About a Boy

 

When people start writing there is this idea that you have to get everything right first time, every sentence has to be perfect, every paragraph has to be perfect, every chapter has to be perfect, but what you're doing is not any kind of public show, until you're ready for it.

- Irvine Welsh

 

RISKE

 

I could barely keep my fucking food down. Not that I really wanted to anyway…

The lobster was dry, the macaroni was mealy and every bite I took was forced, practically shoveled down my throat to keep my fingers occupied. I couldn't help it. Every time I saw him, my fist felt an itch.

An itch that only his face could scratch.

I was the biggest masochist in the world. Because only a fool would dream of the day he would ruin his own career, and I’d been dreaming of that day—the day I kicked the living shit out of Harrison Kennedy for the last unbearable six months.

Since the day we inked the deal to bring him on. Since the day I became his publisher. Since the day he sexually assaulted my secretary.

In the span of twenty-four hours, I made an employee and an enemy out of the biggest TV star in the last ten years. And eighteen weeks later, he was here, at the Summit, as he was supposed to be, soaking in all of the literal and figurative sucking that came with being a star.

I fucking hated guys like him—men that lapped up the limelight. They were poachers who pretended to own the world, users and abusers who sought to take advantage of everything they could in sight.

I knew them better than most. I was born to one.

For the past nine years I truly believed the lessons of my father hadn’t bled into his son, but here I was, selling my soul to a devil like Harrison, all to get ahead, all to cement a legacy that made me feel lesser and lesser with each breath.

I sipped on the Scotch in my hand, lamenting the loss of the man I once hoped I’d become. But the bartender wouldn't just shut the fuck up… he spoke to an audience of none.

“Fuck me. Would you look at him? He's barely said a thing and they are practically on their knees. Who wouldn't want a life like that? Where the world is yours and you never have to ask for a thing?”

I didn't respond… because my answer would be “I wouldn’t.” But I wouldn't dare dash the dreams of a broken bartender. He simply wanted what he didn't have, and was I any different? I had searched for normalcy and anonymity in a world where there was none… and wound up paying the price that cost me everything.

My eyes narrowed at the crowd around Harrison. The barkeep leaned in.

“Seriously. You should've seen the woman he walked off with. She was a hard ten. I had hoped she would be the mother of my future children but alas she went for the bigwig. They all do. And tonight I bet he'll be bending her tight little body in all types of ways. Whoever said ‘Money doesn't make the man’ must not have made a lot.”

I snorted, breathing in the smell of my scotch. The heady elixir was an intoxicating swirl of scent that dulled my senses, and I might not have noticed her if it wasn't for that peek of skin at her bareback, the distinctive freckle right below her neck line.

I had tasted that freckle too many times to count.

I dropped my drink, and the liquor scattered over the carpet. It had barely sunk into the fabric before I was searing a path into the center of the ballroom, shoulders locked, my fingers balled so tightly into a fist that I thought they might break. Every piece of me, every body part, was on fire. And frankly? I was ready to burn this bitch to the ground.

Thirty feet had turned to twenty and before I could make it to ten, a splash of cold reality doused the flame. I stopped on the dime, to the sight of Griff’s slight smirk and the slow seductive one of the woman beside him. They both smiled

“Well, look what I have here…” Griff gripped the woman at his side. “Looks like I found an old friend. This lovely lady here says she knows you, Foxx. She seems to have known you very well.”

I practically saw red as he thrust her into my face.

Christy Nicholson.

Desperate housewife. And the last person I wanted to see. I've barely glanced at her before turning to Griff.

“So, I see. And it seems that in that amount of time you two have gotten quite friendly.”

My best friend winked. “You know me I'm always… ‘up’ for making new friends.” He rocked back on his heels, grinning.

“You're always ‘up’ for anything. You’ve never been picky.”

He frowned, looking down at Christy who excused herself for a drink. It seemed that Christy Nicholson had grown into the type of woman that had never seen a martini she didn't like. It was the second time in two days that I had seen her, and she was slightly sloshed during both, her breathy, high-pitched voice slurred.

I stared at Griff.

“Have you lost your fucking mind?”

He threw his hands up in the air, clueless. “What? I thought you were into the Betty, the blonde?”

“The only thing I'm going to get into…” I growled. “… is your fucking ass. If you want to bang the boozy blonde, then keep that to yourself. Otherwise, leave me out of it.”

“Ohhhh…” Griff nodded slowly. “I get it. Chasing Veronica down, are you? Well, from what I saw, Veronica was chasing Jughead. You might want to give this one up Archie.”

