Chapter 17 Julia

I'm not allowed to do cocaine anymore.

Or ecstasy, for that matter, but cocaine comes up far more often. When you're as rich as I am, it's not a question if you use it, it's a matter of how often and what kind.

In high school I was a chronic user, mostly this and that, mostly given to me by boys who made lines with their fathers' credit cards. In college I was strictly a Thursday and Saturday night user, until Davis found out and went all pseudo-father on me and made me stop. I didn't, of course. Up until a few months ago, I never did anything Davis told me to. But after his freak out in the Yale dining hall during my freshman year, when I meant to hand him a stick of ChapStick and accidentally handed him the tube with my stash (yeah, admittedly not my finest hour), I did pare down my usage.

Jay likes the French stuff. The stuff so airy it'll have you hearing your heartbeat in your eyeballs. We don't actually know if it's French, but he can only buy it from a guy in Paris and he doesn't ask questions about it.

Now, tonight, he inhales a line of it off the back of my hand, which he has commandeered for the last three minutes purely for this purpose. I have a fresh manicure and I'm wearing a ring so valuable I could make a Habsburg weep, and yet my hand is only useful for a rich boy to snort off of. I usually like it when Jay holds my hand, but tonight I pull back the moment he's done, not a second longer.

Peter, as usual, is so high. Like, so high. He's hammered too, but it's only obvious to people who know him well. He's looking at the stars scattered across the clear Cartagena night, smiling to himself. He's humming this stupid song he loves—something by the Pixies.

"That's delicious," Jay grits out while he pinches his nose, trying to make the hit stop stinging. He briefly looks disheveled, but he eventually fixes his eyes on me and he's back to looking like a perfect American prince.

He thanks my hand with a pat and then reclines on his pool lounger, sighing with contentment. We don't have a private pool here at the Sofitel, so doing coke out in the open is the epitome of recklessness. But naturally, nobody says a word to us.

After a few minutes, Jay reaches over and takes my hand again, running his fingertips over my skin. "Missed you," he murmurs, his voice low and gentle. "How were the holidays?"

"Fine. Uneventful," I lie. But I'm not in the mood to tell him that three weeks ago, I spent seventy-two hours banging one of the most prolific fintech CEOs in history before I snuck out of his house like a college coed doing a walk of shame.

"Bummer. Should we make up for it tonight?" His gaze skims my bikini in that particular way of his, the way that used to make my body heat. But tonight, all I see are his bloodshot irises. He's a horrible fuck when he's high. Truly horrible.

I'm not in the mood to be fumbled.

"I want to sit and relax," I admit. "But maybe another time."

He nods quietly, disappointment playing across his face in pursed lips and a raised eyebrow. We linger in silence, listening to the faint music playing over the hotel speakers.

"I'm gonna take a walk," Jay announces suddenly, refusing to look at me. "I'll see you guys later."

He slides off his lounger and stalks away, shoulders tight. I sigh, knowing I'll endure the fallout from rejecting him when I close out the hotel bill and settle his gigantic bar tab. It wouldn't be the first time, and I know it won't be the last.

Now alone with Peter, I recline on my lounger once more and take a sip of wine. I ordered a glass of the same bottle that Gus poured and licked off my pussy. Some days, I try not to think about him. Other days, like today, I pine for him in a way I can't explain. I should have no fondness or desire for that egotistical, callous, piece of shit. And yet…

"Hey." Peter squeezes my shoulder. "If you want him, go get him."

"He's in London," I murmur. "Or maybe Montana still. I don't know. I left without saying goodbye."

"Montana? What are you talking about?"

I blink and see Peter with his brow furrowed. "You mean Jay," I realize aloud.

Peter nods before he cocks his chin at me. "Are you two okay?"

"Yeah. I'm just…" I trail off and glance around the pool, making sure nobody is within earshot. "Peter, I have to tell you something."

And then for the next ten minutes, I'm rambling about London and Milan and Montana and all the details I'm banned from sharing because I signed an NDA—but I don't care. I need to confess to Peter because my brain is spinning with uncertainty and want: a mix I don't often encounter. Peter listens patiently, and when I finish speaking, both of his brows are sky high.

"Sounds amazing," he murmurs, his voice tinged with a laugh.

"Amazing? It's confusing."

"Uh, for the first time in your life, you managed to have a fulfilling night—sorry, nights—with a man. Not just any man, but quite possibly the hottest man I've ever seen."

Not helping.

"So what's wrong, Julia?"

"I can't stop thinking about it," I admit reluctantly. "I've been trying to go back to normal, but it's like the world is a different color now."

Peter chuckles and takes a pull on the cigarette in his hand. "The dick was that good?"

"Life changing. But I'm not sure if it was the sex alone. For some reason, I can't shake him off, which is insane because I've never been more frustrated with a man in my life."

He cants his head sideways, looking sympathetic. "If it were me," Peter offers, "I would tell him exactly what I want. Because clearly, clearly, this man would give it to you."

"He'd give me most things," I acknowledge. "Yes, Gus Winter would bend over backwards to give me most things, but he doesn't do love."

"Ah yes. The new Julia."

I sigh, wishing Peter understood the beauty of monogamy, but he's not the type. I respect it, but he struggles to see things from my perspective.

"I'm not going to lower my standards just because he's a phenomenal lay and so good looking that I'm shocked anyone at FundRight ever got anything done because he's so distractingly attractive."

"So move on," Peter says simply. "If you want a relationship, Jay is right over there."

"Jay gets me," I acknowledge, "but he doesn't satisfy me. You, on the other hand, satisfy me, but you don't fully get me."

Peter smiles, not at all offended. "Baby, I satisfy everyone."

"Gus is a bit like you. We fuck so well, but we can't fully connect. I think we could though. We have so much in common in ways I never expected. But he's so closed off. I can tell he's always leaving things out."

"So tell him to open up," Peter pushes. "Like I always say, if you want something, ask. Tell him what you need. The great thing about older guys is they're shockingly good at answering straightforward questions. It's a generational thing."

"He's not that much older than us."

Peter shrugs. "Either way, it's worth a shot. But do something, Julia. You need to go for Gus or you need to get over him, but I can't have you moping around one of the most special places on earth and staring into space."

He's right. It's a waste.

Later, back in the suite, I part the balcony doors that open into views of the Caribbean. The night around me prickles with energy, and I know the sounds of music and revelry across Cartagena will drift into my room tonight.

But I'll be in my bed, thinking about him and wondering if he ever thinks about me.

My last words to him play on repeat, making me wish I had never said them. It was a deal, August. Let's not make this harder than it needs to be. Would I forgive him if he said those things to me?

It doesn't matter. Peter is right: I either need to go for him or get over him.

I close my eyes and inhale deeply, holding the balcony railing. The view is such a stark difference from Montana, but it leaves me with the same tranquility. When I blink my eyes open, I see crashing waves that look black from where I stand. It's awe-inspiring, and I can't help but consider how much better it would be with someone at my side, even if we were staring at the world in contented silence.

I turn around, hold up my phone for a selfie, and take a picture.

Before I can second guess what I'm doing, I type out a text and send it along with the image of me.

Me: Come and get me, August.