Gant
Two years later. Summer time.
Suffocating despite a surplus of air all around you is a special kind of torture.
You know it’s there. You can even feel it against your pores if it’s blowing hard enough, but you can’t swallow it. You can’t get enough of it.
Something in my throat and nose blocks my airway. It’s wet, thick, and warm.
It’s not blood.
It’s not blood.
It’s not blood again, I chant, but it doesn’t work. The wetness thickens by the second. I keep waiting for it to spew from my nose to give me some relief, but it’s so viscous, it won’t leak out.
“Swallow,” a voice behind me whispers. “Swallow. Then you can breathe.”
My throat won’t cooperate like the muscles have forgotten their basic function. They contract, constricting the passageway even more, but they never relax.
A fist strikes my back just as Zedd’s G wagon rolls over a speed bump.
I damn near sever my tongue from the force, and swallow a fuck ton of saliva and a gush of fresh blood in the process.
Suddenly I can breathe.
The city rushes back to me, as does the cool air rustling my hair from the backseat window. I stick my head out of it, inhaling big gulps, but it still isn’t enough.
“I think we’re almost there,” Bae whispers again from the third row.
He knew better than to sit beside me.
I refuse to look at him. I refuse to see the pity in his eyes. Instead, I stare at my bloodless knuckles wrapped around the child-locked door handle. I’d been trying to open it for the entire ride, ready to propel myself onto the nearest sidewalk.
“I’m fine,” I breathe, but I can feel Zedd”s and étienne’s worried gazes from the rearview and passenger mirrors burning into me, telling me that no one believes my words. The fact that étienne stops his cyberstalking for long enough to even acknowledge me speaks volumes.
I don’t know what’s more humiliating, their pity or my lack of control.
I’m desperately trying to keep a hold of it, but it’s slipping away with each passing building.
The silence, save for the rushing wind, is deafening. Then, it happens again. The thick liquid builds in my throat. Then it pools. It’s so wet. So fucking thick.
I’m fine.
I’m fine.
I’m fine…
I’m not fine, but I’d be damned if I ever said it.
“Let me out.”
Zedd’s eyes flicker from the road to me again.“But we’re almost—”
I don’t give a fuck. Not about the distance. Not about where we are, not about my childish tantrum.
“Stop the car. Now.” It comes out low and gravelly. Unhinged.
“But—”
“NOW!”
But Zedd doesn’t stop.
One second my ass is firmly in the leather seat, the next it’s bent over the window, my torso dangling towards the rushing asphalt.
Out.
Out.
I have to get out.
Fingers dig into my shoulders and my collar strangles me as I’m pulled back onto the seat so fast and hard I barely have time to blink before the window finishes rolling up. A little click lets me know Zedd disabled my button.
My bones scream as my fist connects with the tinted glass, hard. Once, twice then—
“For fuck’s sake, we’re here!” Zedd bellows, gesturing to the sidewalk as Bae grabs my fist mid-strike.
I blink at the familiar street, lined with buildings from the former century.
So we were.
“Open the fucking door,” I rasp, but this time it’s calmer. More familiar to my ears.
The door locks click as I rip my fist from Bae’s grasp and stumble out onto the pavement.
It’s been two years. Two bloody years. I thought I could do it. I thought if I sat in the back, I could do it…
No one approaches me. No one says a word as I bend double, trying to shake those images from my mind. They know better.
I just need a minute.
And when a minute passes and I straighten, all eyes turn away from me to the reason why we ventured into the outskirts of town in the first place. Hale’s new club.
“This is Hale’s grand plan for independence?” Bae runs a hand through his elbow-length, straight black hair and arches a brow at the crumbling building.
“So much for distancing himself from the Pierrot name. Looks like he’s taking it to heart instead.” Zedd snorts, and despite his light tone, there’s disappointment in his golden eyes that turn to me accusatorially. “And you encouraged him? You encouraged this?”
“Looks like you’re taking your name to heart too,” I say, bumping past him and into the dimly lit foyer of the club.
“Zaddy Zedd,” étienne coos lowly.
“I could kill whoever the hell runs Beaussip for that one,” Zedd mumbles. “Everyone’s been hashtagging me with it.”
“I like it. Zaddy Zedd,” Bae sing-songs. “It has a zing to it.”