I came closer to him. “Griff… I've grown up with you. Watched you make it through nearly twenty long years. But if you want to make it to twenty-eight, you’ll shut the fuck up and mind your business with this one.”

He shrugged. “Fine. But if you need me later, don't come calling, alright? I'll be knee-deep in some Betty.” He walked off, swaggering back to the bar where Christy stood. I didn't tell him about Christy's current marriage situation. I didn't care.

All that mattered to me was the brunette I hadn't been able to get out of my mind. But she was nowhere in sight. I stomped towards the center of the amber-lit ballroom, but when I went to split the crowd that had surrounded her and Harrison, the middle of the pack was empty.

I wanted to roar with rage. I was too fucking late. And she… she was gone….

 

***

 

KAT

 

I couldn't remember the last time I felt like this. The rooms were spinning.

I was floating on a cloud I couldn't come down from, and every time I tried to descend my way back to earth, another sip of my drink sent me flying again.

Maybe it was because my stomach was empty. I hadn’t eaten the awful food at the dinner table, and what few bites I managed to make into my mouth, I barely swallowed. The sour taste of potential failure had tainted everything. I was drowning in my own self-pity, and to throw myself a life raft, I let myself cling to the dinghy that was abject drunkenness, praying that it would take me away from the feeling of powerlessness that was overwhelming me

I had put my life into my business, sunk my soul into my small press. Making it in the publishing world was all that had mattered to me for the past five years, and to think that that dream wouldn't come to pass was a prospect I’d pay to avoid.

Luckily I didn't have to. Harrison provided the drinks, and the only tab I'd run up for the evening was the tally of fucks I had to give. For a moment, even if it was fleeting, I was free.

I’d leave and stop thinking of Harrison as a meal ticket and more as a temporary partner in crime, a companion to scare the sorrows away.

We headed into the hallway, passing under the chandeliers with a laugh in our throats and Harrison's flask in my hand. I held onto his Armani-covered arm.

“Can you believe these people?” I snorted. “That woman practically soiled herself when you said hello. You have to buy stock in Pampers. Trust me; you’d make a mint.”

“I don't know about that,” he chuckled, hanging his head humbly. “A couple of guys back there might've crapped themselves looking at you. That one guy could've caught a family of flies with that open mouth, and the other nearly drooled on my fucking shoes. They were a mess.”

I giggled feeling artificially giddy. “well what a pair we make. The publisher and the publish-ee. Those New York dickheads were fools to let you go. If you were my client, I’d hold onto you for dear life.”

His eyes flashed. “is that so?”

“Of course,” I said, staring into the swirling skylights. “Your book is going to be huge. I mean, you're huge. Everything is going to be huge, and anyone that doesn't want to be a part of that doesn't know diddly.”

I stumbled on my heel, reaching out for Harrison. His finger slid along the silk at my side, and as he sought to steady my stance, I felt the flickering of a sense of fear, some small warning signal that was slowly working its way into the back of my thoughts. I didn't know whether to brush it aside.

Harrison was too busy helping me to catch on to my feelings. “Here,” he muttered. “Let's fix that heel.”

My walk began to turn into a sway. The isolated hallway outside of the ballrooms felt smaller and smaller, and suddenly I didn't recognize the corners in which we were heading. The rooms had shrunk.

How had we wound up in the stairwell?

I found myself sitting. My head was leaned against the cold tile of a white-washed wall, and suddenly the flickering that had been in my head was slowly working its way between my legs. A feathering touch had found its way under the skirt of my dress, and I swatted it away, jumping when I realized that it was Harrison's hands.

I pushed him off. At least, I tried to.

He was leaning over me, hovering. “Come on,” he whispered, rasping. “I know you want it. You said I was going to be huge. I want to show you how huge I can be.” His hot breath was heavy against my neck. Somehow, in the span of one minute, Harrison had shrugged out of his jacket, removed his shoes. His collar was unbuttoned, and he was rubbing his body against the length of mine. I could feel his unwanted heat, his heavy knuckles… and the brushings of a hard-on.

I slapped at his chest, but the movement fell slow. Way too slow.

Fuck. Had I drunk that much? Sure, I was taking healthy swigs, but I wasn’t a lightweight by any means. I knew my limits. With Elena for a sister and a best friend in Laney, those two had made sure I’d found them.

But Harrison's bourbon had pushed me way beyond them. I feel dizzy—drugged. Had I seen Harrison take a sip of his own lethal mixture? I wasn't sure that I had, and that niggling signal of fear became a full-on fire alarm. I beat on Harrison's chest, trying to break his concentration, but his focus was unwavering. His palms were everywhere. All over me. And the helping hand he had provided earlier was rough and invasive.

