15. Hayden

FIFTEEN

HAYDEN

For the next hour, I suffer through typing at the speed of a snail, Doris's verbal lashings, judgmental glares, and the absolute shitstorm that is Elias on the phone. Even still, when not a sorry soul remains in the building besides the three of ours, his curtains remain fully drawn in secrecy and his heated negotiations blare through the thin walls, growing louder and more anxious.

It's a miracle he's still got a full head of hair.

I check my watch. Five o'clock on the dot. Time to get the hell out of Dodge.

Much to the disapproval of Doris, I flick off my monitor, then kick my shoes up on the desk with an exaggerated groan, not even halfway done with my report. And like the good little assistant I've been forced to play... I wait... and wait... for my dismissal. Not from Doris, but Elias, whose arguments show no signs of letting up.

I thrum my knuckles on the side of my chair, flipping a pen between my fingers, and when I start whistling, Doris shakes her head, seething with contempt.

After five minutes of my precious time crawl by, I bolt to my feet, pacing outside his door like a—

A roar erupts from inside Elias's office. "Well, fuck you too, then!" The hairs rise on the back of my neck, followed by a sharp slam of what I presume to be his phone. I blink, peeking at Doris, who only click-clacks away on her keyboard, humming.

And, shit, am I not the worst brother in New York City when I can't stop a snicker from spewing past my lips. Oh, man... for the guy who always seems to have it all together, this new insight into Elias is quite enlightening, to say the least.

Not wanting him to take another call and leave me twiddling my thumbs, and partly driven by the urge to gloat, I stroll through his office door. "Gee, bro, have you ever tried meditation? It might do you some—"

My snide remark fizzles out into thin air, overpowered by a sharp inhale, a sound I instantly recognize from strip joints or house parties or the bathroom stalls at clubs.

But never from the nostrils of my own brother.

Whether I see the mental image coming or not, doesn't alleviate the surprise that twists my gut when I swing the door open to Elias bent over his oak table, snorting a line of white powder.

"Uhhh," he groans on a curse, stumbling back while pinching his nose. Shaking his head violently, oblivious to my presence, he makes for the wall of floor-to-ceiling windows, before smacking them with vigor. "Woo!" he bellows, his hands trembling at his sides.

I'm stuck in the doorway, my ankles deep in a case of cement, when he turns his suit-clad body. "Oh, hey. Didn't see you there." He chuckles with a smile—a real smile—and gestures toward his desk. "You want some?"

His glassy-eyed stare steals the wind from me, closes my throat like a paper straw—tighter than the rolled-up Benjamin on his table and colder than the Black Amex lain beside two more lines. Sorrow pangs in my chest, facing his red stare once more, his pupils blown wide.

Maybe I'm not fit to judge. No, scratch that. I'm definitely not fit to judge. If all truth be told, I've partaken in my fair share of drugs, snorted cocaine off hookers' tits, smoked the devil's lettuce, drunk my way down the bottle through every nightclub in Manhattan and Vegas and Ibiza, then fucked the bottle service girls.

Okay? Feel slimy about me yet? Good. Sue me, because you won't catch me crying my heart out in some priest's confession booth. What's done is done. Simple as that. I've had my fun— still have my fun. But this, this right here?

This is something else entirely.

Yes, everyone and their mother know drugs are bad. They are bad, for a myriad of reasons; some I pick and choose, while others I knowingly shove under the rug for the sake of a good time. And call me a delusional hypocrite—quite the theme in my family—but Elias isn't having a good time.

He isn't wasted with friends, giving in to peer pressure, making questionable decisions he knows he'll wake up loosely regretting tomorrow morning, all in the name of making memories in his youth that maybe he'll tell his kids one day when they're old enough... only to do it all over again next weekend.

No. None of that is a part of his reality. He's right here. In his bougie corporate office. On a beautiful Saturday. Grappling with mounting pressure by snorting lines of cocaine.

All. Alone.

And if there's anything I know about my older brother... he doesn't do anything halfway. Nothing is just a phase for him.

"Don't give me that look."

"I'm not," I lie, closing the door behind me.

He gestures once more as he rounds his desk. "Then you want some?"

"I'm good."

His lips flatten. "Ah. It's like that, huh?"

"Like what?" I ask, already sensing anger boiling in my center.

"You—Hayden, self-identifying playboy and party animal—are too good for me. I never thought I'd see the day."

"That's not what I'm—"

He taps the oak slab, inches from the powder. "I seem to recall the cops confiscating five kilos at that little stunt you threw at Dad's house months back, which ended up all over the tabloids."

