Gant
Libeulle’s unusually sober when I stroll through the front doors. Which is exactly why I’m here.
I glance up at the freshly repaired skylight with stained-glass and fluttering dragonflies. The supporting wood is obviously new, too, because it interrupts the darkness of the tray ceiling with its raw oak hue.
Beneath it, Rie Rie’s behind the bar, rummaging through bottles. The tinkling glass is the only sound echoing through the darkness. Across from the bar, someone’s sitting solo in the lounge, their head tipped back, their chestnut locks shining golden beneath the moody crystal chandeliers.
“I’ve been to funerals less sombre,” I say. “My mother’s mainly. Bart had a blast.”
Hale’s head rolls left toward me, and his eyes look shot to hell. “Did you come to see the roof? It’s fixed. We’ll be up and running again tomorrow if you’re worried about the numbers.”
“The numbers are the last thing on my mind.” Although I’m sure they're on Elle’s, the new businesswoman that she is. “I came to see you.”
He drops his leg off the loveseat so that I can sit beside him.
“Me? Or Elle? Because she’s not here.”
“Of course, she isn’t. I took her batteries out and put her to sleep.”
“You can’t keep doing that.”
“No, I can’t. But she needs to heal before we get back to Beaulieu, and how can she do that if she’s running around with Rin of all people?”
He drops his chin and looks at me beneath his lashes. “ Rin? What are they up to?”
“I bet we’ll find out soon enough.”
“What’s in the bag?” he arches a brow.
“Your favourite white stuff.”
He looks away and down at his fingers where he plays with his rings. “I haven’t done that in ages.”
Two months.
“I don’t think I want to.” His eyes trail up to me, searching for guidance. For approval. To tell him that it’s okay to not want to get fucked. Insane work since he’ll never find that reassurance with his own family at Pierrot's.
“Why? Are you watching your figure?” I ask, pulling out a powdered doughnut that leaves a fine dusting of white across my black shirt.
Hale's eyes grow wide, his lips pulling back into a smile as he reaches into the bag and pulls one out for himself. “Doughnuts?” he asks, sniffing it and inhaling a nostril full of sugar.
“Homemade.” Courtesy of Zaddy Zedd.
“You…you didn’t bring the real stuff?”
“I’ve never bought the real stuff. That’s you.” I pause. “That was you.”
His smile widens as he takes a big bite, white dust coating his cheeks and the tip of his nose, and I rustle his hair. I swear he has the spirit of a kid.
“I heard you last month when you said you weren't sure if you wanted to do this or that.”
“You actually listened?”
“I always listen to you, Haley. Speaking of, what happened with Stassi?”
His smile drops. “She won’t talk to me.”
“More happened than what we saw?”
He shakes his head. “A lot more.”
“How bad did you fuck up?”
“Level, unforgivable. But that was the point.”
I arch a brow.
“You know she’s off limits,” he goes on.
“It doesn’t stop you from wanting her.”
“No.”
“Then?”
“Zedd says I only want her because I can’t have her. Because I can have anyone else.”
“Do you believe that?”
“I believe that Stassi is the kind of girl you never want to ruin.”
“And you think you’d ruin her?”
He laughs humourlessly. “I ruin everything I touch. I’d devour her.”
“So it’s only okay when it’s a girl you don’t give a flying fried fuck about?” I ask, cramming another fried doughnut into my mouth whole. Zedd was getting scarily good at cooking.
“Don’t get on your high horse. It’s not like you ever cared about any girl you fucked over besides Elle.”
“Sure didn’t.”
“What was it about her? Elle?” he asks, those eyes seeking wisdom, answers again.
“I could list a thousand reasons, but here’s the biggest one. It’s primal. She’s my light, and I can’t control myself around her. I want to engulf it, suck up the warm and sink into it. Fuck it. Keep it forever. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do to hold on to that little light. It’s all I can see in the darkness. It makes me giddy, drunk. ” I nod at the bar.
“She’s your euphoria.”
“Once you had a taste of euphoria, you won’t ever give it up.”
“That’s why I can’t taste it. No matter how much she begs, pleads…wishes,” he says, licking his fingers lost in thought. “Where did you get these? You said homemade, but I know you didn’t make them. Heldina?”
“They were on the counter,” I say simply. “Rie, bring a bottle of bourbon so we can soak them.”
“Don’t pour it!” Hale says quickly. “Just bring the bottle. No glasses.” He leans closer to me. “The table’s cleaner.”
