4 - Wanna Play a Game?
Logan
Dad stops berating me once I manage to convince him I’ll stop being a tool for the rest of the night. And I do. For the most part.
I can’t explain what came over me earlier. But when Cordelia sashayed into the room in that dress, I wanted to smother her with kisses and cover her up with my blazer—all in the same breath.
Clarke: the debonair prick, purposely tried to bait me with his glowing charisma and good looks. Why is that guy my friend again? I find myself asking the question at least once a day now.
We sit through the mundane speech whilst sipping blander than bland champagne.
Scar Luciano charms his audience with tales of grandeur and why he’s chosen to support this, let’s face it, rather generic gallery.
Which is a load of bull. We all know the real reason he’s thrown millions into this.
There’s always a motive behind everything that guy does.
Gallerie Rousseau is packed out, mostly by the female population. Which is why Clarke and I got dragged into attending in the first place. Uncle Scar knew we’d fetch a crowd—we often do. Pretty sure this isn’t how Clarke wants to spend the latter half of his birthday evening, but here we are.
He seems to be enjoying himself, anyway, chatting up the ladies with those same recycled pickup lines and that foolproof grin. At this rate, everyone here will be coming to the after party.
Cordelia’s swanning around in her dress, attending to her duties.
First came trays of sparkling champagne.
Now she’s offering tiny little canapes out (which, by the way, taste like dog shit), lips curling into a stiff smile.
The girl’s got the whole fake happiness thing down to a tee.
I’ll give her that. But she doesn’t fool me.
I can see through her carefully woven mask.
That relationship with her mum is strained at best. They’re constantly walking on eggshells around each other.
Infuriating to watch, you know, given the fact my mum’s not here anymore.
Cordelia’s a daddy’s girl through and through.
It’s written all over his face. She is his whole world, and he’d willingly realign the stars in the cosmos for her.
Speaking of which, he’s been slinging me dirty looks every hour or so, keeping close by as if I’m going to just jump his daughter in the middle of his wife’s precious venture. The invitation is awfully tempting, I must say.
Dragging my eyes from the pair, I sip the bubbles from the fancy flute.
I’m on my fourth, maybe fifth glass. It’s all redundant by this point.
Ahead of me, a deal is struck between Cordelia’s mother and a chic young couple.
Some ludicrously expensive painting depicts a waterfall that looks as if someone’s then thrown up a rainbow on top of it. Not my cup of tea at all.
Colette, Cordelia’s mother, giggles incessantly about a joke that the dude just made - I doubt it was even funny.
But she’s twirling those strawberry-blonde curls around her finger, eyes sparkling, a petite hand resting on the guy’s shoulder suggestively.
If I were his partner, I’d have slapped her in the face by now.
Besides, if my woman was flirting like that with another man, there’d be hell to pay.
Collars, ropes, and a whip would be involved.
Dad locates me from across the room, striding over in his freshly pressed Brioni suit and matching loafers. He joins me on the weird ass modern art structure that’s doubling down as a seat. An uncomfortable one at that.
“Son,” he says, in a tone that suggests I’m about to get a second grilling.
“Matthew,” I reply, pretending to be fascinated by the crystal chandelier reflected in my dress shoes.
“Eyes.”
The command is simple. He knows what it means. And so, do I.
Dad and I have this unspoken deal that we don’t skirt around shit. When he wants my undivided attention, he’ll just say it outright, rather than the whole look at me bullshit. It doesn’t require a spoken response and there’s no room for argument.
I inhale a deep breath and raise my head high. But the minute my gaze lands on his stern expression, my traitorous lips start curling into a smarmy smile. His blue eyes, so alike my own, turn to stone. From the edge of my vision, I spot her watching our exchange.
“Eyes on me, kid.” He so kindly reminds me, snapping his fingers twice in front of my face. “Don’t get any ideas. I know she’s pretty, but you will not fuck this deal up for your uncle.”
I shrug, pretending I haven’t been copping glances of her tits all night. “Didn’t have any.”
Dad bunches his fist in my shirt. I flinch, but don’t pull away. “Do you think I was born yesterday?”
“No,” I say without hesitation. “You were born way before that, old man.”
His eyes close, and he breathes heavily through his nose. Despite his best efforts to keep a straight face, his lip twitches. I’m a cocky bastard. Always have been. Even at the tender age of four, I apparently played him up something chronic.