It was six kilos, actually... None of which I touched. Not that he'd believe that.

A smirk kisses his lips when I remain silent. "Half of New York City knows you're no saint, so don't pretend to be one."

"Fine." I fold my arms. "But even you can see how this is different."

He's about to hit me with what I'm sure is a clever rebuttal, when the phone on his desk interrupts him. Leaning over, he checks the caller, and there's no missing the way his shoulders tense. He picks up the phone, then slams it back down, whipping his startling gaze onto me.

"Is it so different?" He scrapes his card across the polished oak, collecting white flecks that've gone astray into his second line. "Last I checked, we're snorting the same snow, Brother. Don't believe me? Watch."

Reluctantly, I do, not that a second time eases the queasiness I feel any more than the first.

"Ohh, fuckkk." Grunting, he squeezes his eyes tightly, stumbling backwards like before, nearly smacking into the wall. Urgency blasts through me, and I'm half convinced something's wrong, until he literally woofs like a rabid dog—or an overzealous frat guy—and beats his chest with a fist. "Fuck! You see that? Don't tell me this is any different, like you haven't felt this exact high."

"I have, but—"

"But nothing." He saunters across the room with no destination in sight, mindlessly pacing, the rush shot straight to his brain. "Let me tell you..." he drifts off, heading toward the pull-out couch that's far-too lived in, then swerves my way, pointing a finger.

"Let me tell you the real difference between you and me. I keep my shit under lock and key, where it doesn't affect the family. And this?" He nods to the coke. "You need that shit, for your little party life. With your little party friends. For your fun," he seethes, and I don't quite believe the twinge of jealousy I hear. "But me? I utilize it, for its greatest purpose." He presses a finger to his temple. "To keep me sharp between the ears while I'm negotiating multi-million-dollar deals and running numbers all. Day. Long. And—"

He jolts when the phone rings once more. And again, he checks the caller I.D., curses below his breath, and slams the phone in its cage, rougher than before. Then he's eyeing that long third line, an amount I rarely see anyone attempt...

"Who were you on the phone with earlier?" I ask quickly, feeling desperate when his gaze doesn't veer. "You sounded awfully pent up... Very unprofessional." I force a chuckle, which earns his attention.

His lips curl in disgust. "A CEO. He's a total jackass."

Keep him talking, keep him talking...

"Oh, yeah? What'd you want with him?"

For a split second, his eyes narrow into slits. Good, I think, he's lucid enough to recognize my trickery. Until he shrugs, giving me the benefit of the doubt. Very un-Elias-Kingston of him.

"Kingston Entertainment wants to buy stock from his company, PixelForge. Gain some capital and market trust in the gaming sector, but he's too stubborn."

"Is that who keeps calling you?"

Sighing, he plops down onto his chair, the movement chipping away at my anxiety. "Yep. He's probably realizing my low-ball numbers weren't really all that low. Or he's putting his assistant up to it, more likely, having her call me with another insultingly high counter offer. But this isn't my first rodeo. I'm putting him on ice. Let him think I've moved on to a different company."

There's the Elias I know.

My pulse calms, but shoots right back up when his head swivels again. It's then I realize I'll do anything, say anything, to keep him from that third line—even bring up Juliana's side of the deal in the worst possible timing. Something I planned for later, once I gained more footing in the company, but now is the least of my concerns.

"So, uh..." I motion toward him, opting to sit in one of the leather chairs in front of his desk. "You're serious about moving into gaming, then?"

His eyes find mine, and their hazy fog lifts a bit. "Definitely. The board's already approved of the strategy, too, and for good reason. The market grew over fifteen percent just last year..."

His voice drifts through my one ear and out the other as he spouts off decimals, floating-point numbers and market share caps, yada, yada, all of which I had the misfortune of overhearing at our last family dinner.

I just nod, until his lips stop moving. "Was it your idea to sponsor games at this year's DreamScape?"

"Yep." He sighs proudly and leans back in his chair, propping an ankle up on his knee. "All me. It's the best way to get consumers' eyes on our company, to be taken seriously in the market. Maybe we'll host our own gaming convention someday, but that's years down the line."

"I see..." I rub my chin, feigning deep thought. "And who gets the final say in which games get picked?"

He cocks his head. "The sudden gaming enthusiast, are you now?"

I fake an awkward laugh. "Just curious, is all."

"Well, if you really must know, I'm picking the games."