I eye his boots on the table as Rie clomps over in her thigh-highs. Hale slips the last doughnut out and onto the paper bag, leaving a glorious mess of sprinkled sugar everywhere. He pours the remaining quarter of brown liquor over the doughnuts that swell, absorbing it like sponges.
I wonder at the concentration because twenty minutes later, Hale’s laughing uncontrollably in my ear as Rie, who’d swallowed the last doughnut in two bites, performs the worst dance imaginable in her sweats. There’s heel clicking, seizure-like hip movements and dragging heels that drown out the music Hale had turned on. The shit sucks, but the important thing is that he isn’t sulking as tears roll down his cheeks as he falls headlong onto my shoulder.
Damn, he really had been sober for a few weeks because normally his tolerance is through the fucking roof. Or, maybe, he’s riding the high of friendship. Maybe I am too because soon I’m sunken into the cushions, boots on the table, with an infectious smile tugging at my lips.
“You think you can do better?” Rie asks when Hale’s cackling grows louder than her dragging heels. She looks to me, too, as if daring me to challenge her performance.
“Don’t look at me,” I say, tossing her another bill from my opened wallet lazily. There are at least twenty more at her feet. “I liked it. In fact,” I cock my head. “I think I’m into it.”
“Sounds like something étienne would say,” Hale says, rubbing a tear from his eye. “Damn, I miss him.”
“Alright then, let’s see you try,” Rie says, gesturing for him to take her place.
He gets up begrudgingly, but the music switches to a slower, darker beat and suddenly the spotlight has invigorated him, because he gives it his damn all. Horny middle-aged women with husbands with ED, too much box wine, and a night out on the town with the girlies would be gassed.
“Did you know he could dance?” Rie Rie whispers out of the corner of her mouth, clearly choking on her former words.
“He’s a ballroom dancer at Beaulieu,” I say as Hale does a boneless body roll.
“So, no?” she asks.
“Why isn’t anyone throwing money at me?” Hale spins to face us with a pout.
“Rie drained me,” I say. “I can swipe my black card through your ass cheeks, but I’d rather not.”
“Prude,” Rie says.
Hale’s wallet sales through the air and nearly socks me in the face, given my sluggish reflexes, thanks to the bourbon. I toss it to Rie Rie, who grabs a stack to circle Hale and make it rain as he slithers across the floor.
I grab my phone and hit record. “You should headline for Beaulieu’s last weekend of freedom now that the roof's done. You’re their new king, after all. And who wouldn’t want to party with a king?”
Rie throws more cash and Hale collapses on his back as I zoom in on the literal money shot. I flip the phone over and show him the slow mode edit.
“The party has to go on, Hale. You’ve invested this much.”
“It’s still not enough,” he says. “Even with the roof fixed, people are still comparing this place to Pierrot’s. Stassi and Zedd’s party was a huge success, but it still isn’t enough, given the overhead. Now that my mother’s cut me off completely, I’m on my own, and I just covered Beaulieu’s tuition.”
“Exactly why you need another big event to do more renovations. Class up the waitresses' uniforms to custom-made corsets with silk ribbons and glass beads. Get a bigger cigar selection. Put one of the VIP tables on the tallest balcony so that the patrons can feel extra superior despite paying five times as much for the same party. They’ll get a closer view of the dancers in the cages, and they’ll eat it up.”
“That’s actually a good idea,” Hale says slowly.
Rie Rie lies beside him and begins making money angels.
“Do a back to black event. Let everyone go crazy one last weekend before things slow down with all the academies reopening. Then, once they have, shift your attention to the universities since they party twenty-four seven. Then, branch out to private events. In fact, Bart’s looking to have one at the penthouse to celebrate some new assets.”
“You’re right. No more of this sulking shit. Of feeling like shit because I’m a king after all, right? And King’s make a shit ton of money off their minions. Record this peasant and tag Beaussip.”
I hit record as the front doors squeak open.
“This is Beaulieu’s fucking king! Get down to Libellule this Sunday before the start of the academic year for one last hurrah.”
“It’s worse than I thought,” A cold voice calls over Hale’s shoulder as I lower my phone.
Zedd stands behind his father Alistair Beaumont, whose disgusted gaze is drifting from Rie Rie, who’s shoving bills into her sweatshirt, to the table loaded in powdered sugar and dripping with booze, to me, to Hale.
At Hale’s panicked glance at me, I know my face must be loaded in powder because he wipes at his face, and I snort hard to deter a sudden incoming sneeze.