Age Eighteen
The heavy knock on my door followed by, “Come on, King, I know you’re in there,” has me closing my book with a groan. There’s only one person who knows the address of my room in the hostel.
Opening the door an inch, I’m met with a mega-watt smile. As usual, he’s impeccably dressed, as if he just stepped out of a men’s magazine into the real world. Yet there’s nothing real world about him, and I envy him that.
“Yep, just as I thought, it’s our last night, and you’re intent on fucking wasting it, let me guess, reading? You’d be worthless to me if every girl at school didn’t want a piece of you. As it happens, I’m in need of my wingman tonight.” It’s a lie. He’s notorious for his reputation with the coeds and the attention he draws with his personality and antics. Even I took an immediate liking to him, despite my best efforts to steer clear. He’s the attention-seeking opposite of me. From beneath his expensive-looking trench, he produces a small bottle of gin and lifts it to my line of sight. “Just once, I’d love to wipe that scowl off your face. Get dressed, and I’ll do my best.”
“I’m busy.”
“Bullshit, you’re just as bored as I am. You’ve got one minute before I start singing fucking Christmas carols in soprano, and if that doesn’t work, I’ll do much, much worse.”
Annoyed, but knowing he’ll back up his threat, I step away from the door, ignoring his smug victory smirk as he closes it behind him. Moving toward the rack sitting in the middle of the room, I pick through my clothes and pull off my best button-down. Due to the insanely tight budget I’m on from opting for a single room, I’m practically living on air at this point. New clothes are a luxury I can’t afford for the foreseeable future, and the last time I switched a sales tag on the full price sweater I wanted, I almost got caught. Paris is a city full of expert thieves, and since that day, I’ve been a keen observer of those I’ve come across. My higher learning extended beyond my studies to a more skilled sleight of hand.
Preston glances around the room and then back to me, and I’m thankful when I don’t see an ounce of pity in his eyes. I would despise him for it.
“It’s dreary.” Honesty. It’s one of the things I appreciate most about him, and I agree with him. There’s nothing but a single bed in my room, the provided free-standing clothes rack, and a small desk with a built-in lamp I purchased and hauled ten blocks from a street sale.
“A man of little means. I like it.”
Buttoning the shirt, I move to grab my worn patent-leather shoes from beneath the bed as Preston sets the gin on my desk before walking over and thumbing through my clothes, looking for something better suited. When he inevitably comes up empty, he turns to me, his eyes looking me over as I tie my shoes. “It’s freezing out, man. Grab your jacket. Better yet, I have a spare in the car. Take mine.” He slides out of it and walks it over to me. Instead of arguing with him, which is fucking futile most of the time, I push my arms into it as he holds it out for me. The fit is perfect.
“Admit it. You’re going to miss me, King.”
“What is there to miss? You’re a loud, obnoxious, overbearing, ridiculous person.”
“Ah, buddy, I feel the same way about you.”
Grinning, he retrieves the gin from my desk, uncorks the bottle, and takes a sip before thrusting it toward me. I accept the offered bottle, gulping down a shot of the ice-cold liquor before posing the dreaded question.
“Where are we going?”
“To paint the town.”
“I’m not feeling that idea.”
“You’re not feeling anything yet. Take another drink.”
Gulping back another sip, I hand it back to him before leading him out of my room.