My stomach slingshots down to the fucking floor, a cough I somehow stifle rippling up my throat. If my reaction isn't written plainly on my face, he doesn't say. He's picking? That can't be right. Because that would mean... My deal with Juliana is a waste of time.

Well, not a complete waste. I much prefer seeing her sleeping under my roof than her old apartment, even if it's in the guest bedroom and not mine. Especially when she practically lives in skin-tight yoga pants and has the uncanny ability of putting herself in the most tempting situations.

I wet my lips as the scene from last night replays in my mind, when she bumped into me fresh out of the shower, and the mishap by the window... Juliana may roll her eyes and scoff at my dubious remarks, but there's no denying how well she responds to my touch. The way she gravitates toward it, so eager to please me, and loses all control, practically begging for—

Stop it. I grit my teeth. Now's literally the worst time to pop a boner. Not to mention, it's inappropriate.

It's not the first time I've thought of her today. Quite the opposite, actually. Earlier, I blamed the recurrence on my boring report, my mind drifting, to no avail, but I'm not at my desk anymore, safe to hide my untimely arousal. I'm in front of my brother's.

I stuff down Juliana and her enticing everything, forcing myself to contemplate the real reason for my poor reaction. Why having Elias choosing who does and doesn't get a feature is bad news.

Juliana's supposed to have an advantage. Not only because she'll gain a one-on-one audience with whoever's decision it is, but also because that someone should be our father, who'll choose her girly kitty game no matter what, once he recognizes how good my new girlfriend is for my reputation. But if that's out the window, then—

"Dad has the final say, as always, though," he says, his tone laden with annoyance.

Air darts back into my lungs.

Thank. God. Couldn't he have just led with that?

"Is that the case with the indie creator feature as well?"

Now he looks super suspicious. "You're really beating around the bush here, Hayden. Is there something you'd like to ask me?"

I scratch the back of my head. "Uhh..." Fuck, this is even weirder than I thought it'd be. "It's nothing. I just know someone who'd be interested in the spot. A... friend."

"Reaalllyyy?" he drawls, his eyelids drooping. "One of your friends created a video game they'd like featured at the nerdiest convention on Earth?"

"Well... not exactly a friend."

Jesus H. Christ. You'd think I'm confessing to murder.

"Today, Hayden." He yawns. "Out with it."

I tug at my collar, which suddenly feels two sizes too small, my entire suit growing heavy and suffocating. "More like my... girlfriend."

The word floats between us, sounding ten different shades of wrong, as if I just spoke Mandarin Chinese without possessing the tongue for it. I've never had a girlfriend. Ever. Not even in high school.

Elias only stares at me, frozen, one-hundred and ten percent stone-cold sober... In a flash, he doubles over, nearly flopping out of his chair, literally howling at the ground with laughter.

Embarrassment burns my cheeks as I watch him smack the table, gasping for air. "What... what the fuck did I just hear?!"

"It's not that big of a—"

"Ahh!" he barks, combusting in another fit. "Who even are you...?" He swipes the tears brimming his eyes. "Who are you, and what have you done with my younger brother?"

I roll my eyes. "Are you done yet?"

"Sorry—sorry!" He breathes, in and out, settling back in his chair. "Come on. You really think I'm buying that? You, dating a gamer chick? What, are you attending church on Sundays now, too?"

Again, with the church analogy. Are him and Jeremy passing notes or something?

"Fine, fine," I grumble, looking out the windows. "It's more of an... off-and-on kinda thing."

"You don't say, Mr. Monogamy." A snicker breezes past his lips. "I was two minutes shy of sending you off to get your head checked out."

Could he be any more dramatic?

"Will you consider her game or not?"

His eyebrows lift. "Gosh, Hayden, if I didn't know any better, I'd say you're acting a little defensive over this nerdy girl. Don't tell me—are you catching feelings?"

My face screws up in disgust.

Feelings... I can hardly repeat the word, even in my headspace. To me, it's a foreign concept, a disease I've never caught and don't plan to. Feelings... for Juliana... my best friend's little—

No, I block out the thought. No, no, no. I'm not going there, and never will. There's only one thing I want from her—from any attractive woman, for that matter. Sex. S.E.X. I repeat this familiar word in my mind instead, hoping to drown out the last one.

Once I'm successfully rewired and back to normal, I smirk. "Don't answer a question with a question." Elias shoots me a look, and I have to bite my lip from laughing. "Will you consider her game or not?" I ask again.

His answer is lackluster, but it's all we need.

"Fine."