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Chapter 2
Kaleb
They said I was a monster.
A dark prince.
A twisted hero.
That the devil kissed me when I was born... and then decided to stick around. Only to turn my heart to ice and make me the fucked-up ice prince I was destined to become. (Hey whatever satisfies your daddy issues.)
I was a twisted son of bitch and a master of getting my way. At the ripe age of nineteen, I ran my own underground empire in this juicy apple of a city, and I ruled it with an iron fist. Maybe I was fucked in the head. Maybe I didn’t give a fuck either way. I had money lining my pockets, and the only thing that mattered was that it wasn’t coming from him.
The names really didn't bother me so much. The only thing I didn’t tolerate was when they said I was anything like him.
Those people often didn't get the chance to say much else.
Jaw twitching, I stretched out on Tristan's designer, specifically designed for small asses, leather couch, kicking my black Timberland boots up on the glass coffee table.
It had been a shit week.
And I was the Monster that was supposed to clean it all up.
The only one with a heart cold enough.
Jayson's laugh echoed against the glass windows, emphasizing how empty the modern Manhattan flat was. Tristan was supposed to be here 30 minutes ago.
That pretty boy would be late to a meeting in his very own penthouse.
Restless, I watched as Jayson squat on the black and white marble countertops, his Gucci-sweat pant-covered ass making himself comfortable before passing a freshly lit blunt over to me.
I took a long drag, the week blurring and softening with every inhale. Tristan's dad was currently off on some “work trip” in which he was most likely banging his new European intern he acquired three months ago. The very same intern who was responsible for the obscene pear sculptures and exotic dragon fruit paintings that stuck to the walls like stale candy. The only color in the otherwise gray-and-white-clad apartment (Chick had some sort of weird fruit kink). Not that I was complaining, his absence meant me and the boys got to crash here for a whole week uninterrupted. And any chance to stay away from the Black Mansion stuffed with “family love” and “affection” was given the green light from me.
The trip was also most likely responsible for Tristan's absence. Knowing him, he was probably three floors below us, fucking the brains out of Mrs. Hathaway before her husband got home, mentally flipping his dad the finger.
Taking another drag, I handed the blunt off to Jayson. The TV was on but neither of us were really watching it.
We were waiting.
Just as we’d always done.
The couch started vibrating, and I turned to find Jayson's legs shaking like a goddamn neck massager. The boy wouldn't ever stop moving. I swear he had enough nervous energy to fill up a commercialized hot air balloon. The doctor said it was some sort of attention deficit thing in his brain. The boy couldn't focus for more than two seconds before going berserk. It was also the reason his pockets were always lined with a never-ending supply of joints.
Suppressing a groan of frustration, I reached over and shoved his knee.
“Maybe you should go join Tristan and work off some of that nervous energy.” The suggestion came pouring out of my mouth, and I watched as a smirk cracked across his blond, chiseled face, lighting up his eyes.
And god damn it if the guy didn't actually look like he was considering it. His hand reaching back to scratch the shorn side of his head, Burberry sweatshirt riding up, inadmissibly flashing me a glimpse of his eight pack. I’d seen cheese less shredded than him. Boy had the workout routine of a fucking racehorse.
Typical Jayson. I roll my eyes, Never one for wasting an opportunity to show off his abs. He even manages to flash ‘em subconsciously.
“You know Tristan doesn't share.” Jayson spat while taking a sip of his Starbucks iced latte. The commercialized sludge was like drinking straight cat piss and yet the dude inhaled the stuff on an almost religious level. Starting his day with six pumps of caramel syrup, ten sugar packets, and a drop of caffeine all tossed in a plastic bottle green stamped cup.
If that wasn't enough to make you want to blow your brains out, then I don't know what is. But Jayson was always like that.
Crazy.
On a fucked up, unreasonable level.
