Maddox

 

The man has neat, combed blonde hair, a prim clean blue suit, an ironed tie, and shiny black shoes. I can imagine him in the halls of some Harvard club, laughing loudly at some smart-ass joke. He carries himself like he thinks he’s better than everybody else. That shines through even as he swings around drunkenly on the lawn, yelling into the small crowd, which has gathered to watch the show. He got too drunk and took a swing at another one of the guests. When he saw me coming for him, he ran out here.

 

“And what are you?” he snaps at me, as I approach him slowly across the grass. “What the hell are you? Who do you think you are? My father—”

 

“Please, boy, don’t tell me who your father is. I really don’t give a shit.”

 

The man blinks rapidly, double takes, and then laughs. “Nobody has ever spoken to me like that before,” he mutters, awed.

 

“You’re drunk,” I say, inching closer. “You took a swing at a man who did nothing to you. A man who was standing with his wife. You sucker punched him for no goddamn reason. It’s time you went home.”

 

“You’re telling me when to go home?”

 

Behind me, the crowd mutters:

 

“Oh, how dreadful!”

 

“What a silly boy!”

 

“An event! A real event!”

 

“Sock him one right back, good fellow!”

 

I ignore them and walk until I am within punching distance of the man. “Don’t make a fool of yourself more than you have already, kid,” I say. “I’m putting you in a car, and you’re going home.”

 

“Says who!” The man tilts his head back and shouts at the sky. “Says who! My name is Bartholomew Simmons, and I am the heir to the—”

 

“I don’t give a fuck if you’re heir to all the gold on the planet, kid,” I snap. “Stop messing around and come with me.”

 

“Or what?” he says, eyes bloodshot from all the drink. “If I don’t come with you, what then? What will you do then?”

 

I laugh grimly. “What do you think?”

 

He lifts his hands up, a poor imitation of a boxing stance, and weaves drunkenly. “Come on, then!” he squeals. “Let’s have it out!”

 

More mutters from the crowd:

 

“Oh, how uncouth!”

 

“Really, get some self-respect!”

 

“Do him!”

 

“Have a real good fight!”

 

I sigh and watch how he weaves, keeping my hand on his fists.

 

“Have it your way, kid,” I sigh.

 

“Oh, now what’re you going to do?”

 

I call over my shoulder to Stanley. “Knives, bring a car around, will you?”

 

“Yeah, Boss,” he says.

 

“I don’t need a car,” the man sneers. “Look at you, Mr. Tough Guy. You’re nothing but a thug. I’m the son of the most prestigious—”

 

“Only weak men go on and on about who their daddies are, boy,” I say. “Alright, let’s get you home.”

 

As I close the gap between us, he swings at me. I duck under his fist, and it glides through the air over my head. Then I dodge to the left as his other fist comes in for a jab. Both fists strike nothing, leaving him open. I jump at him, spreading my arms wide, and wrap my hands around his body.

 

“Ah!” he yelps, as I lift him off his feet and lower him to the grass, being careful not to hurt the bastard. Tackling a guest is one thing; injuring a guest is quite another.

 

He wriggles like a hooked fish, kicking and squirming. “Let me go!” he moans. “Let me go! Let me go!”

 

“Not until you’ve calmed down,” I grunt.

 

I shift the weight of my body so that I’m sitting on his back, and then I lean down and wrap my arm around his neck, holding him in a headlock. “I’m going to apply some pressure now,” I say. “The pressure stops when you stop panicking. You’re angry. You’re drunk. You’re not thinking straight. I know this is damn humiliating, kid. I get that. But it’s the only way you’ll stop.”

 

I squeeze his neck in the headlock. At first, he keeps kicking, bucking like he’s a bronco and he wants to throw me off. I apply steady pressure, talking to him all the time. “Think, Bartholomew. Think about where you are. Think about who can see what is happening. You’re drunk. Think.” I apply more pressure. We sit like this for around a minute. Knives sits in the car in the driveway, watching impassively.

 

Finally, Bart stops bucking, stops struggling. He goes limp and takes in slow breaths. Another minute goes by as he calms himself, and then he mutters, “I think you’re right. I think I should go home.”

 

“Good,” I say. “But you need to tell me… if I let you go, you’re not going to do anything stupid, are you? ’Cause if you do, we’ll have to repeat this all over again.”

 

“I won’t. I swear. Just… you’re hurting my neck. I want to go home.”

 

“Okay, good.” I take my hand from his neck, but don’t get off him straightaway, watching to see if he’ll go into fight mode again. He doesn’t, only lies in the grass, wheezing in breaths. I stand up, lean down, and heave him to his feet.

 

Taking him by the elbow, I lead him to the car. “You’ll be alright,” I tell him. “Just drink as much water as you can when you get home.”

 

“Okay, thank you,” he murmurs, dropping into the backseat of the car.

 

I go round to the driver’s side, tap on the glass. Knives lowers the window. “Take him home, that’s all,” I say. “No bullshit, Knives, or you’ll get worse than he did.”

 

Fear flickers across Knives’ face, and then he nods. “Got it, Boss.”

 

The car pulls away from the house. I turn to the crowd. “Alright, ladies and gents, show’s over.”

 

Soon after the crowd has dispersed, some disappearing into the mansion and others going around to the garden, Eden charges from the house. Something’s happened, I think, heart a boom-boom-boom in my chest.