“Shut the fuck up. I’m nothing like my judgemental father if that’s what you’re hinting at,” Zedd says as the doorman gives us a once-over before letting us in without a word. Hale must’ve given him instructions, but even if he hadn’t, I can’t remember a time the Auclair face card’s been declined.
“Really?” I ask. “Lately it’s hard to tell you two apart. Two elderly, distinguished gentlemen. So concerned with legacy and reputation.”
Zedd stops walking, sticks his hands in his pockets, and observes me like the old man he’s turning into. “Is that what you think of me?”
“I don’t know, ask Hale.”
A silent look passes between us. There’s a crack forming between Zedd and Hale, and it’s growing more fragile with each passing week.
Maybe that’s why I indulged Hale since his bestie wouldn’t.Maybe that’s why I’m a silent partner in this glorified brothel…
No. I’m not so altruistic. I helped Hale because I’m trying and failing to help myself after a half dozen therapists couldn’t.
“Now look who’s being judgemental.” Zedd cocks his head, a lock of his dirty blonde hair falling across his forehead. “I could say what I think of you lately too, but some things don’t need to be said.”
“Gentlemen! You made it.” Hale’s jolly voice booms to my left, but Zedd”s and I’s gazes remain locked.
“We almost didn’t,” Zedd says, arching a brow at me before turning to Hale with zero enthusiasm.
To be fair, no one’s feigning excitement. étienne hasn’t taken his eyes off his phone screen yet, and Bae’s expression is suspended between confusion and revulsion.
“What do you think?” Hale beams, glossing over Zedd’s comment, but he isn’t stupid. He’s charitable with his feigned ignorance, and I’m grateful for the distraction.
We glance around the old burlesque club, eyeing the grimy, yellowing, original wallpaper and peeling, damp-marked ceiling. The wooden floors have gouges so deep they qualify as craters and the air is heavy with a layer of musk that transcends the decades and the designer colognes the patrons have bathed in.
On closer inspection, I recognize a lot of faces. A quarter of them belong to male Beaulieu Academy students, those left in town who haven’t blasted to the south of France or the Hamptons just yet.
“It looks like shit,” Bae says matter-of-factly.
“The plague’s probably hiding amongst the mice and fleas in the walls, ready to infect us all,” Zedd says.
“Egregious,” étienne adds, still tapping away.
Getting more than a few words out of étienne is like drawing blood from a stone. Unless you’re his stepsister.
Hmm, so the assholes are back and my pity train is long gone.
Good.
“It doesn’t seem to bother them,” I say, adding a sprinkle of positivity. “Keep supplying them with free, cheap shots tonight and they’ll black out enough to not notice.”
“You’ll have to add in copious amounts of pussy to turn them blind,” Zedd says, eyeing the few females prowling around.
Three of them are bartenders who came with the shitty club when Hale and I bought it last week. From the looks of it, they’ve been employed here since the wallpaper’s installation.
I swipe a shot from one’s serving tray as she saunters impressively in six-inch scuffed heels. Henrietta or Rie Rie for short, she’d told me earlier when Hale and I got the keys.
“Pray she didn’t pour that herself.” Hale winces, eyeing the clear concoction. “You know she has cataracts.”
A gagging sound alerts us to the corner where Rie Rie places the empty serving tray on the head of a retching patron. She probably mistook him for an end table. As he falls back onto a moth-eaten, mustard couch, the tray falls with a metallic clang into the vomit.
“Look, I’m all for vintage,” Bae says, watching Rie Rie disappear behind the bar. “But this place and the staff have slid into antique territory. When do renovations and the new hires start?”
Both Zedd and Bae’s gazes bounce between Hale and me at the last question.
“Don’t look at me,” I say, downing the shot. It’s water, but at least Rie Rie remembered to salt the rim this time. I can taste remnants of vodka, however, so I assume Clementine—not her stage name apparently—in the kitchen isn’t having much luck with the dishes either. “I’m a silent partner. Hale’s the mastermind.”
“Why do you even need a partner?” Bae asks. “Why not just open another franchise of Pierrot’s?”
Hale hails from a long line of strip clubs. Well, not that long. He’s new money, thanks to his mother’s entrepreneurial spirit.
Even I study Hale at Bae’s question because it’s a question I’ve asked him before. The name is already well established. His mother wouldn’t charge him a dime to open another franchise, and her lawyers would handle all the paperwork while her Pinterest would handle the decor. All pretty boy Hale would need to do is show up and attract the groupies and wannabes like flies to shit.
