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The twink, flushed and disheveled, stumbled out of bed, fumbling for his scattered clothes across the floor. Clumsy fingers snatched at a shirt here, jeans there—the pathetic dance of the morning after when night’s desire turns to daylight’s regret.
“Move it,” I barked.
I flicked the lighter; the flame casting a brief glow in the dim room. The end of the cigarette caught, smoke curling upwards as I drew in a lungful. The nicotine hit was sharp, a brief respite from the gnawing chaos inside. I sprawled across the bed, legs wide, ashtray balanced on my stomach.
“Hey,” the twink’s voice cut through my haze. “How’m I supposed to get back?”
I snatched my phone from the nightstand, thumbing the rideshare app without sparing him a glance. Fuck being polite. The screen lit up with the confirmation, and a smirk tugged at my mouth.
“Your ride’s coming. Front of the house is that way.” I jerked my head toward the front door of the coach house, smoke trailing from my lips. “Start walking.”
“Thanks,” he mumbled, sounding like every other one-night stand—grateful, used, disposable.
“Sure,” I grunted, attention already elsewhere. The coach house walls seemed to close in, heavy with old money and older secrets. The gold frames on the walls mocked me. My grandfather’s taste was as subtle as a sledgehammer.
“Uh, Darius?” He lingered, hesitant.
“Didn’t I tell you to move?” I snapped, harsh and cold. “Get the fuck going.”
He scurried away, half-dressed, dignity forgotten along with his name. Didn’t matter. They were all just warm bodies, distractions from the shitstorm that was my life. The bed was empty again, just me and the smoke, and the stench of sex lingering in the air. Grandfather would have a fit about the cigarettes, but what was he going to do? Disown me? Too late for that. They had already shoved me out here, away from the main house, away from their pristine lives.
The door clicked shut, finality in its echo. Silence swallowed the coach house, my sanctuary of sin and smoke. I sprawled back on the bed, indifference heavy on my chest. Sparks danced from the end of my cigarette as I dragged deep, letting the grey tendrils curl and rise, a dragon’s breath in the dim light.
My phone buzzed against the dark wood of the nightstand—a dull, insistent vibration. My hand was reluctant as I snatched it up, already knowing who it’d be. Weston’s name lit up the screen. His presence in my life was nothing but a persistent itch I couldn’t scratch away. I watched the call go to voicemail, a smirk tugging at my lips. The bastard was squirming. I could feel it—two weeks of dead air between us, and each unread message was a bullet in his pristine, tailored world. It was almost fun, watching Mr. Perfect Lawyer lose his shit one ignored call at a time.
The phone’s buzz clawed at the silence again. I caught my breath, licked dry lips. Weston’s name, a fucking brand on the screen, and I killed it quick. No more. Not even a glance at his desperate words. My thumb hovered, tempted to open the message, to give in to the curiosity clawing at me. But no, this was the game now—watch him dangle, watch him twist. A cruel smile played on my face, smoke slipping between my teeth like venomous whispers. He wanted attention? He’d get it served cold and bitter, just like the ash at the bottom of my lungs.
I was a fool, letting shit I couldn’t change twist me up inside. Came home ’cause I had to, not ’cause I wanted to. Grandfather’s commands, dangling that inheritance like a carrot for his fucked-up donkey. Thought it’d be simple—do the dance, get the cash, bolt. But nah, life’s never that easy.
I hopped off the bed and headed for the bathroom. The water scorched my skin in the shower, blistering away the scent of this morning’s conquest. The Twink had been nothing—a body to use, a distraction. Every drop that sluiced over my flesh was penance, washing off his touch, his taste. Two weeks of fucking and boozing, and I still couldn’t scrub away the filth—the filth of what I knew, what I felt, what I wanted to forget.
Steam wrapped around me like a shroud, cloaking the truth in hot, wet veils. But even here, there was no escape. No peace from the carnal circus outside these tiled walls. I stepped out, flesh pink and raw, every nerve exposed. I stalked over to the walk-in closet. This coach house—grandfather’s idea of a slap on the wrist. It was still dripping with luxury—a far cry from my usual haunts. Dark leather furniture loomed like silent judges, dark wooden floors gleamed with a sheen of arrogance, and in the corner, the ostentatious gold outline of a floor-to-ceiling mirror caught my reflection. A sneer for the man I saw there.
I stood there, the closet gaping like a pretentious mouth ready to swallow me whole. On one side, my rebellion laid out in cotton and denim—T-shirts and jeans that said “fuck you” louder than my voice ever could. They were my shield against this gilded cage, my sneer at their so-called superiority.
But no, not today.
My gaze slid, almost against my will, to the other end, where luxury hung with a smugness that made my blood boil. Tailored suits, each with a price tag that could feed a small village for a month. I snatched the olive-green one, its fabric whispering promises of power and seduction.
“Weston’s gonna choke on his scotch,” I thought, a smirk tugging at my lips. The suit was a weapon, a statement. It hugged my body like a lover, outlining every muscle, every defiant line of me.
Slipping into the jacket, the silk lining stroked my skin, a sensual contrast to the raw lust for confrontation brewing inside. I straightened the lapels; the mirror throwing back an image of someone who could eat this world and spit it out before breakfast. I knew full well the attention it would rake in from him—the one person whose gaze I could feel like a touch. That prickling sensation at the nape of my neck when his brown eyes lingered a second too long. My attention was a privilege, and today, I’d dangle it just out of reach. Nothing thrilled me more than playing this game, especially when I held all the fucking cards. I turned from the mirror, the suit a second skin now.
As I headed toward the kitchen to grab something to eat, something to soak up the contents of booze and drugs from last night, my phone vibrated in my pocket.
I took out my phone and saw a message from an unknown number, though I recognized it immediately. Rumors had spread that I was in Chicago, and the most elite sex club in the world—owned by four wealthy brothers with no financial limits who had clients in need of high-quality drugs. Dealing was not my usual line of work, but I sometimes made exceptions if the pay was worth it.
It was a game of middlemen, and the drugs went through many exchanges before they reached their final destination, since the wealthy wouldn’t be caught dead receiving drugs from just anyone. It had to seem like the drugs magically appeared, with no trace of where they came from. It may have been foolish, but I played along to avoid having to ask my miserable grandfather for money.
Chapter6
Weston
The leather of the car seat creased under me, echoing my irritation as Kent drove on, silent about our destination. I hated surprises. Hated the suspense that knotted my insides. Kent had a knack for this—dragging me into his schemes with that devil-may-care grin, knowing damn well I’d follow.
“Kent, where the fuck are we going?” I demanded, the annoyance in my voice as sharp as the cut of my suit.
“Relax, Wes.” He shot me a look, one eyebrow raised in amusement. “You’ll see.”