I started to bring my knee right towards his nuts, but the motion was glacial and he blocked it. A scream started to form in my throat, and before I could let it loose, I looked up to find Harrison hanging from the ceiling. Or rather hanging from someone's hand.

Five fingers were wrapped around his opened collar, hoisting him high into the air. The hand threw him against the wall with a bone-breaking crunch, and when I glanced upwards, I found that the face associated with the hand was none other than Ethan’s. His countenance was full of rage. Chocolate-colored eyes beneath a set of thick golden brows were dark and stormy, and the storm was centered around Harrison’s head, which was now bleeding from the hairline.

Harrison held out his palms. “Wait a second,” he said. “Just h-hold on now, alright?” He pointed in my direction. “She came on to me. Whatever I did, she wanted. Now, don't make this more than it is. This is all just one big misunderstanding.”

He cowered under the thunderous stalk that was Ethan’s walk. It was like the beginning of a hurricane—slow-moving and deadly. Ethan circled his prey.

“I get it. It's never your fault because they all want it, right? Women are somehow just waiting to be fucked… at least in your opinion they are. Let me make something clear here, Harry. The only person here who’s getting fucked… is you. Now, take your beating like a champ, champ.” He rolled up his sleeves. “I’d hate to see a grown man cry…”

And then he let him have it. A fast fist connected with Harrison’s cheekbone, and the scumbag’s head went flying sideways. His face barely moved before Ethan was slamming a knee to his solar plexus, doubling the douche bag at the waist as he landed on the staircase below, his body crumbling on the steps. He let out a groan that sounded more like a gurgle, and Ethan reached for him to reveal a mouth full of blood.

Mr. Hollywood had lost a tooth. Maybe a couple of them.

He was angry—that was clear enough. He mumbled around his mess of a mouth, half-dazed, and as he staggered to his feet, clumsy and awkward, Ethan simply waited, calmer than the eye of a tornado ready to strike. His tux was barely intact, the tie undone. I hadn’t noticed that he had thrown his jacket aside earlier when he had gone for Harrison, and the heavy garment lay beside me on the stairs, smelling of him, a coffee-flavored aroma that felt so familiar—even more so than before. He’d always been more sophisticated than the others around—more in control.

Even then, nine years back, a sense of power and wealth came off his body in actual waves, and though he tried desperately to hide it, it showed in the way he walked, the way he talked—the way he fucked. He once ripped through my clothes as if money—and, clearly, lace, were no barrier, and when I touched the fabric of his expensive jacket as I sat on the steps, I realized that it felt hot… as if his skin were on fire. His eyes certainly were.

Lava-like and earthy, they seared a hole into Harrison’s skull with the power of a hundred exploding suns, and I remembered a time when they held a different type of fire—a blaze that my foggy mind was too fuzzy to remember right. I stared at the showdown, feeling myself sink into an abyss.

I could barely keep my eyes up. A darkness inside was pulling me down deep.

But the sound of skin-to-skin contact shook me upright. Harrison lunged for Ethan in the tiny space on the stairwell landing. He overextended his body, trapping himself right into a headlock as Ethan wrapped him up tight, holding his neck into a crushing vice.

Harrison strained within his restraints, making little leeway as Ethan gripped him. He swung Harrison’s body into the wall for a second time, and this time when Harrison stood, Ethan pummeled him, knocking a fist against his jaw, planting another one into the bastard’s abdomen in a move that took the wind from the fucker’s lungs, causing him to suck for breaths. The sound was sickening and oddly satisfying.

The slightly smaller man tried to grab for Ethan, but the broader, stronger Ethan simply stepped away, avoiding his swipes. He struck forward for the finishing blow and as he landed an elbow to the back of Harrison’s neck, bringing the struggling stranger to his knees, he gave him one last little push that crumbled the megastar to the floor. With no final statements or fanfare, the six foot-three wall of flesh and bone walked over the heap that used to be a person and grabbed my hand, half-carrying me to my wobbly, swollen feet.

The next thing I felt were strong arms beneath me, holding me in the air. They swept me into their safety, and I settled into their unsettling warmth. I breathed a sigh that was foreign to my own ears, and before I could finally close my eyes, I felt a kiss—soft and subtle, just above my brow, stamping solidly on my furrowed forehead.

But the touch was gone just as quickly as it appeared. It was the first time I remembered feeling safe since the rescue from the fire… and it was the last thing I remembered that night…