“We’re eighteen now, boys. Time to make names for ourselves independent of our families. You think I need Mum lauding her contributions to this place over my head?” He asks, arching a brow. “No, thanks. This is all me, with a little help of course.” He gestures towards me with his drink.
That was the same bullshit answer he gave me.
We all know he wants to distance himself from his family’s reputation. The problem is that clubs are what Hale knows. Even his ballroom dancing career started because of his mom’s nightclubs and her colourful staff that practically raised him.
So how did he plan to make his club so much different from Pierrot’s? A lack of poles aside?
Or is it just a stepping stone? A fast cash grab to go onto something more refined?
Refinery is what he’s after and it’s what Zedd’s bloodline has had since the fifteenth century.
Zedd’s signature shit-eating grin cracks his lips as he turns to me. “Bart doesn’t know about this, does he?”
“Why would I involve my father?” I ask, licking the salt off the shot glass’ rim. Fuck it. I felt dead already. What’s a little dysentery? Besides, I’m desperate to wash the bloody metallic taste still coating my tongue from when I’d bit it. “The money doesn’t come from his accounts.”
There’s a long pause and I flinch internally as sympathy dances across everyone’s faces, including Zedd’s. Even étienne manages to spare me a glance.
“And what better way to honour that money than to double it?” Hale says, raising his arms and lightening the mood. “It’ll be nearly exclusive to the triad.”
The triad is composed of three elite schools within a small radius. Beaulieu Academy for Performing Arts, Ennox Prep, for Science and Technology, and Bradley, for blue-blooded boys, not to mention the neighbouring university. The club’s stationed almost at the centre.
Boarding school kids are always bored on the weekends, so why not create a spot to rub shoulders with others in the top one per cent? Networking, alliances, heck, even potential engagements were already creeping through the seniors’ minds, as Hale pointed out when he talked me into cosigning. Everything is strategic and premature in our circles. A little bubble normal folk can’t understand nor penetrate, at least not well. Hale’s family and their strip clubs are a prime example.
The only drawback is the age limit. Legally, club entry went hand in hand with the legal drinking age of eighteen. That limited Hale’s patrons to just the seniors, half of whom wouldn’t turn eighteen before the final semester. A fact he seemed unbothered about.
“What does the top one per cent love more than anything in the world?” he’d asked me a month ago. “Exclusivity. It’ll be a point of contention and victory, mark my words.”
“You only get a pass tonight,” Hale says, trying to steal Zedd’s shot glass. Though, if he had as much luck as I did, there’s no need for concern.
“So what? I can’t get in once school starts?” Zedd snorts, lifting the glass over his shoulder. His birthday isn’t until October.
“The law is the law,” Hale says, reaching for it again. Zedd wretches his arm back and Hale ends up knocking it instead. “Besides, I”m not opening for a few months.”
The ensuing sound of glass shattering freezes my blood and stops my heart.
Blood explodes before my vision. I blink my left eye and try to rub it away, but I stop immediately. It burns like hellfire. Through my right eye, I see that my hand is covered in splinters of glass, a million of which suddenly feel embedded into every exposed inch of my body.
Hhhrssh… Hhhrssh… Something’s rattling and wheezing all at the same time.
I try to turn my head, but it’s no use. My neck feels stiff and frozen in place. Something pressing against it warns me not to move. Instead, my good eye finds the rattling source, but as I lock eyes with my mother’s distant ones, the rattling stops.
“Gant?”
A shoulder knocks into mine and I blink, watching the glittering pieces of Zedd’s shattered glass on the warped hardwood.
“Where’d you go?” Bae asks quietly.
“To the beginning,” I say, but I ignore his inquisitive gaze.
“Fuck’s sake,” Zedd grunts, sidestepping the mess. “You’re acting like I’m some liquor virgin.”
“Clubs and liquor licences come with strict rules,” Hale says, flustered as Rie Rie comes out of nowhere with a dustpan and broom. I’m surprised the club owns either. “I thought you of all people would be happy I’m taking this so seriously.”
“The law wasn’t the law when we were drinking together at fourteen,” Zedd huffs as we watch Rie Rie miss half the shards.