Like father, like son.
The grip at my throat relaxes and when dad opens his eyes, they’re softer, slightly less intense.
Only slightly. “You guys can go to your party,” he says, and it’s as if I’m sixteen again.
I’m twenty-one; I was going whether he approved or not.
Lithe fingers finally drop from my shirt, and with that typical disapproving fatherly gaze, he uses the palm of his hand to straighten the creases out of the cotton.
No, I didn’t iron it. “I’ll give you fair warning now, son,” he says, pointing a threatening finger at me before rising to his feet.
I stand as well, eager to get the hell out of this toxic place.
“Oh, and Logan,” he calls out over his shoulder. “Tell Clarke, you break anything, you pay for it. Your uncle’s words.”
Nodding quickly, I scan the room for the devil disguised as Prada. He’s busy sweet-talking a brunette. Pretty, a solid 8/10, but too bloody skinny. Someone throw her a cheeseburger and fries, jeez.
I make a beeline for him, fingers gripping him by the collar like an untamed hound.
“C’mon, Romeo. Time to go,” I growl, dragging him backwards and away from the startled female. “Ezio’s holding the fort at yours. There’ll be plenty of pussy waiting for you there.”
We take our leave, but not without one last glance at Miss Rousseau.
Having finished serving the guests their pompous appetisers, she sits on a black throne in the corner of the room.
Looking like the most ravishing gothic princess I ever did see.
The image would be flawless; except she’s staring into her glass with a forlorn frown which has no place being on that sassy mouth of hers.
“Took you long enough, boys,” Ezio greets us, as the gravel stones crunch under the Lamborghini’s tyres. Best thing about having a buddy who’s teetotal? He makes a stellar chauffeur.
Clarke’s residence stands before us in all its magnificent glory.
Well, it’s my Uncle Scar’s. Clarke isn’t technically his son, just the unfortunate bastard that got orphaned as a kid.
Scar took him under his wing as a feral little delinquent with a drinking problem and some serious daddy issues.
He’s still a walking-talking car crash most of the time, so not a lot changed, but he can now integrate into society. Most of the time.
Clarke’s not his son. Scars not my uncle. Details.
The mansion is, as the word suggests - bloody huge.
A colossal giant standing in stone and polished wood, silhouetted against the inky black sky.
Floor to ceiling windows stretch across the entire frontage, looking out over gardens of colourful flowers and fancy water features.
Golden lights glow behind glossy glass, casting a warmth of liquid amber seeping softly into the night.
“Yeah,” I say, dragging my eyes back to the conversation. “Had to peel him away from the ladies.”
“Standard,” Ez chuckles. Scarlet, his should-be girlfriend-but-he’s-too-pussy-to-ask, is practically attached to his hip, giggling like a chipmunk. Pretty sure astronauts can probably hear her from space.
“Alright, losers. Let’s get this party started!” Clarke hollers, wrapping his lips around his fingers to produce an ear-piercing hoot.
The crowd of people gathered at the front entrance all cheer back at him as if he’s some kind of rock star on tour. I laugh, shaking my head, and climb the stone steps after him.
Inside, the celebrations are well and truly underway.
Every room is filled with teens—drinking, dancing, and doing things they definitely shouldn’t be.
Music pounds through the walls, with bass heavy enough to rattle the picture frames off their hangers.
Let’s hope Scar’s glued his expensive decor down, as I doubt, he’ll have much left by the end of the night.
Although it wouldn’t be an issue, he isn’t short on money.
He could afford to replace everything twice over and then some.
As I wander through the house, I pass a couple of kids making out on the stairs.
The dude’s got his tongue so far down her throat, he’s about to find out what she had for lunch.
In the kitchen, someone’s already spilt something sticky on the tiles.
My shoe makes a grim squelch when I make the fatal mistake of stepping in it.
I dare not look down. Honestly, I really don’t want to know what it is.
I grab a plastic cup off the shiny marble counter and pour in a generous two fingers of vodka.
Then I pop the cap on a can of red bull, and slosh it together, taking a swig.
Pretty sure that combination shouldn’t work, but oh man, it does.
I’ll regret it at the first gym session next week but for now I couldn’t care less.
Coach keeps reminding me that my body’s a temple, and not to keep feeding crap into my system.
I keep telling him I’m twenty-one, not forty fucking five.