I Think Olive You

Chapter 1

New York

T he city has a grip around my throat. Lights strobe through the club, slashes of blinding white overwhelming me. This is my scene. It’s where I belong. So why does it feel like my skin is too tight around my bones? Bass pumps from the speakers through my chest and the room tilts. This cannot be happening right now. Have the clubs and parties always been this loud and chaotic, or am I losing my touch?

My hands pass over sweaty bodies as I stumble through the crowd. It’s incredible how fucking hot it gets in clubs, how thick the air I’m gasping in is.

“Matt!” Brandon shouts above the din and it’s tempting to ignore it, but he grabs the back of my shirt. I make out his floppy blonde hair and easy smile in between flashes of lights.

“Where are you going, man?”

“Fresh air and a smoke.” I tug out of his grip and forge onward.

It’s true. There’s no way I’m about to tell him I’m on the verge of panic. The Matt Palmer he knows doesn’t have anxiety attacks. What do I have to worry about when I have it all?

There’s so much money. It’s my cure-all for anything that might crop up to bite me and the first thing people think about when they hear my name. There'll be no sympathy for the poor little rich boy who inherited the keys to a corporate kingdom. But this is the third time in the last two weeks I have found myself unable to escape into a party’s bliss and blinding intensity.

I’m used to being one of the last to leave, living a little too fast and getting too close to ruin. It goes unsaid that if I’m driving, then it can only mean it’s a getaway car. The high of a good party extends into the delicious tangle of limbs and lips—heat and hunger. I never seem to find my fill.

Until now.

I rip myself from the dance floor toward the rooftop. The city glints around me—black skies and golden lights. My hands grip rails just too tall to jump over, knuckles aching under the strain as I suck in as much humid, summer air as possible. Still, it’s not enough.

Never enough.

My fucking motto.

My vices are many—my pleasures plentiful—and appetite drives me from one fleeting experience to another for as long as it provides joy. But joy comes fewer and further between.

Ah, another night of being a fuck up? When will you realize you aren’t worth the name on your birth certificate and give up?

It’s my own personal inner asshole. The voice is like a regular lush fighting closing time—never kind, never welcome, and only muted by the slick burn of alcohol. I try to shake it. The delusion is a comfortable lie I tell myself and others. I reinforce it now, repeating it under my breath like a mantra.

“Fuck-ups don’t have degrees. Or an open invite to every social event of the season.”

No one hears it; just me and the breeze. I pull my vape from my front pocket, sucking it in like a drowning man seeks air—wishing it was something stronger. But there are rules—stipulations to being the Palmer heir.

No drugs. No gambling. No tarnishing the Palmer name. So far, I’ve skirted along the edge, unwilling to give up the lifestyle I’m used to. Somehow my father still controls my life, even in death.

White puffs of smoke paint the night air around me and none of my emotions leave along with them. After a minute of heavy drags, I give up and tuck it away. My eyes flick back to the railing and the drop beyond. Dread swirls in my stomach alongside all the alcohol.

“Hey, what the fuck are you doing up here?” Brandon asks, and I wonder how long I’ve been out here.

“I told you, fresh?—”

“Fresh air and a smoke. Yeah, yeah. I mean, it’s your birthday party, and everyone’s wondering where you are.”

Twenty-six years old with a newly-released inheritance. A room full of people wait below—many of whom I don’t know. It’s not only my money getting me here—well, not all of it. I charm. I smile and laugh and listen. I sow as much revelry as I do trouble.

Because you have nothing else to offer . That fucking voice again.

I work my hands through my dark sweat-dampened curls, anger surging through me and killing what little buzz I have left.

No.

No. I won’t do this. I won’t succumb to this feeling.

“You sure you’re good, man?” Jesus, if Brandon is concerned, I must look more fucked up than I think.

“Yeah. Needed to clear my head, that’s all.”

“Okay, well. If you’re sure… Come on. It’s just getting started. We’ve got a surprise for you.” Brandon urges me back toward the revelry.

I take one last lungful of clarity and descend back into the madness of the party—wrap my hand around a drink I sling back rather than savor. The internal voice dulls, my anxiety smothered under the warm hand of inebriation.