“You’re also taking the words gentlemen’s club seriously. What’s with the lack of women?” Bae asks as an influx of more men stream in. “I was looking forward to some distractions tonight. I think we all need it.”
Me. He means me.
But sliding into another body when I just want to escape my own is almost as unappealing as the club itself. I also hoped it would be a distraction tonight, but even the ghastly decor can’t give my whirring mind a break. A reset, because it’s trapped two years in the past.
“Don’t worry, it’ll be intermixed most nights. But Sundays are boys only minus a few female temp workers. An ode to our ancestors of previous traditional gentlemen’s clubs. A space for men to clear their heads, discuss business—”
“And fuck waitresses in peace without their female counterparts tittering around?” Bae asks.
Hale raises his drink pointedly as the music grows louder.
“Of course, you’ll have to replace them with working models first,” Zedd grimaces as Rie Rie dumps the dustbin in a plant pot. “Forget about renovations. When the hell are you going to get new staff? Young hot ones that understand the difference between tequila and dishwater.”
That’s a detail I’m still shocked Hale hasn’t worked out yet. Pussy is his life’s philosophy.
“And what about business during the week?” Bae asks. “You can’t just rely on weekends. Besides the university and junior college, only Ennox isn’t a boarding school so you may get a few students trickling in throughout the week, but otherwise, it’s going to be too dead to sustain itself. Especially when you cut half the gender on Sundays.”
“Neither can I only rely solely on fickle rich kids. That’s precisely why this place has three levels. Downstairs will be for any normal drifters, looking for moderately priced food and the occasional live band. Nothing fancy. Angus burgers, draft beer, truffle fries, a good wine selection, etc. But up here,” Hale spins around. “We’re aiming for more class. Gambling tables. Sexy waitresses—yes, new hires—a fabulous smoke selection, and parlours to sleep off the buzz. You name it.”
“No strippers?” Zedd asks in surprise.
Hale’s expression falls. “No. It may be a club, but it’ll be different from my family’s.”
I’ll be different from my family, his unspoken words hang in the air.
“Class and teenagers?” Bae smirks, breaking the tension. “A winning combination.”
“You’ll see. You’ll all see…” Hale pauses at étienne who’s still glued to his phone. “What the hell do you keep watching?” He asks, leaning over étienne’s shoulder. His blue eyes grow wide before shooting up to meet Zedd’s. “Stassi’s back home? You didn’t tell me she came back.”
It’s as if someone’s cut the music and the world spins to a standstill.
étienne’s ears perk up, his narrowed eyes travelling to Hale.
If there’s one thing éti and Zedd bond over, it’s being overprotective brothers. Though the ‘b’ word triggers étienne so badly, we refer to his future stepsister, as his father’s, fiance’s daughter.
“Why would I tell you that Stassi’s back?” Zedd asks before turning to étienne. “And why are you watching her stories?” He leans over to see the video, and Bae and I follow suit.
Stassi, Zedd’s twin, smiles at the camera, exposing one deep dimple. She’s having dinner at some swanky restaurant with a group of Beaulieu girls.
“Why isn’t Aria with her?” étienne asks, making it clear that it isn’t Stassi herself he’s been staring at. He’s triple-checking the girls that surround Stassi, and Aria’s brown skin and curly hair are missing, and yet, the girls are always inseparable.
Zedd shrugs. “Stassi’s been blowing me off all summer. She wouldn’t pick up for two whole days and Mum said to leave her be. Mum’s covering something for her.”
Hale swallows. “She looks different. She’s thin.”
Stassi was never and still isn’t thin. She’s crazy curvy, with chubby cheeks and round eyes. Now she’s just three sizes smaller as if she’s shed some baby fat. You look at Stassi, and all you see are soft curves.
I think the word Hale’s looking for is thick. Dumb thick. Super…
“What are you all smiling at?” Zedd asks, glancing around murderously. He and Stassi share a resemblance, but you wouldn’t peg them as twins initially. Zedd’s shredded, with even dirtier blonde hair.
I lean back, feigning disinterest, while Bae quickly looks up at the spotted ceiling. But from the corner of my eye, I catch Hale eyeing Stassi’s breasts, encased in a lacy white corset top. Realising his mistake a half second later, he quickly finds interest in a drink as Rie Rie makes another round with the free shots. The fact that he grabs a second tells me it’s actually liquor this time.
