“You done?”
Ty’s face is still simmering red, his shoulders still heaving from the string of shit-talk he’s just unleashed on me from across the room.
“Am I done?”
“Acting like a whiny bitch, I mean.”
Tyler - predictably - lunges toward me as Ash hauls him back and swears at me.
“Are you done?” Dylan, on my side of the room, shoves me back, glaring at me.
“It depends,” I growl.
This is what happens when two enormous egos with chips on their shoulders come crashing together. It’s like Clash of The Titans or a goddamn Godzilla movie, only instead of Tokyo, it’s my fucking study that’s getting shit all over. I make a mental note to bill the asshole for the resurfacing work my desk it going to need after he’s just stabbed it with a gold-plated letter opener Patrick-Bateman-style.
Dylan sighs. “Depends on what, man.”
“On whether or not he’s ready to fess up to backstabbing a friend like a little drama-happy high school girl.”
“Hey, pal, don’t put you being a fucking psychopath on me. You cock-blocked yourself on that—”
This time, I’m the one who lunges, and Dylan barely yanks me back - completely off my feet, actually - before I can get my hands around Tyler’s neck.
“Enough!” he roars, shoving me back down as I try and scramble for my feet.
“You,” he jabs a finger down at me, “sit the fuck down and shut up.”
“Swallow my balls.”
Dylan rolls his eyes as he whirls on Tyler.
“And you,” he shakes his head. “That was a dick move, Ty. Telling Ana.”
Tyler mutters something, and I get to my feet.
“Something you want to tell the class, Van Der Haus?” I hiss.
Dylan, still playing negotiator, whips his head back around to me.
“Dude, you can at least admit that given the circumstances, he had reason to be fucking pissed.”
“I’ll admit that when he admits he’s a fucking imbecile for ever believing that shit.”
In case you’re completely lost, I should mention that the crux of this whole blowout is that Brent managed to convince Tyler - with an admittedly pretty decently forged paper trail - that I’ve been fucking his mom.
Spoiler: I haven’t.
To be fair, René Van Der Haus is a fox by basically anyone’s metric. Sultry chestnut hair, emerald green eyes, and a body most twentysomethings would actually kill for. It doesn’t hurt that she was literally a glamor model before Kip Van Der Haus had the smarts to wife that as fast as humanly possible. It also doesn’t hurt that she’s all of seventeen years older than Tyler.
That all said, even in this fucked up crew of morally questionable pricks with ego issues who more often than not think with their dicks, I think it goes without saying that moms are off-fucking-limits.
Christ, at least I hope it goes without saying.
Brent, however, is one insidiously convincing motherfucker - that I think we can all agree on. That afternoon - the day she left - Brent went to Tyler as “a concerned friend” and fed him all sorts of horse-shit about me and René. The guy even had grainy, poorly shot “photo evidence” - completely photoshopped of course - of her and I embracing outside a motel, or making out standing in the waves at Littleton Beach.
I mean that should have been the dead giveaway. Me, in the fucking ocean?
Please.
“Fine,” Tyler mutters, yanking away from a wary-looking Ash.
“Fine, my judgment was clouded, okay? It was shitty of me to bring all that up to her. But fuck, man, how’d you feel if you found out I was hounding after Mrs. Tottingham?”
“Worried.”
“See?”
“For you.”
He rolls his eyes.
“Okay, well what about that cute trainer of yours, Katrina. What’d you do if I was after her?”
“Assuming I’m correct in thinking you do actually have a vagina, I’d wish you two all the best.”
“Suck a dick.”
“I can promise you, Katrina won’t.”
“Fuck,” Ash mutters from the corner. “Listening to you two is literally making me dumber. Can we please just kiss and make the fuck up?”
Tyler eyes me. “Fine, but I’m not apologizing for shit until you admit that you’re a fucking psychopath.”
I shrug. “Easy. Done. I’m a psychopath.”
Tyler scowls.