The soft body of a gorgeous woman greets me and Brandon makes an introduction I don’t hear. She must be my surprise. It’s no secret I have a weakness for women. Tall, short, blonde, brunette. Pale or richly dark. Lusciously thick and lithely thin. There’s so much to appreciate—every one gorgeous in their own way. Hot lips find my neck, and I bend to return the favor. All I can focus on is salty perspiration, the freshness of mint against my mouth, and the give of a body pressing intimately against mine. This I can do. This I’m good at.

The vibration of her moan tickles my lips as I find a sensitive spot beneath her ear. She offers, and I accept, bodies melting into the dark shadows away from our friends. Time ceases to mean anything. In the repetitive thrum of music and the dire surge of our bodies against each other, we become nothing more than sensation. Nameless—likely faceless by tomorrow, given how wasted I am—she quiets the voice in my mind as I chase the one high I can afford.

N ew York’s vendetta against me continues. Daylight streams in the cracks between the curtains, slicing into the space with relentless fervor. Summer. My phone vibrates on my bedside table and I can’t remember how I made it home. As tempted as I am to ignore the call, it’s my mother. The part of me that isn’t a total asshole swipes to accept.

“Yeah, this is Matt,” I croak as I answer—and fight against the bile rising in my throat.

“Happy Birthday!” Too loud. Wincing, I pull the phone away from my ear.

“Thanks.”

“Matt, I was worried. I’ve been trying to reach you since yesterday.”

Rolling over in bed, I try to escape the bright light of the window. Ugh, I’m still in last night’s outfit. Sweat and come have hardened on the inside of my clothes after our hurried fuck at the party. God, I’m disgusting.

“Yeah, sorry. I had my party and got home late.”

There’s a sigh on the other end of the line and I know I’ve let her down. Again. A permanent state of being for me. Just a fucking disappointment.

“I wish your father were here to see it all: your birthday, helping at the company, your college graduation. I’m sure he would have been proud.”

I bite back a bitter laugh. My father—the illustrious Thomas Palmer—would have been ashamed his son dropped out twice before finishing, only for it to be a fucking liberal arts degree.

“We both know that’s not true. Besides, Dad’s rotting in the ground right now, so he doesn’t get an opinion.”

My mother gasps in shock, ready to admonish me, when I apologize.

“Sorry. I’m tired and hungover. That was uncalled for, but let’s not pretend Dad was something he’s not. He fostered a company, not a son. I’m surprised he even gave me a stake in it when he has a team far more adept than me to run it.”

The ceiling is spinning. Ten minutes tops and I’ll be spewing my guts.

“You don’t have to accept the role of CEO. He gave you a year to decide.”

And time is almost up. It’s been nine months since Thomas Palmer dropped dead from a heart attack, and everything and nothing changed.

“I don’t know why. Everyone knows Alan is champing at the bit to go from CFO to CEO. He’s practically doing the job already. They shouldn’t even bother with me.”

“Speaking of Alan, he called. Apparently, I’m not the only one who hasn’t been able to reach you.”

Fuck. This can’t be good. My father’s former lawyer weaseled his way to the top of the company and is content to pretend he’s running the show now.

“What does he want?”

“You need to meet him at the office. It… it didn’t sound good, Matt.”

Any number of things could be waiting. The list grows in my mind: I pissed away too much money. I fucked around with the wrong person and they’re going to sue. A greedy asshole is threatening to expose one of the avenues I’ve explored to escape my life. It could be any number of things.

“He’s expecting you within the hour. So please, show up.”

The for once goes unsaid, but my inner asshole is glad to provide it anyway.

“Fine. I’ll be there.” A brief goodbye and then silence from the other end of the line.

I drag myself out of bed, making my way to the bathroom to turn on the shower. Steam fills the room until all I can see in the mirror is a hazy glimpse of my face. There’s a brief impression of bloodshot brown eyes and dark curly hair in disarray. I scrub the sweat and vomit and sickly-sweet stench of her—the girl from last night I’ll never see again—from my body.

Then I call for a car. A doorman rushes to open the front doors for me and I wait on the corner for a driver to take me into Midtown to the office. Thomas’s building. My father’s legacy—now technically mine. The business? I’m not sure what to call it anymore.

And up on the forty-sixth floor, my father’s— my —CFO is waiting.