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Yes, everyone and their mother know drugs are bad. They are bad, for a myriad of reasons; some I pick and choose, while others I knowingly shove under the rug for the sake of a good time. And call me a delusional hypocrite—quite the theme in my family—but Elias isn't having a good time.
He isn't wasted with friends, giving in to peer pressure, making questionable decisions he knows he'll wake up loosely regretting tomorrow morning, all in the name of making memories in his youth that maybe he'll tell his kids one day when they're old enough... only to do it all over again next weekend.
No. None of that is a part of his reality. He's right here. In his bougie corporate office. On a beautiful Saturday. Grappling with mounting pressure by snorting lines of cocaine.
All. Alone.
And if there's anything I know about my older brother... he doesn't do anything halfway. Nothing is just a phase for him.
"Don't give me that look."
"I'm not," I lie, closing the door behind me.
He gestures once more as he rounds his desk. "Then you want some?"
"I'm good."
His lips flatten. "Ah. It's like that, huh?"
"Like what?" I ask, already sensing anger boiling in my center.
"You—Hayden, self-identifying playboy and party animal—are too good for me. I never thought I'd see the day."
"That's not what I'm—"
He taps the oak slab, inches from the powder. "I seem to recall the cops confiscating five kilos at that little stunt you threw at Dad's house months back, which ended up all over the tabloids."
It was six kilos, actually... None of which I touched. Not that he'd believe that.
A smirk kisses his lips when I remain silent. "Half of New York City knows you're no saint, so don't pretend to be one."
"Fine." I fold my arms. "But even you can see how this is different."
He's about to hit me with what I'm sure is a clever rebuttal, when the phone on his desk interrupts him. Leaning over, he checks the caller, and there's no missing the way his shoulders tense. He picks up the phone, then slams it back down, whipping his startling gaze onto me.
"Is it so different?" He scrapes his card across the polished oak, collecting white flecks that've gone astray into his second line. "Last I checked, we're snorting the same snow, Brother. Don't believe me? Watch."
Reluctantly, I do, not that a second time eases the queasiness I feel any more than the first.
"Ohh, fuckkk." Grunting, he squeezes his eyes tightly, stumbling backwards like before, nearly smacking into the wall. Urgency blasts through me, and I'm half convinced something's wrong, until he literally woofs like a rabid dog—or an overzealous frat guy—and beats his chest with a fist. "Fuck! You see that? Don't tell me this is any different, like you haven't felt this exact high."
"I have, but—"
"But nothing." He saunters across the room with no destination in sight, mindlessly pacing, the rush shot straight to his brain. "Let me tell you..." he drifts off, heading toward the pull-out couch that's far-too lived in, then swerves my way, pointing a finger.
"Let me tell you the real difference between you and me. I keep my shit under lock and key, where it doesn't affect the family. And this?" He nods to the coke. "You need that shit, for your little party life. With your little party friends. For your fun," he seethes, and I don't quite believe the twinge of jealousy I hear. "But me? I utilize it, for its greatest purpose." He presses a finger to his temple. "To keep me sharp between the ears while I'm negotiating multi-million-dollar deals and running numbers all. Day. Long. And—"
He jolts when the phone rings once more. And again, he checks the caller I.D., curses below his breath, and slams the phone in its cage, rougher than before. Then he's eyeing that long third line, an amount I rarely see anyone attempt...
"Who were you on the phone with earlier?" I ask quickly, feeling desperate when his gaze doesn't veer. "You sounded awfully pent up... Very unprofessional." I force a chuckle, which earns his attention.
His lips curl in disgust. "A CEO. He's a total jackass."
Keep him talking, keep him talking...
"Oh, yeah? What'd you want with him?"
For a split second, his eyes narrow into slits. Good, I think, he's lucid enough to recognize my trickery. Until he shrugs, giving me the benefit of the doubt. Very un-Elias-Kingston of him.