“I can’t believe she didn’t tell me she was coming home. Where the hell is that restaurant?” Zedd asks distractedly, as he pulls out his phone and opens Instagram. “What the…she…she blocked me from seeing her story!”
“I wonder why,” Bae says, rolling his eyes.
“Her location is turned off too.”
“Maybe she’s blocked you on the finder app,” Hale says. “I’ll check.”
Zedd’s face turns an ominous shade of maroon. “Why would you have Stassi’s pin to check?”
“It’s a safety thing, isn’t it?” Hale says weakly, glancing at us for help.
No one says anything.
“Safety is Bae having Stassi’s pin. Not you.”
Bae and étienne have a type, and even Stassi’s olive skin isn’t dark enough.
“What’s wrong with me? Why am I not as good as them?” Hale asks defensively.
“You have no discretion and no morals. You’ll fuck a roach if it has a big ass.”
“Are you comparing Stassi to a roach?”
“I’m comparing your self-control to the size of an ant. Stassi’s off limits, and you know that, yet nothing will stop you from sticking your dick into someone. Name one girl at Beaulieu in our year that you wouldn’t fuck.”
Hale’s brows knit in concentration.
“Just one. I’ll wait.”
“Why didn’t you say Aria?” étienne asks so softly we all turn to him. His voice is like ice blowing over a crater, deep, smooth, and freezing. Even a chill curls around my ears whenever he speaks.
“Or that cunt Rin,” Bae chimes in.
Hale contemplates it for a minute but doesn’t deny it either.
“Because pussy is his type,” Zedd says in irritation, before turning on Hale. “Look, you’ve got your pick of the entire town, but Stassi’s off the list. Don’t ask about her. Don’t watch her status. Don’t even think about her. She doesn’t exist for you.”
Hale says nothing, but his expression darkens.
“I’ll see you at the academy, yeah?” Zedd says to us before turning back to Hale. “Lose Stassi’s number before then.”
Then he stalks out.
“What?” Hale says a minute later, breaking the silence. “We’re all friends, mates, the five bloody horsemen. What’s the big deal?”
“Do you have Ari’s pin?” étienne asks, his normally blue-green eyes so dark now that they appear almost black.
It doesn’t feel like much of a question.
Hale’s mouth curves into an O, but no sound comes out.
“You don’t anymore,” étienne warns, shoving his phone, and then his fists into his pockets before turning away smoothly and disappearing into the crowd.
“See you tomorrow, bestie. Don’t worry about us, okay? Tell Zedd we’ll find a ride back safely and that we’ll guard our drinks and go to the bathroom in a group. I’ll send you a text as soon as I get home, so you don’t stress about my well-being after ditching me in a seedy nightclub!” Bae waves at his back before addressing us. “Geez, they’re pissy princesses tonight. Do you really think Zedd won’t see us until the academy? That’s almost three weeks away.”
“Right? Why is everyone so fucking touchy?” Hale says, staring at the empty spot étienne just vacated. “This is supposed to be my big moment. My pre-opening, a celebration, and everyone’s sour as fuck. You too, Gant.”
I don’t feel sour.
I don’t feel anything at all.
Not unless I’m in a car anyway.
“Maybe that’s because the anniversary is coming up, fucktard,” Bae says, and Hale suddenly looks sheepish. “Seriously, are you okay, Gant?”
The care in his tone flips a switch inside of me.
“I said I’m fine.” I bite back.
“He’ll be fine with a little therapy and medication.” Hale grins wickedly, gesturing us to follow him to a back room. “And now that the sourpusses have left, there’s more pussy and doses for us.”
Bae matches Hale’s devious expression. “Doses of what?”
“His pick.” Hale opens the door to the dark parlour and four options are sitting on the coffee table and lounging on the couches.
Alcohol, pills, smoke, and, of course, pussy.
Young pussy with long red hair and a heavy set of tits on full display.
How the fuck does he know?
How does he know that I want to kill, devour, and break her in every way humanly possible?
How does he know that after replaying and studying the dance studio’s footage a trillion times for my father and his minions to prove my innocence, I’d developed more than just hatred?
I’d developed an erotic loathing and longing.
A consumption that was everything Eloisa Ginhart.
“Or don’t pick at all,” Hale coos in my ear, his hand clamping around my shoulder. “Just don’t overdose. The paperwork will be insane.”