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Dutiful Son

Daniel

Tuxedos are the devil’s pajamas. I’m entirely convinced of this because the stiff collar is strangling me half to death. And, oh God, the cummerbund? That’s just a fancy word for “waist prison.”

Formal wear has never been my style; give me a pair of jeans and a T-shirt any day, thank you very much.

And as much as I despise the penguin suit, I hate the dress shoes even more.

They’re patent leather abominations that pinch my toes and rub my heels raw.

For now, they sit in the seat next to me, gleaming like sinister black diamonds.

I wiggle my toes in my dress socks, relishing the brief reprieve. I’d say I have about ten minutes of freedom left before I have to put them on. I’m going to savor every minute.

The cab weaves through traffic, honking at the delivery trucks that dare to double park on Ninth Avenue. My fingers curl around the door handle, knuckles turning white as I hold on for dear life. The cab driver swerves sharply, narrowly avoiding one of the death traps as it pulls out into traffic.

For a heart-stopping moment, the world tilts sideways as we whiz around it on two wheels. I squeeze my eyes shut, a silent prayer on my lips, and don’t open them until the cab rights itself with a jarring thud.

Holy shit, that was close. Too close. My heart rate is through the roof, and no amount of controlled breathing can calm it.

As the cab driver continues speeding down the city streets like he’s in a Mission: Impossible movie, I question my decision to take a cab instead of the town car my parents offered.

“You all right back there?” the driver asks, glancing at me in the rearview mirror.

“Yeah, I’m good,” I lie. “Just wasn’t expecting to be in a real-life action movie today.”

The driver chuckles, shaking his head. “This is New York, kid. You gotta be ready for anything.”

No kidding. I’m starting to think I should’ve worn a helmet instead of this thousand-dollar suit. At least then I’d have some protection against the driver’s apparent death wish.

I sigh, running a hand through my hair. It’s already coming loose from the neat style I’d forced it into earlier. Same as me, I suppose. No matter how hard I try to fit into this mold, there’s always some part of me that refuses to be tamed.

The cab takes another sharp turn, and I grip the door handle tighter, bracing myself for impact. But miraculously, we make it through unscathed. My shoulders sag with relief.

I slink down in my seat, spread my legs wide, and lean my head against the window. Only a few more blocks and this hellish ride will be over. Then I can put on my shoes, paste on a smile, and pretend to be a dutiful son.

I’ve always been uncomfortable at these fancy parties. The schmoozing, the fake smiles, the endless small talk about summer homes and private schools. It’s all so…surface level. All anyone cares about is being better than the person they’re talking to.

We hit a pothole, and my shoes fly up and smack me in the face. I half hope to have a nosebleed or a split lip, anything that’ll give me a reason to tell the driver to turn around and bring me back home. But no such luck .

As we approach Central Park West, the hotel unfolds upon the horizon like one of those children’s books with three-dimensional pictures.

It’s a grand building with marble columns and a red carpet that drapes over the cement steps and onto the sidewalk.

Black sedans idle at the curb, and ?I snicker at the knowledge that the yellow taxicab will stand out like a sore thumb.

The driver slows to a stop, and I hand him a wad of hundreds. I could’ve given him less since we nearly died a few times, but we didn’t. And that’s why I gave him more.

I slide my feet into the dress shoes and lace them up tight, wincing when my toes scream bloody murder. Opening the door, I step out and climb the steps with the other men and women dressed to the nines.

It feels as if we’re attending something fancier, such as a movie premiere or the Met Gala. I wish we were; those would be more fun. A bellhop opens the door for me with a kind smile. I don’t miss the fact that I’m the only one who thanks him.

Inside, the lobby is as ornate as the exterior. Crystal chandeliers hang from the ceiling, and gold leaves cascade up and down the walls in a vine-like manner. I head for the elevators, where a cluster of older women wearing mink stoles stand around talking.

One of the women, dripping in diamonds and reeking of too much perfume, gives me a slow, appraising once-over. My dick retreats into my body, and my nuts shrivel up under her lecherous scrutiny. Her eyes narrow as she tries to place where she knows me from.

When it clicks, panic surges through me, and I whip my head around, searching for an escape. By some miracle, the elevator doors slide open with a ding, and I dive inside as if my life depends on it. I rapidly thumb the button to close the doors, my heart pounding in my ears.

