“Your lock broken or something?” He keeps his gaze on my fast-working fingers. It’s then I realize I’m on my third turn, an overpowering need surging up to re-start my count. Instead, I pull my keys out and pocket them in his jacket. I can’t help but run my fingers along the expensive lining. “Old habit,” I shrug. “It was my lock back home that had issues.”
Accepting my excuse, we start down the hall to make our way out of the hostel. Once outside, he leads me just past the entrance to an idling blacked-out limousine just as his driver hops out to open the door for us.
“Why gin?” I ask him, sliding into the leather seat.
“Brown liquor brings out the worst in men,” he takes the seat opposite of me. “That’s what my dad says, well, what he used to say.”
Like me, Preston is an orphan. His dad was a congressman who died of a heart attack relatively young. His mother followed shortly after a double mastectomy couldn’t save her. The difference between us is that he was fed from a platinum spoon and is the benefactor of not only his deceased parents’ fortune but the generations before them. Old money in abundance. He’ll never have to work a day in his life, which makes him aimless, and from what I’ve gathered, a little reckless. Newly nineteen, he embodies the realization of the American dream. Yet because he is the way he is, I can’t hate him for it. He doesn’t treat me like a charity case, but through small gestures and shared stories, I can feel his empathy, and it grates on me at times. Even when you do your best to mask poverty, it can be painfully obvious.
“I was shipped to France on the advice of my tutor and educational planner to broaden my horizons and get some world experience. My semester’s over, man. I’m going home tomorrow completely unsatisfied with the size of my horizons.” His grin indicates his intent before he puts words to it. “We’re going to change that tonight.”
“What could possibly go wrong?”
He taps his finger along the leather seat next to him, and I still my own fingers as he graces me with another smug smirk.
“Fuck off,” I grumble.
“Let’s get you relaxed.” He grabs the spare trench on the seat next to him, leaving no doubt he brought the one I’m wearing for me. He pulls a silver case from one of the inside pockets, opens it, and plucks a joint from it before sparking it up.
“We’ll start with dinner,” he says on an exhale as we pull away from the curb, “a minimum of five courses. We’re going to have a gentlemen’s night.” He pulls a tie from another pocket and tosses it on my lap. “There’s a dress code.”
Thumbing the silk, I nod and stare down at it as heat creeps up my neck.
“I—”
“Say no more, my friend.” In seconds, Preston manipulates the necktie with sure hands into an adjustable noose before tossing it back to me.
Hooking it around my neck, I pull it tight at the base of my throat and glance over at him. He gives me a sharp nod of approval. It’s both humbling and humiliating how much I presume to know and how much I’m reminded daily of just how much I have to learn. Spending time with guys like Preston reiterates that for me, which at times can be infuriating. Knowledge is power and key, but so is experience.
Preston has that advantage. He had a mentor in his father until he was sixteen. I wasn’t so lucky. The idea that Roman Horner walks around freely, just as privileged, while I agonize over a necktie has my blood boiling. When the time comes, I don’t ever want him to have any advantage. For now, while my resentment grows, I’m an observer, but one day, I won’t be. That day is what keeps me aware, eager to learn as much as I can. Roman has the advantage of knowledge, age, and experience, and there’s only so much I can gain from a book. But more than that, like Roman, Preston seems to already know who he is.
“For once, King, I want you to let me be in charge. I’m not letting you waste another second of our youth.”