Chapter 10 Jonathan
Jonathan
Did I seriously just strike a deal with AJ of all people? That’s the thought on repeat as I drive home after work, shaking my head like I can rattle the memory loose and dump it out on the highway. What a day.
My only plan tonight is simple: pour myself the biggest glass of bourbon known to man, microwave a pepperoni Hot Pocket and stretch out on the couch to binge more Love Island. Tomorrow’s going to be a circus, I can feel it, so tonight, I’ll recharge.
I park in the garage and head upstairs, where Frank, my building’s overly formal doorman, greets me like he’s auditioning for a period drama.
“Good evening, sir,” he says with a nod.
“Frank, for the hundredth time, call me Jonathan.” I grin as I say it.
Frank’s the best. Loyal, punctual, probably takes his job more seriously than the president. He’s also a stickler for manners, mostly because half the other residents in this building are rich, entitled jerks who expect to be bowed to.
Not me. Sure, I’m rich and definitely spoiled. I’m just not an asshole. No matter what AJ thinks. Ugh. There she is again, sneaking into my brain like she pays rent.
Frank tips his hat. “Yes, sir… I mean, Jonathan.” He winces, like the name actually tastes bad.
I laugh and hand him a crisp fifty-dollar bill. To me, it’s pocket change. To him, it probably covers groceries for the week. His eyes widen for a second before he gives me a grateful smile. “Thank you, Jonathan. Really.”
“You’re welcome, Frank,” I say, heading for the elevator.
I know this will sound stupid but sometimes I wish I knew what it felt like to be broke. To really struggle. Just to feel something real. Some… edge. Some ache.
Instead, I walk around like a well-dressed zombie, numb, coasting and getting worse by the day. I keep waiting to feel something. Anything. What that anything is, though? I haven’t got a fucking clue.
My dad used to say, If you don’t know what to do, don’t do anything at all.
Let it fall into place. And damn it, he was always right.
He’s gone now. Died last year, just before I hit thirty.
Hence the full access to my trust fund. Not that I’m complaining.
I’d already got dividends of it at twenty-one and twenty-eight, with the final draw scheduled for thirty-five…
or sooner, if he passed. Well, he did, so the full amount hit my bank account before his body was even cold.
Cancer. It’s always fucking cancer, isn’t it?
Prostate cancer to be exact. My doctor told me it can be hereditary, so he tested my PSA early. It’s normal, for now. We’ll test it every year just to be safe. Weird how a father can pass down both a fortune and a potential ticking time bomb.
I trudge into the elevator and lucky me, run into Mrs. Whitman. She’s holding her demon disguised as a poodle.
“Hello, Mr. Slack,” she says primly.
“Hi, Mrs. Whitman.” I glance down at the snarling fur ball and tilt my head forward. “Fluffy.”
The dog growls like I just insulted her bloodline.
“Fluuuffy,” she coos, stroking the back of her head. “You know she hates everyone, even me.” She laughs like that’s charming.
“Yes. I’m aware,” I say, keeping it polite. Sarcastic, but polite. The last thing I need is bad blood with the neighbors. Especially in this building. I surprisingly like living here.
My parents used to live in one of the penthouses, back when my dad was still alive. After he passed, my mom sold it and started traveling the world with her group of equally widowed besties. Occasionally, I get postcards and little trinkets from whatever far-off country they’re conquering next.
My mom’s sweet. She’s soft-spoken, thoughtful but I always had the sense she lived the life he wanted, not hers. Now she gets to do whatever the hell she wants. Good for her I guess.
The elevator dings on my floor and I step out. Fluffy lets out another gremlin growl, ensuring I’m aware she’s offended by my existence.
I nod at Mrs. Whitman and head down the hallway to my unit. It’s not exactly modest, three million when I bought it and worth way more now. In this city, that’s just called real estate.
I unlock the door and step into my foyer, shrugging off my slim-cut blazer and hanging it in the coat closet. My place is… open. Some might call it cold. I call it airy.
The grand living room spills right into the kitchen, complete with a massive white granite waterfall island and a chef’s setup decked out in marble accents.
There’s pricey art on the walls, nothing over twenty grand though.
I like art. I appreciate it. I’m also not insane. I’m not blowing millions on a painting.
Furniture, though? That’s a different story.
Or at least that’s what the interior designer I hired told me.
She picked out everything, finished the job and then, well, I slept with her.
Didn’t call her back. She shockingly didn’t take it well.
Good thing I changed the locks. Just in case.
Never underestimate an angry woman with a master’s in fine arts and a grudge.
