Chapter 2 #2
George scowls when I mention one of the name partners, who also happens to be one of my father’s golf buddies. “I thought you might have finally grown up, Flynn.”
“Nah,” I reply cheerfully. “Still successfully avoiding that depressing fate.”
Working at one of Manhattan’s top law firms will be a setback. I have no issue with immaturity when I’m the only one affected. That won’t be the case at work. I’ll have to be responsible in the office.
“I don’t understand how you and Christopher Kensington are such good friends,” George comments, sounding truly baffled.
He’s not the only one. My father remains shocked I’m his closest link to the city’s most prominent family. If Julian Parks were asked to list my biggest accomplishments, my friendship with Kit would be at the top.
Now, I understand the surprise. Four years ago, Kit would be beside me, receiving free drinks from the hot bartender and plotting where we were headed next.
Today, our lives look totally different.
He’s got a corner office and a kid, happily taking on the domestic duties we used to find similarly unappealing.
“Who are you here with?” I ask.
If George is playing poker with other future colleagues, I’ll drain this glass and get out of here.
I mostly lose interest as George lists names of former Dalton classmates, starting with Knox Wellington.
I’ve looked forward to returning to New York since leaving the last possible day before fall semester of 1L started. The city is the same. Everything else feels different. My life here paused; everyone else’s carried on.
“… Carson too.”
I start paying attention to George again. “Carson Albright?” I glance around, not spotting Rory’s boyfriend. “Where is he?”
“Oh. I’m, um, not seeing him. He must have left.”
I stop searching the room and focus on George. He doesn’t look smug or superior anymore. He appears nervous, fiddling with his shiny watch.
I didn’t ask Rory—although I wanted to—why her boyfriend missed her graduation party.
I’ve never understood why they’re together.
She’s legions out of his league. Not only because Carson is average in every way.
Because he seems to take her for granted.
Of the dozens of Kensington events I’ve attended over the years, he’s only shown up to a handful.
A lack of effort I think most people would consider abysmal, but I thought Rory would deem it unacceptable.
Does she know Carson is at a nightclub? My guess is not.
I’m also guessing that is why George—who just mentioned my connection to the Kensingtons—appears constipated all of a sudden. He knows he fucked up.
“See you at work, Flynn,” George says quickly, then scurries away to a poker table surrounded by several of the guys he just mentioned. Not Carson.
I swallow another sip of scotch, watching George whisper something to Knox, who’s next to him. They both glance at me, then away when they notice I’m looking their way.
I shove away from the bar, walking closer to the row of booths. Several are occupied, but only one has the curtain drawn across it. The last, least obtrusive one. I continue toward it.
“Parks!”
I don’t stop. Not least because George doesn’t sound like he’s talking to me. It’s a warning, almost, meant for someone else.
I know who, even before I yank the curtain aside.
Carson Albright is sprawled back against the booth’s cushion, a slack grin on his face as he receives a sloppy blow job from a brunette bobbing between his spread thighs. A second woman, who’s blonde, is sucking on his neck, holding a phone raised to film her friend below.
I stare, momentarily stunned and entirely disgusted, the graphic scene far more incriminating than I was expecting to reveal.
Carson looks up, annoyance breaking through his lustful stupor. When he recognizes me as the interrupter, the color drains from his peeved expression.
I’m surprised he had the audacity to cheat. Shocked he’s doing it so brazenly.
George Archibald is hardly a gossip savant. If he’s aware this is happening, it must be widespread knowledge. Must have happened before.
Carson stands clumsily, yanking his pants up. “This isn’t what it—”
I don’t wait for him to finish that predictable, pathetic sentence.
I swing my fist, oddly deflated when the contact with his face doesn’t feel much different from hitting a punching bag at the gym.
There’s no crunching bones or dramatic spray of blood.
The strike is enough to make Carson stumble back though.
The blonde shrieks, scrambling out of the way as Carson grabs the back of the booth to steady himself.
I spin and stalk away, shaking my right hand in the hopes it’ll stop the stinging in my knuckles. Repulsed by Carson. Bothered by my reaction. I’ve been tempted to punch my father more than once, but I never have. I’d never hit anyone, up until thirty seconds ago.
And, yeah, whoever hears about this will assume I punched Carson because Kit wasn’t here to defend Rory.
But I’m not convinced that’s the reason I swung.
I was thinking about Rory standing on that stage earlier, wearing her black graduation hat and pink dress, searching the crowd.
Her fixed smile never brightened. It dimmed when she spotted me toward the back.
Patrons whisper as I pass, speculating about the commotion. I ignore the whispers.
I practically funded Proof’s expansion. They won’t kick me out for punching a fellow patron. But I don’t stop in any of the other rooms once I exit the VIP section. I’m too furious to sit or stand or sip a drink.
A couple of minutes later, I’m back out on the sidewalk. Jacob’s gaze is curious as I blow by him, but he doesn’t ask questions about my hasty departure, preoccupied with a couple of drunk guys trying to wheedle their way to the front of the line.
I pull out my phone and text Molly.
Flynn: On my way.