“And an asshole.”
“Is that even up for debate?”
He grins. “Jesus, such an asshole.”
“And yet you’ve hung out with me for, what, twenty-four years? The fuck does that make you?”
“An idiot. Or toilet paper.”
Ash chuckles.
Dylan shakes his head.
Tyler grins. “Are we cool?”
“Are you going to reimburse me for getting that desk refinished?”
He rolls his eyes. “Christ, Crown.”
“That a yes?”
“Bill me, douchebag.”
Yeah, we’re cool.
“I solemnly swear to never chase after your mom, all right? All due respect, of course.”
He glares at me. “Good.”
“Now, your sister—”
“I will disfigure your face and piss on your corpse.”
I grin.
“But, guess I don’t have to worry about you sniffing around Kensington, seeing as you’re all hung up on Anastasia.” He shakes his head. “Jesus, I mean who saw that coming?”
“Me?” Dylan says flatly.
Ash shrugs. “I did too.”
Tyler shakes his head. “Ahh fuck it, so did I, to be honest.”
“You know you’re a bastard for dropping that on her.”
Ty nods. “I know.”
“I’ve still got a mind to fuck that face up.”
“I’d like to see you try.”
“Aanaand we’re back,” Dylan mutters, shooting us both a look.
“Can we put our dicks away and talk logistics with Carmichael? Ash, where we at with that?”
Ash grins that dark, wicked smile of his that has a way of making girls do all sorts of things they swore they’d never do with him.
“Our guys checked in two hours ago. They’re airborne.” His smile deepens. “Apparently, Brent’s a cryer.”
Right, there’s that. Yes, Brent’s an insidious, smart motherfucker who managed to con me, René, and about half the families in South Neck into letting him manage our finances. He also just did some insidiously twisted shit like make me think Dylan was suing me, and vice versa. But Brent fucked up.
Hard.
You see, Brent went after the wrong rich people. And I’m not even just talking about me. He went after Ty’s mom, and even though I very much haven’t been sleeping with her, that means something to me. And Dylan. And Ash. And definitely Tyler.
Here’s the thing: you can poo-poo rich people and their money, and their connections, and their privilege all you want. But money, and connections, and privilege buy influence.
Influence, or hard motherfuckers with shady military contractor backgrounds who don’t mind taking a fat check to do what the U.S. Justice Department won’t: extradite an American from Thailand.
I glance at my watch and smile.
Brent’s actually on a cargo plane as we speak, touching down in about five hours. And then, the meanest, smartest, most vicious attorney in New York is going to tear him a new asshole.
Ash, obviously.
I’ve thought about it, and even if it did end up almost killing me, I don’t feel bad about the Maisy thing. Well, I did, for a second. But then I looked her up on Facebook. Maisy Karl is the head of marketing for some dot com company out in San Francisco, with two kids, a dog, a Mercedes, and a husband who bears a striking resemblance to David fucking Beckham.
I think it’s safe to say she’s doing just fine.
Also, fuck Brent. That asshole never had a shot with her anyway.
So, that’s where we’re at. Tyler doesn’t want to murder me with his bare hands, Brent’s on his way back to face his crimes, and at this point, a fair chunk of the money he walked away with is actually already back where it should be.
But I can barely think about any of that. Even the money. Fuck, especially the money. Acknowledging how much of a rich asshole thing it is to say, money really is just money, at the end of the day.
But Ana?
Well, that’s something you don’t make, or earn, or inherit. And that’s definitely something you don’t get back without fighting to death for it.
Half an hour later, Ash and Tyler have taken off, leaving me and Dylan to talk business.
“Here. I never thought I’d say this but please smoke one of these. I don’t think I can talk shop with you while you’re PMSing like you’ve been all day.”
He tosses me a pack of cigarettes from the desk drawer, and I grin, but I shake my head.
“I’m thinking about quitting actually.”
“Nothing like a little brush with death to make you give up some vices.”