But come on, was I really going to fall in love with an art major? Or anyone? I don’t think I’ve ever been in love. I probably wouldn’t recognize it if it smacked me across the face.
After a much-needed steam shower, I head into my pristine, restaurant-grade kitchen, one that would make professional chefs weep.
I pull a box of Hot Pockets from the freezer.
Yes. Hot Pockets. One of my many guilty pleasures.
I don’t cook. I eat out often, expensively.
But tonight? I need comfort food and silence. The day couldn’t end fast enough.
Just as I pop the delicious pepperoni-filled pastry into the microwave, there’s a knock at my door.
Who the hell is that? I hesitate, walking over like I’m in a horror movie and peer through the peephole. It’s Manny.
“Yo! Let me in!” he calls out, grinning and waving a six-pack of Modelos.
I crack a smile. I love Manny, probably my best friend but the man drinks the worst beer on the market. Seriously, Modelos? It’s tragic.
I open the door. “What are you doing here?” I ask, keeping the smile on my face even though all I really want is to be alone.
“What? Am I interrupting your pepperoni dinner?” He smirks, stepping inside.
Prick. He knows me too well.
“Yeah, yeah. Come in,” I say, waving him through. He strolls in, reeking of booze and woodsy cologne. He’s already halfway to drunk. I can see it. Smell it. Feel it radiating off him.
“So what’s up, man?” I ask as I walk back into the kitchen to retrieve my Hot Pocket. It’s a little too crisp around the edges. Still, it’ll do.
Manny plops down on one of the stools at the island and gives it a curious look. “Whoa. New bar-stools?”
I chuckle. “Yeah. Pottery Barn got me again with their summer catalog.”
He arches a brow. “Dude… if I didn’t know you so well, I’d think you were gay.”
I roll my eyes. “Thanks for the support.”
“Not that there’s anything wrong with that. Love is love,” he says, holding up his beer in salute.
I take a bite of my hardened, now mildly disappointing dinner and wince. “This is… a crime.”
“Let’s order some Chinese,” Manny says, throwing his hands up like a deranged cheerleader who just won state.
I glance down at my sad excuse for dinner, then up at Manny, then over to my phone. I sigh like I just lost a war and dial up Mr. Wong’s, hands down the best Chinese food within ten blocks.
“What do you want?” I grumble.
“Sweet!” Manny pumps a fist. “I’ll take the number three and number five. Oh and two egg rolls. Extra hot mustard.”
“Yeah, you got that, Lin?” I ask the woman on the other end of the phone. “And I’ll take the number six with one egg roll. Thanks, sweetie,” I add.
She giggles. All women giggle at me. Except AJ. Never AJ.
I hang up. “Twenty minutes,” I say, flopping down onto the bar stool beside him.
“Cool. Thanks, bro. Plenty of time to talk about whatever the hell is going on with you and Abby.” He gives me the kind of look normally reserved for people who suddenly develop a second head.
I sigh and grab the bottle of bourbon off the counter. No glass. Just the bottle. Screw it.
Manny cracks open a beer and we clink like we’re celebrating something other than the dumpster fire that is my life.
“I don’t even know where to start,” I mutter.
“Start with the part where you fell in love with the one person you loathe,” he teases.
“Dude. We’re not in love,” I shoot back. “And we’re not really dating.”
Manny blinks. “Wait… what?”
I rub a hand down my face and groan. “We’re fake dating to make her ex jealous.”
Manny pauses mid-sip, beer hovering midair. “Why?”
“Because last night, when we ran into her ex, she kissed me. Total spur-of-the-moment, make-him-jealous move.” I shake my head, still annoyed.
“Neither of us had any clue he’d turn out to be the new partner.
Then he had to go and announce it to the whole room like he’s hosting a game show.
” I take a swig straight from the bottle, then grin.
“Now we just have to sell this thing. Make Marcus sweat a little and keep Victoria in the dark.” I drop my head back with a groan. “Simple.”
“Wowww,” Manny says, scanning my kitchen like he’s searching for a grip on reality. “So you’re not actually dating?”
I shake my head. “Nope. Just for show. Then we’ll ‘break up,’” I add, tossing in some half-hearted air quotes. “Amicably, of course. Then we can all move on from this flaming disaster.”
A slow grin spreads across Manny’s face. That look never means anything good.
“You think Abby’s looking to date anyone?” he asks like a child wanting to sneak candy before dinner.
“What?” I snap, sharper than intended.
He shrugs, all casual. “I don’t know, man. She’s a cutie. And now that you’ve got the inside track, maybe you can put in a good word for me.”