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Jake
It no longer surprises me to find my father defiling one room or another — any room with a flat surface, at least — with someone who’s not his wife. Once, it did surprise me. The first dozen or so times, in fact. After that, it went from being shocking to merely offensive. That’s what I feel when I slide open the door to the grand dining room on my way to the garage.
I don’t recognize this one. Reginald Ferry manages his regular flings the way some people manage their wine cellars. You drink a fine bottle slowly, and when it’s all used up, you toss the useless glassware that’s left and order in a new bottle from somewhere exotic. This girl looks vaguely South American. Probably a twenty-year vintage. I doubt she can buy her own drinks — not that she probably ever needs to — though she at least looks like she’s legal. Reginald is a narcissist, not an idiot.
My father spots me a heartbeat after I enter the room, but before he can backtrack. He smirks, and pinches the girl’s nipple so she barks a plaintive, but obviously pleasure-filled curse in Spanish.
“Close the door,” Reginald pants, not even slowing down, or letting go of the girl’s tits to cover anything up. “Give us a little privacy, will you?”
With the greatest enthusiasm, I do as I’m told. Then I shove the disgust I feel for the old man far, far down, like I have countless times before. Shocked? No. But I’ll probably never get used to it. Not like my stepmother, Toia. Or “Toy” as my father likes to call her.
Toia had once considered herself the lucky one. Reginald actually married her — with a pre-nup, of course, that left out any mention of fidelity on his part. Once, early on, Toia had run into one of his playthings, and then another, and another. There had been a fight about it and for a moment I thought she might actually leave him.
But she didn’t. Instead, she fell into her place naturally, the way any grateful, over-thirty supermodel who knows there‘s a clock ticking on her figure would do. At least, one with little to no self-respect. A daily diet of spas, champagne, Valium, and yoga probably helped as well.
Now, she probably does much the same thing as I do. Shrug, and move on with life. Reginald’s not about to change for anyone.
There‘s another route to the garage, but it’s long. Three elaborately decorated sitting rooms, two gilded hallways, and one pink marble staircase later, and I’m free.
Sure, I grew up with money. The Ferry estate is pointlessly massive, slathered in gold leaf and marble and antiques that sometimes are hundreds of years old, and carpeted with handmade carpets of fine wool that have to be specially cleaned by people that fly in from across the country once a month.
All of that is just set dressing. I’ve seen people go wide-eyed and gush over one object or feature or another; I know it’s impressive to people who’ve never lived in it before. Those people have never known the confusion of a kid who didn’t understand why they couldn’t sit in a single chair in a sitting room. A chair that was worth three of him. But to me now, the billionaire life is just “life.”
But if there’s one thing I genuinely fucking love about this life, aside from the bottomless credit card, and of course the fully-equipped MMA gym in the mansion — it’s the cars.
The garage is large enough that when I flip the lights on, they don’t all come up at once. Row by row they come to life, illuminating the long line of sports cars near the house, all the way down to the black SUVs at the far end, used by the help when they’re needed.
I’m just here to get the Benz, and the sight of my father’s trembling ass hasn’t dislodged that intention. If anything, it solidified it. That baby gets zero to sixty in just a hair over two seconds, the kind of speed that you can feel in your chest.
I make damn sure the tires screech on my way out.
In the early evening hours, it’s time to get the night started. My father’s newest lounge is both a place to do that as well as something of a PR job. I’m required to show up at least a few times a week to be seen, shake hands with whatever celebrities have been invited — assuming they show up — and generally make it look like Reginald gives a shit about the place.
Fact is, Reginald has only walked through the doors of the Ferry Lights lounge three times. Once before it was built out, once after, and once for the grand opening. After that, it became my job. It’s not a hard job — show up, be social, get fucked up, pick a girl from the inevitable lineup, go home, get up the next day and do it all again.
No, the job’s easy. It’s just distasteful. It’s right across the street from Janie Hall’s up-and-comer, Red Hall Eatery and Lounge. I watch the place as I drive past it to get to the VIP valet curb in front of my father’s lounge. It’s not dead — but it sure isn’t as busy as it had been before Ferry Lights opened, either.
And for what? Another drop in the bucket that is the Reginald Ferry diversified assets? When you have the kind of money Reginald does, driving small, high-profile businesses out of town is the closest thing to a hobby you have. If you’re an asshole.
Reginald is that. Ferry Lights’ location isn’t an accident. My father had passed up a significantly larger, far more flexible waterfront property to take this one. He did it on purpose.
Once on the curb, I toss the keys to the valet, and try to remember the kid’s name without looking at his name tag. It’s… “Thanks, Austin,” I say to the kid when we pass one another. I give the guy a Benjamin. “Take her for a spin; but don’t be gone long.” I wink.
Austin smirks and bobs his head. “Yeah, sure thing, Mr. Ferry.”
My eyes flicker to the kid’s name tag, just in case. I’m relieved to have gotten it right. The turnover at this place is probably setting records, especially for valets. Austin has lasted an impressive four weeks so far.
Inside, I go on autopilot. Shoulders straight, chin up, smile confident and inviting — but not too inviting. The walk of ownership, of importance. Straight to the bar. A few flashes catch the corners of my eyes, but I don’t follow up on them.
I also ignore the weight of hungry eyes that claw at me from all sides. Ferry Lights is thoroughly stocked with the sorts of women that marry men like Reginald — and the sorts of women that men who want to be like Reginald often rent.
I never had to pay for it, and neither has my father — yet — but I’ve taken advantage of the “all-you-can-fuck” buffet more than a few times. Times when I didn’t just see my father screwing a girl who looks exactly like every one of these girls. The sight of that makes the thought of taking any of these women on my arm nauseating. At least while I’m sober.
Thus, the bar.
The new bartender — so new that I don’t know the girl’s name — eyes me up and down with a smile that quickly vanishes when she recognizes me. Someone’s probably filled her in on the reputations shared by both the Ferry men. At least she serves me first.
New though she is, I don’t need to tell her my drink order. That’s more or less orientation information for new bartenders in the open lounge. If I know Reginald, everyone on staff is required to memorize a
