “You want to spurn politics…for men’s fashion?”

“The shop has been abandoned for nearly a decade. It’s just sitting there, gathering dust. The family already owns the property. I want to bring it back to life.”

Dad runs his hands through his hair. “You realize your Uncle Stephen was a bitter old queen, right? The black sheep of the family?”

“I don’t care about that. I share his love for menswear, for looking good. Is that so awful?”

Dad takes a deep breath in. “Maddox, are you…like him?”

I scoff. “No, Dad. Not that it should matter either way. But you don’t have to be gay to care about how you present yourself to the world.” I eye the Armani suit he’s wearing. “ You certainly dress nicely.”

“I dress this way because that’s how I’m expected to dress, Maddox.” He runs his hands up and down the label of his jacket, scowling. “Believe me, I’d spend every day in a T-shirt and sweatpants if I weren’t the goddamned mayor.”

“Regardless, Dad, this is what I want.” I grab the lapels of my own jacket. “ This is my passion. Not politics. I’m sorry.” I turn back toward the ballroom. “If you’ll excuse me, I have a slice of birthday cake with my name on it.”

And a gin and tonic, even though I’m underage. I’ve been drinking all night. It’s my party, after all.

Dad grabs my shoulder. “Maddox. You’re eighteen now. I’m no longer legally obligated to provide you food and shelter.”

“I never asked you for a damned thing.”

“Good. I’ll happily sign over the deed to that old haberdashery to you in exchange for half of your profits, if you make any. But that will be it. If you want to throw away your future, I certainly won’t be financing it.”

I jerk, nearly stumbling, but I catch myself. I won’t let the old bastard see that he got to me. “So you’re cutting me off?”

He sears his gaze into mine. “Yes, Maddox. I’ll cut you off. If you need seed money for the new business, you’ll have to take a small-business loan, which you’ll be responsible for. You’ll be responsible for all your own expenses, and I wouldn’t expect any inheritance to come your way when your mother and I die.”

“Dad…”

“Or…you can go back in there, tell the guests it was all a joke. You’ll go to Yale. Tuition is already covered because of your legacy status, but I’ll cover your room and board for four years. And then three years of law school. You’ll leave school debt-free and ready to pursue your own political career. Carve your niche in the Hathaway family legacy.” He narrows his eyes sternly. “It’s not too late to fix this, son.”

Defiance flares through me. “You’re right, Dad. It’s not too late.”

* * *

And I did it. I fucking did it.

My old man stayed true to his word. He signed the building over to me in exchange for half of my profits. He gave me a one-week grace period to get the hell out of his house. Luckily, there was a small loft over the shop itself that I could use as an apartment. Most of the family friends who gave me money canceled my birthday checks before I could cash them, but I was able to hold onto a few of them, just enough to furnish the small apartment. I went to several banks and finally secured a loan of a hundred grand to fix up the shop and buy my first round of inventory. Within a few months, I was open for business.

And I couldn’t be fucking prouder of myself.

It was pretty scant there for a while, especially since my father was eating up fifty percent of my profits. I lived mostly off ramen noodles those first few years—so I guess I got a little bit of the college experience after all—but I slowly but surely eked out a living.

Meanwhile, my dad’s political career went south. A few sexual scandals came to light after he passed some highly unpopular legislation, and he lost his reelection bid in a landslide. He divorced my mother shortly after, leaving her with next to nothing. They, of course, had a prenup—no one in my family gets married without one. And then he dropped dead of a sudden heart attack within twelve months of his loss. I didn’t see a penny of the fortune he had amassed. Nearly all of his assets went to the various charities he supported, but he did leave me two things.

His car. The Rolls-Royce that I drove Alissa home in just last night.

And the membership to his club.

Why he did that is anybody’s guess. I sure wasn’t going to question it. Aces Underground is the most exclusive club in the city, and my father’s estate is paying my membership fees in perpetuity.

Maybe he wanted to give me one last taste of the high life, convince me to turn back to the dark side, follow his footsteps, restore the Hathaway legacy.

It’s tempting. Not because I want to undo what my father did—it’s his own damned fault that he couldn’t keep his dick in his pants or his brain in his skull—but because he left a small fortune in a trust, available to me on the sole condition that I go back to Yale, pursue the political career he always wanted for me.

But I won’t do it.

I won’t fucking do it.

The seedy underbelly that is the Chicago political sphere is not one where I imagine myself.

But I enjoy Aces. It’s a great club.

And I can’t wait for my first date with Alissa.