25. West
TWENTY-FIVE
WEST
I hate people. Well, maybe not all of them.
It’s a laughable philosophy to live by for someone who owns a chain of bars and craft breweries. My business is people.
But I’ve never had more conviction in that belief than I do now.
Staring out at the sea of wealthy fuckers willing to suck this person’s cock to squeeze every last dime out of their filthy rich assholes makes me reconsider my career path.
Ironically, I’m one of these wealthy fuckers now, but I didn’t grow up like them. I’m not a trust-fund baby, and I don’t strive to stand beneath the spotlight. I don’t want to be known for my name, and I don’t want to be known for my money.
In truth, I don’t think I want to be known—a constant battle when I want to continue to grow in my business and build a life for myself.
“West?”
I break my attention away from the sea of wealthy fuckers to see Asher Egan walking toward me.
He’s wealthy, but not a fucker. I like him.
“Hey, man.” I give his hand a shake .
He runs his fingers over the top of his hair. “I’m so sorry I’ve missed you these past few weeks. I hope you don’t hold it against me.”
I laugh and shake my head. “Not at all. I’ve been busy, too, so I get it.”
Asher points to the bar set up beside us. “Would you like to grab a drink, and maybe we can talk about your plans?”
After I order a beer and Asher orders a seltzer and lime, we sit on the barstools lining the glass barrier running along the edge of the roof.
“Are you having a good time so far?” I ask Asher, nodding to the party goers.
He glances over his shoulder before turning back to me. “Yeah, I’m here with my girl, Charleigh. She owns a flower shop on the Upper West Side. She also happens to be best friends with Julianna.”
“Oh.” I nod, swallowing my beer. “She was at my opening for the garden, right?”
“She was.” He nods, too, a small smile blooming. “We weren’t exactly on good terms then, but we’re working on it.”
“She seems nice. Congrats, man.”
“Thanks.” He rests his elbow on the edge of the glass. “So, Holt told me you were interested in expanding your breweries. How many do you have right now?”
Oh, yeah, Holt. Again, wealthy but not a fucker. I like him, too.
See, I don’t hate all people.
“Just the four,” I answer.
Saying the number out loud seems small and insignificant. Much like the way I’ve felt most of my life.
“I know it isn’t many.” I wince, feeling intimidated all of a sudden. I did a little research into Asher Egan. Son of a wealthy New York real estate executive, he’s just the same. But a little deeper dive showed me Asher didn’t always come from this world. Much like me.
Not the same world, but not far from it.
“That doesn’t matter.” He waves me off, stirring his seltzer with a small, black cocktail straw. “You’ve built quite an empire already from what Holt has told me. Adding more properties will only build on that success.”
I give him a closed-mouth grin before taking a drink.
“So, are you originally from New York?” he asks. “A part of you gives off the New York vibe, but something tells me you haven’t always lived here.”
“Could be the beard.” I point to my chin, then laugh it off. “But no. No, I’m not.”
Charleigh, Asher’s girl, walks up to us. “Sorry to interrupt,” she sheepishly says, turning in on herself. She quickly places her hand on Asher’s shoulder and whispers in his ear.
I flick my gaze to the ground, thinking about Asher’s question and what I’m going to say. My first instinct is to lie or graze over the ugly parts, fishing for only the brightest parts. My past is dark and ugly—one I’ve spent years running away from.
When my gaze lifts back to Asher, a flicker of black catches my attention, tearing me away from the couple in front of me. The wind is knocked from my chest, and I’m left gasping for oxygen. Sometimes, no matter how hard and how fast you run from your past, it has a way of finding you.
Silence replaces the noise, and all I can focus on is the raven-haired girl on the other side of the party. There’s a break in the crowds, giving me an unobstructed view of her. At first, I think I’m mistaken. It can’t be her. It’s simply impossible. But when she lifts her hand to tuck her long, black hair behind her ear, each delicate golden ring wrapped on every single finger glinting in the light, I know the impossible is possible.
A small, red, heart-shaped birthmark stamped between her thumb and forefinger.
My heart stops.
I swallow the blazing heat in my throat, and just when I think I’m already starving of air, I lose more when I recognize the man she wraps her arms around.
“West?”
I dart my eyes to Asher, looking down at him still seated in the barstool.
I’m no longer sitting across from him. I’m standing. The pipes in my airway squeeze and strain to fill with oxygen. My lungs burn.
“I, um…” I swallow, nearly choking as I step backward. “I need to go.” I continue backing away. To where, I have no fucking idea.
“Wait…” he says.
I’m suffocating. My chest is hard as a rock, and I can’t fucking breathe. I can feel the blood draining from my face. I take another step back but trip on something metal. It clangs to the concrete, rattling and grabbing the attention of the wealthy fuckers surrounding me. I catch myself on the arm of a chair before busting my face.
“Are you okay, man?” Asher asks. He’s standing from his stool now, and Charleigh’s hand is covering her mouth.
“Yeah,” I breathe out, bending to pick up the small, metal end table. All eyes are on me. Their stares are burning a hole in my back. “I just… I need to go.” My gaze quickly slides over the crowd, panic setting in.
Without another word or glance, I turn and walk as fast as I can to the elevator, leaving her and every single one of the wealthy fuckers behind.