The woman’s pedicured toes nearly get sliced off as the doors slide shut. I flash her an apologetic smile that probably comes off as more of a grimace. Jesus, that was close.

My palms are sweaty, and I wipe them on my pants, not caring if I ruin the expensive fabric.

I’d rather face my mother’s wrath over a ruined suit than endure another second under that woman’s hungry gaze.

For every good fan out there, there are many more who only want to grope me, claim me, and defile me.

I should be used to this by now, the way these high-society women leer at me.

But it never gets any easier. You would think they’d want nothing to do with me because I don’t belong here among the glitz and the glamour.

I belong on the baseball field, with the sun on my face and the smell of a leather mitt in my nose.

The elevator dings again, and the doors slide open. I crack my neck and square my shoulders before stepping out into the hallway, ready to face whatever fresh hell awaits me.

Following the sound of laughter and clinking glasses, I come to a stop in front of a large banner above a set of marble doors. “Congratulations, Susan and Bill! 25 Years Strong!”

I grab the handles and throw the doors wide open. My jaw drops as I take in the scene before me.

The hall is massive, with high ceilings and tall windows that offer a nighttime view of Central Park.

Round tables, draped in white linen, are adorned with towering floral arrangements.

In the center of the room, a dance floor beckons the guests to let loose as a string band plays instrumental versions of everything from oldies to Taylor Swift.

It doesn’t take long for me to spot my parents holding court on the far side of the room.

My mother is as beautiful as ever in an emerald-green gown that screams, “Look at me!” My father sips what I assume is his third or fourth scotch as he runs his hands down his suede jacket that does little to hide his beer belly.

I walk in the opposite direction, where the open bar calls my name.

A bartender in a white jacket hands me a menu.

It lists about twenty different types of champagne, each with a price tag that could feed a family for a month.

At the bottom, in small print, is a note: All selections are complimentary for guests. Well, that’s something, at least.

“I’ll take a?— ”

“Excuse me, sir?”

I turn my head to see a petite blonde in a cocktail dress walking up to me. She has a cell phone in one hand and an iPad in the other.

“I’m Emily. I’m Susan’s assistant.”

Ah, the party planner. “Nice to meet you.”

She sets her iPad down on the bar and extends her hand. I shake it lightly. She’s pretty in that girl-next-door type of way. Cute freckles. Perky nose.

“I’m just making sure I get the name of every guest who comes in,” she explains, letting go of my hand. “You are?”

“Hollingsworth,” I tell her. “Daniel Hollingsworth.”

She picks up her iPad and finds me on the guest list. “Spoken like a true Bond fan. Do you also take your drinks shaken, not stirred?” Her eyes flit to the menu in my hand.

“I take them any way they’ll make ’em.”

“Smart man,” the bartender chimes in as he wipes down the bar with a tea towel.

“We’re glad you could make it, Mr. Hollingsworth,” Emily says.

“You can call me Daniel. Mr. Hollingsworth is my father.” I point him out.

“Oh, yes. I met him briefly before.”

The way she says it causes the hairs on the back of my neck to stand on end. “Did he?—”

“Talk way too much about you? Yes.”

I blow out a breath. “He loves to do that. I’d tell him to cut it out, but he never listens to me. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” she says. “I liked what I heard.”

I cock an eyebrow and glance at the bartender. He smirks at me, and I scowl. “I’m?—”

“Taken,” she assumes incorrectly. And because I’m a wise man, I don’t correct her. “Whoever the lady is, she’s a lucky woman. Will she be joining you tonight? ”

Yeah, because that wasn’t subtle as fuck. “No. I’m going stag tonight.” And then I scowl again when she arches her eyebrows.

“If you need a dance partner later, I’ll be around.”

I nod politely before returning my attention to the drink menu, hoping she’ll get the hint. Thankfully, she does.

“She’s pretty,” the bartender says softly after she walks away to greet the other guests arriving.

“I’m not interested,” I say, not meeting his gaze. “I’ll take a sparkling water, please.”

The bartender rears back, surprised by my request. “Are you sure?”

“Positive.” If I’m going to survive tonight, I’ll need my wits about me.

The bartender passes me my sparkling water. I take a sip and enjoy how the bubbles tickle my throat as they go down. Hopping onto one of the barstools, I study the bartender as he continues cleaning his station.