I drop into a chair in the corner, pulling out the flask in my pocket and guzzling down half of it and letting the harsh burn of vodka singe my insides. It’s better than letting my thoughts go where I know they’re going.
I miss her, and it burns worse than the vodka. It’s the regret, really. All the shouda, woulda, coulda thoughts that haunt me at night. I should have stayed on Del Rey. We could have kept up the messy little arrangement we had, and everyone would have been happy.
But I didn’t. I handed Zara to my dad because he gets everything. He’s the superior version of me, and she chose him so easily. I mean, why wouldn’t she? I treated her like shit, but in some fucked up way, she liked it. She wanted me to treat her like shit, and I didn’t have to feel bad for how fucked up I was or explain why I liked the way she looked with my hand around her throat. It was easy and I wasn’t alone.
Now I’m alone, and I jerk off to fantasies about fucking her while he watches. And every night I convince myself I never really loved her.
There’s a knock on the open door, and two guys poke their heads in, both flinching when they notice me sitting in the chair in the dark.
“Oh, sorry,” one of them mumbles. His hand rests possessively on the other guy’s shoulder as he pulls him out of the room.
“I’m done in here. It’s all yours,” I say as I get up to leave.
They’re blocking the doorway, so I shuffle awkwardly waiting for them to move and I get the distinct feeling they’re both checking me out.
“You’re welcome to stay,” the man in the back says in a flat tone. The guy in front of him bites his lip, and I give them both a polite smile as I move closer to the exit.
“Uh, maybe next time,” I stammer as my skin starts to flush with heat.
“Suit yourself,” he says again, pushing his partner toward the bed against the opposite wall.
Clearing my throat, I pass them by. Once back in the party, the sudden pang of anxiety claws at my insides when I realize everyone I came here with is either gone or busy, and I’m in a crowd of strangers alone.
Time to go home, then.
I fish my phone out of my pocket and stare down at the screen as I move through the crowd and text Lotte to thank her for inviting me. I barely notice the tall black wall of man that steps in front of me, but I absentmindedly stop as I hit send.
“Nash Wilde.”
It’s a familiar deep voice pulled from a memory that has been locked deep down, like an echo from my past. My head flips up as I stare at the face paired with the voice, and it takes me two, three, four seconds before my brain catches up with itself.
Ellis Prior.
“What the—”
He laughs, a silky dark timbre that hums from his chest as his face cracks a cool, effortless smile.
Ellis Prior is standing in front of me. At a party in Amsterdam.
“I thought I saw you earlier. You remember me, right?” he says.
My mouth is hanging open like a fucking idiot as I nod. You don't forget Ellis Prior. Least of all me.
He worked with my dad for years when I was a kid, spending weekends on Del Rey, casting shadows with his larger-than-life personality. Or at least that’s how it looks in my memory. And while I remember him as the young, twenty-something business executive with thick light brown hair and a smile as bright as his commanding presence, the man who stands before me now is about fifteen years older but no less intimidating.
“Of course,” I stammer. “Ellis Prior.”
“That’s right. How are you?” He extends a hand, and I blink before reaching out to shake it. My eyes linger on the golden, tan skin of his arm under the black button-up shirt rolled to the elbows. After the handshake, he folds his arms in front of him, posturing with his shoulders back and chest out. It’s a power stance, and I do my best to match him.
I know he asked me a question, but my mind is too warped by this sudden onslaught of past and present colliding.
“I’m good, thanks. You?”
Before he replies, he touches my elbow gesturing to the patio where there are only a