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Seriously, when's the last time he's slept? I think, but keep my opinion to myself, not wishing to hear about how I've never worked a day in my life.
I shuffle in my small chair, avoiding his intense gaze, and return to my monitor.
"How's that report coming along?" he asks, as if he already knows the answer. Which he does. "Ahh," he hums. There's no mistaking the delight in his tone. "And yet you wonder why you were given the easy stuff."
Under the table, my hands clench into fists. What's most infuriating about this whole thing is I don't even want a serious assignment. I couldn't care less about Kingston Entertainment, financial records, or stuffy office buildings. But the fact that I wasn't even given a chance...
"Don't act like any part of this internship is real. Dad may have sprung it on you, but you love any chance to gloat."
"Hayden, Hayden..." His tongue clicks sarcastically. "I'm hurt. After all we've been through?" I roll my eyes, only for my stomach to drop at the following silence. He speaks in a near whisper. "Dad sat you in this chair, not me." Pity shines through his words. Only a sliver, but for Elias, it may as well be a mountain.
I swivel in my chair, meaning to say something—what that something is exactly, I don't really know. Maybe a question. An observation. Anything at all that would slot his feet into my shoes for once, so he can feel what it's like to be the outcast. The pit stain of the Kingston family.
But that something never comes.
Standing proudly in the doorway, the golden son faces me again, all that pity slicking off him like rain, splashing onto the toes of his Oxfords.
He winks. "Have fun with Doris."
FIFTEEN
HAYDEN
For the next hour, I suffer through typing at the speed of a snail, Doris's verbal lashings, judgmental glares, and the absolute shitstorm that is Elias on the phone. Even still, when not a sorry soul remains in the building besides the three of ours, his curtains remain fully drawn in secrecy and his heated negotiations blare through the thin walls, growing louder and more anxious.
It's a miracle he's still got a full head of hair.
I check my watch. Five o'clock on the dot. Time to get the hell out of Dodge.
Much to the disapproval of Doris, I flick off my monitor, then kick my shoes up on the desk with an exaggerated groan, not even halfway done with my report. And like the good little assistant I've been forced to play... I wait... and wait... for my dismissal. Not from Doris, but Elias, whose arguments show no signs of letting up.
I thrum my knuckles on the side of my chair, flipping a pen between my fingers, and when I start whistling, Doris shakes her head, seething with contempt.
After five minutes of my precious time crawl by, I bolt to my feet, pacing outside his door like a—
A roar erupts from inside Elias's office. "Well, fuck you too, then!" The hairs rise on the back of my neck, followed by a sharp slam of what I presume to be his phone. I blink, peeking at Doris, who only click-clacks away on her keyboard, humming.
And, shit, am I not the worst brother in New York City when I can't stop a snicker from spewing past my lips. Oh, man... for the guy who always seems to have it all together, this new insight into Elias is quite enlightening, to say the least.
Not wanting him to take another call and leave me twiddling my thumbs, and partly driven by the urge to gloat, I stroll through his office door. "Gee, bro, have you ever tried meditation? It might do you some—"
My snide remark fizzles out into thin air, overpowered by a sharp inhale, a sound I instantly recognize from strip joints or house parties or the bathroom stalls at clubs.
But never from the nostrils of my own brother.
Whether I see the mental image coming or not, doesn't alleviate the surprise that twists my gut when I swing the door open to Elias bent over his oak table, snorting a line of white powder.
"Uhhh," he groans on a curse, stumbling back while pinching his nose. Shaking his head violently, oblivious to my presence, he makes for the wall of floor-to-ceiling windows, before smacking them with vigor. "Woo!" he bellows, his hands trembling at his sides.
I'm stuck in the doorway, my ankles deep in a case of cement, when he turns his suit-clad body. "Oh, hey. Didn't see you there." He chuckles with a smile—a real smile—and gestures toward his desk. "You want some?"
His glassy-eyed stare steals the wind from me, closes my throat like a paper straw—tighter than the rolled-up Benjamin on his table and colder than the Black Amex lain beside two more lines. Sorrow pangs in my chest, facing his red stare once more, his pupils blown wide.
Maybe I'm not fit to judge. No, scratch that. I'm definitely not fit to judge. If all truth be told, I've partaken in my fair share of drugs, snorted cocaine off hookers' tits, smoked the devil's lettuce, drunk my way down the bottle through every nightclub in Manhattan and Vegas and Ibiza, then fucked the bottle service girls.
Okay? Feel slimy about me yet? Good. Sue me, because you won't catch me crying my heart out in some priest's confession booth. What's done is done. Simple as that. I've had my fun—still have my fun. But this, this right here?
This is something else entirely.