“Yeah? What are you giving up?”
Dylan grins. And so do I, for second at least, before the vague memory of that night comes cutting in.
“I’ve apologized for driving us off a cliff, right?”
“Once or twice, yeah,” he shakes his head. “We’re good, man.”
“Fuck Brent,” I mutter.
“Seriously, fuck that guy. I swear to God, I’m bringing popcorn when I go to watch Ash burn him at the stake.”
We both laugh.
It feels good to laugh.
It feels good to be alive.
I toy with the pack of cigarettes in my lap for a second before I chuck them away and stand. I need something to calm my nerves.
“Joint?”
Dylan shrugs. “Sure.”
I move behind my fucked-up desk, open the top drawer, and pull out the weed and rolling papers.
“So what do you think of the idea?”
Dylan makes a face, ruffling his hair as he watches me work.
“As your friend or as a fairly successful investment analyst.”
I lick the edge of the paper and finish the roll.
“Either.”
“As a friend,” he shrugs, “cool idea, man.”
“As the professional?”
“Fucking awful idea.”
I frown. “Noted.”
The lighter sparks in my hand, the end of the joint glowing as I puff.
“You really want to go through with this?”
“Yep.”
Dylan shakes his head as he takes the joint from my hand. “Bastian, businesses like this,” he makes a face, “they’re not sure things.”
“I think we of all people can agree that life isn’t a sure thing.”
He takes a drag.
“Let’s put it this way, driving with you after a night at Brent Carmichael’s house is better odds than this.”
“Excellent.”
“You’ve already made up your mind haven’t you.”
I smile. “I’ve already filed the LLC paperwork.”
Dylan laughs, choking mid-toke. “Well, fuck, man. Go ahead and ignore that doom and gloom shit then.”
I grin.
“You talk to her yet?”
I don’t say anything. He just nods, passing the joint back my way. I pull on it slowly, finally mellowing out after a week of cold-turkey-ing cigarettes, before I finally glance up at him.
“So how was she, when you went out there.”
“Thought you didn’t want to know.”
“Well, now I do.”
He raises a brow at me.
“Speak, asshole.”
Dylan shrugs. “Good. She looked good, man. Angry, ticked off, not exactly happy to see me, but good.”
We sit in silence for a minute, just quietly smoking until it’s cashed.
“That other thing we talked about.” Dylan glances at me. “Does she—”
“No.”
But she will.
Because for all my shit, for all the grand gestures and big words, I’ve still got one more string to pull.
One more card to play.
One more shot at getting it right this time.
Dylan stands, clapping me on the shoulder.
“It’s good to be alive, man. Remember that.”
“Please don’t start in with the ‘glowing light at the end of a tunnel’ shit with me now, okay?”
“And fuck up that scowly angry thing you’ve worked so hard on for all these years? Nah, wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Dick.”
“Look, from the perspective of a guy who spent a few months a little checked out from the world?”
“That what we’re calling comas now?”
He flips me off.
“Just remember that life’s all about picking a path and just seeing where it takes you. That’s about the only control we have.”
“And a kumbaya to you too, buddy.”
Dylan grins. “Whatever. I need to get back to New York and hash out this merger bullshit with our team before we tackle this Brent thing.”
“Sounds fun.”
“Hey, get ready for that rat race dude. You’re about to jump head first into a world of shit.” He nods his chin at me. “Give me a call before you leave, yeah?”
I nod.
“Oh, hey, I meant to ask you something.” He turns at the door to the office, his face puzzled.
“What exactly happened to you at your graduation party?”
I frown. “What?”
“Your graduation party, after high school. What happened to you that night? And don’t tell me you blacked out on your boat because something tells me that’s bullshit.”
I’m about to tell him to fuck off and mind his own business when I stop and chew on it for a second.
“I picked a path.”
He raises a brow at me.
“And how’d that turn out?”
“I think we’re about to find out.”