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Brian hates them, which makes me love them even more, always saying that they make me look trashy and poor. But I’d like to find a poor man who has the funds to fork out thousands of dollars to have the most prestigious tattoo artist in Europe flown in just to work on him.
Let him think what he wants. I’m used to disregarding his opinion. Soon I won’t need to hear his shit anymore anyway.
Your presence has been requested at Oakwood Preparatory School for Elites.
The hairs on my arms stand on end just thinking about it. Existing in the top echelon of society, it is hammered into you since birth that you must get accepted to Oakwood Prep. It’s where the world's richest, most elite families send their children for further education. To not make it brings shame to your family and embarrassment to yourself. It affects everything moving forward, from dating to employment, even business deals can become harder to obtain. And that is saying something coming from the son of an alcohol empire.
But the trick is, you don’t actually get to apply. The powers that be inside of Oakwood know all the prestigious families, know every fucking person who’s of age, and choose who to invite and who to eliminate. So getting that letter today just confirms that I’m the badass I’ve always been, that my pride and arrogance are founded by my status.
After flattening my collar, I grab my phone and shoot a quick text to Ben, my best friend who got his acceptance letter last week.
Me:I got in.
It’s early in the states and I assume Ben is still asleep, but he starts typing back immediately.
Ben:Of course, you fucking did–you’re Cashel O’Connor for fuck’s sake.
Me:What did you make of that letter? Rules and regulations? Who the fuck do they think they are?
Ben:Don’t fucking worry about it. I’m sure it’s nothing we can’t buy ourselves out of.
Of course, Ben would say that. That’s his response to everything. He fails class—pays the teacher off and aces the course. He gets drunk and crashes his car through a department store—pays off a judge and serves no time. Money is his crutch, his anchor, his wealth defines him.
Dad’s voice rumbles up the stairs. “Cashel! I’m waiting!”
“Coming,” I call back as I slip my feet into a pair of shiny black dress shoes.
I don’t know what awaits me at Oakwood Prep, but whatever it is, I’m ready to take it head-on. There’s no room for failure now, no future where I’m not the most elite, honing whatever craft I choose to learn.
The time is now.
My time.
And I won’t let Brian or anyone else stand in my way.
