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ONE
HAYDEN
Six months ago, my buzzkill of a father gave me an ultimatum. Clean up my act or kiss my trust fund goodbye. Let's just say...
My act could go for some bleach.
A perky blonde stands between my legs, clad in fishnet stockings and seven-inch, clear platform heels. She bends over in a way that honestly has me questioning if she has a backbone. But before I decipher my answer, she pops back up, long locks cascading down her bare shoulders.
Taking another drag of my cigarette, I let the nicotine cloud my brain, draping an arm over the backside of the couch. When dollface twists and faces me, flaunting the Benjamins dangling off her G-string, whistles and hollers erupt in the private room. A rowdy concoction of raging testosterone, silver spoons, and self-proclaimed fuckboys, all brought to you by ten of my Sigma Alpha Epsilon alumni brothers.
One of them being Jeremy, who sits to my left in a similar, relaxed state, as another stripper sways her hips over his lap in a serenading dance. Through the red haze in the air, he eyes me above the rim of his Whiskey Coke.
"You got that look again," he says, his voice hardly audible over the R&B thumping throughout the room.
"What look?"
"Like your dick's here, but your head isn't. And not in a good way. Got something on your mind?"
Christ, am I really such an easy read for him? Well, we have known each other our entire lives. Since first grade, to be exact.
I shrug, smoke pluming past my lips. "Ol' Pops has caught on that I'm not actually getting my real estate license."
He snorts into his drink. "You don't say."
I shoot him a look.
"Sorry, sorry." He clears his throat, suddenly wearing a serious expression. "What makes you think he knows? Aside from the fact that it's two months past the date when your alleged class should've finished."
I roll my eyes.
Jeremy fucking Brooks. Even though we're both the ripe age of twenty-four, literally born two days apart, he's always been like the older brother between us. The wiser of the two. Maybe it's because he has his life in order and his shit figured out. While I... well... don't.
Dollface—Candy, is her stage name—runs a hand down my chest. When she notes my lack of interest, she struts over to the pole positioned in the center of the room, earning another round of cheers and tips. Seeing the commotion, Jeremy's lady follows suit.
"Oh, come on, Hayden. You knew he wasn't going to fall for that. You'll have to be a bit more convincing."
I exhale sharply. "And how the hell am I going to do that?"
"For starters, maybe don't host orgies at his house."
"That was one time."
And the main reason for my intervention six months ago, I don't add. Jeremy's already well aware.
My father's reaction to the whole thing was completely excessive. It was just one party. So what, I and a couple dozen of New York City's top models and A-listers banged on the couches, the guest beds, the kitchen counters, the dining table and... other places... and the cops were called... and the whole thing ended up plastered all over popular gossip sites...
Big deal. Boo-fuckin'-hoo. The way I see it, he should thank me. That party was the most interesting thing that's happened in his and his dull business friends' lives in the past decade or three—and they weren't even in attendance.
But, there's no matter. Sex party or not. I'm still the shame of the Kingston family—his words, not mine. Guess I'm just doing my job by living up to the hype.
"I don't know, man..." Jeremy rubs his chin, pondering. "Oh! I got it—maybe you can start attending church."
What the fu—
My head snaps to him, prepared to berate him for his outlandish joke. But I find his eyes unwavering. I blink, waiting for a smirk, the gotcha. Then blink again... He's... serious? From the corner of my eye, I catch a self-identifying "frat lord" wielding a money gun, raining an unknown sum of cash over Candy's head. Knowing this crowd, it's probably in the thousands.
Meanwhile, Jeremy thinks I—admittedly, the worst of us all—should go to church? Confine myself between the four walls of a confession booth? That's like asking a fox to guard the henhouse, then acting surprised when the hens wind up nestled between my sheets.
