1. Drew

This guy.

Fuck this guy.

With his Tom Ford suits and his Cartier necklace and his Prada shoes. His goddamn Rolex. Flawless, fresh, young skin, and his Hollywood perfect hair.

And fuck the women, too—dangling from his arm like gaudy accessories night after night—skin varying in shades from diamond to topaz to onyx. They all have one thing in common, the women. They're anorexically thin and collagened to perfection. They smell of Dior, top-shelf liquor, and money. Always, always money.

The man is Olivier Arnaud, better known to me and my co-workers as 1204. Descended from Marie-Antoinette or some shit, his family works in imports. They supply delicacies from companies they own back in France to the finest dining establishments in all the major US cities where caviar and champagne are on menus at prices labeled "market value."

That's what his family does. As far as I can tell, Olivier The Heir does nothing. Nothing but party, fuck gorgeous women, and spend his family's money on the latest couture.

Have I always hated The Heir with every molecule that defines my existence? No. He used to be just another rich dude who lives in the building. But one night—Thanksgiving night—he caught me checking out his luscious dessert—a model named Carina Polaski, and he fucking smirked at me. Gave me a wink like eat your heart out, Doorman, and it was that night that I decided he was the biggest asshole in the building.

Since then, he's only gotten worse.

Tonight, for example, it's well past three in the morning, and while he's wearing a bespoke overcoat I can only assume is made from cashmere, his shirt is open to the waist, that platinum Cartier necklace gleaming against an almost pre-pubescently smooth, pale chest. His dark, curly hair is mussed like fingers have been running through it, and there's a smear of lipstick on his white collar that matches the shade on the mouth of the famous actress clinging to his right arm.

The woman on his left is a stranger to me, but she's a knockout, too. Redhead. Glittering blue eyes. Runway model, I'm guessing because she's a few inches taller than The Heir in her Louboutins, and she's built like a clothes hanger.

The Heir whips his tousled hair out of his eyes and throws a drunken leer my way. "Hope you have something warm waiting for you after your shift, Jack. It's cold out there."

My name isn't Jack. He knows that. I wear a name tag. I don't know if Jack is some sort of insult in his world, or whether it's like "bro" or "fam" in mine. All I do know is it makes me grit my teeth while I force on the expected polite smile before I rise from my post to press the up button on the elevator.

I ignore his jab. His taunts have gotten more personal, whether he realizes it or not, and due to other circumstances in my life, I'm hanging on to my temper by a thread.

The Heir had two packages delivered today, which I retrieve. When I hold the boxes out for him to take, he gives them a frown. "If you wouldn't mind bringing those up in an hour or so… I've got my hands full at the moment."

The actress giggles, wobbling on her heels before sliding one perfectly manicured hand into Olivier's open shirt to stroke his pec.

Money really can buy everything.

"Of course." I take his deliveries to my desk as I return to my seat.

"An hour, Jack," he calls out again. "I won't forget."

The fuck he won't. He'll get his little rocks off and pass out cold. The women will stumble out sometime after I've left in the morning, and we'll go through this whole song and dance tomorrow.

The elevator arrives, they disappear in a grotesque menage, and I shove his packages to the side before clicking open my phone and glaring down at the screen. I'm rereading Atomic Habits, since obviously its lessons didn't take the first time, as evidenced by the fact that I'm still here, working the night shift as a doorman on the Upper East Side of Manhattan instead of posing for a fashion spread in GQ.

Some people might argue it's just as difficult to get hired as a doorman in a building like The Eastmoor as it is to have a successful modeling career, but the truth is—it's all luck. Apparently, I used all mine landing this job.

My roommate Christian is a doorman in a building a block up—his dad is best friends with the owner of several apartment buildings on this side of the park, including this one. Chris put in a good word for me four years ago, and here I am. I was told I had the right look for the building—as long as I keep my tattoos covered.

Funny enough, I get told that a lot, except there's usually a "but" behind it. Lately, the biggest "but" is "We're looking for someone younger."

I turned thirty yesterday. My girlfriend threw me a surprise party when all I'd wanted to do was get drunk and sleep until it was over.

I woke up this evening before work and noticed a line between my eyebrows that didn't go away when I stopped frowning at my reflection in the mirror. Upon closer inspection, I saw some around my mouth, too. The only thing worse—the thing that would have tipped me completely over the edge—would have been a gray hair. But there aren't any. I looked. On my head as well as in my pubes. So far, I'm clean.

Jericho, my girlfriend, helped me run the gray hair inspection with a lot of rolling eyes and exhausted sighs. But when she wanted something in return for her services, I shook her off. "Can't you tell I'm not in the mood?"

"You're never in the mood, Drew."

Clinical depression, I'd reminded her. "Look it up."

Another sigh. Another eye roll. A glimmer of understanding, though. I wanted to say I'd make it up to her later, but despite Arnaud's "well-wishes," I have a feeling she won't be waiting for me when I get home. It's not like I gave her a reason to think tomorrow will be any different, and she has her own place with her own bed to warm.

I'm not angry with Jericho, and I honestly don't think she's angry with me either, but she's bored, and I'm tanking, and it's probably better if she steers clear of me for a few days. No one needs to be around me when I get like this. I'm a black hole. Sucking in other people's joy and making it void and meaningless. I should probably be on medication, but I don't have health insurance. Would I, though? Take meds?

Maybe. If I got really desperate. But my depression usually passes. I'm familiar enough with my cycles. I'll have a month of sort of bad, then another month of really bad complete with the inability to have fun, total absence of a sex drive, and loss of appetite. And then, usually something hopeful will happen, and the heavy mood starts to ease up. By my calculations, I should be feeling better in another week or so. December was rough. And my birthday was the icing on the failure cake. Nowhere to go but up now. But that all depends on whether something "hopeful" happens, and this time, it might have to come via an act of God.

At 4:45 the desk phone rings.

1204.

Motherfucker.

"This is Drew, can I help?" I say because I'm a professional, and I need this job.

"Yeah. You can, Drew. You can bring up my mail like you were supposed to eighteen minutes ago."

I pinch my eyes shut with my thumb and forefinger, a headache pulsing to break loose at the back of my skull. "I'm happy to bring up your packages, sir. At seven when Killian is here to relieve the door."

He tsks, the sound grating. "I'd like them now, though."

I have three things of value in my life, and they're in this order: my sanity, my job, and my shared apartment in Greenwich Village, all of which I would be putting on the line by acquiescing to this spoiled little shit's request.

"Of course, sir," I say and hang up the phone.

I do not leave the desk. I don't even take a second glance at the packages on my right. I do my job. I open the door for the doctor in 706 and ask him how the surgery went. I give Bruiser a dog treat when the CNN anchor from 1117 leaves for her run before her morning spot on the news, and I play friendly Doorman Drew for all the other early risers and go-getters in the building.

At six-fifty, Killian arrives to relieve me, sesame seed bagel and coffee in hand. I give him the rundown of who has guests, who left but hasn't returned, who's scheduled to come back to town today, and remind him that it's window-washing day.

Once we finish the hand-off, I pick up The Heir's packages with a grimace and walk to the service elevator. It is not a fast elevator, and at this hour, it's slower than ever with everyone trying to get to their fancy jobs and use it instead of the main one which is even slower in the mornings. After three minutes, the doors slide open on 609 and 1206. A young investment banker and a Broadway actress, respectively. They're engaged in small talk, and they each give me a good morning as they exit for the lobby.

I push the button for the twelfth floor and slump against the back wall, slightly more relieved than depressed that I have nothing to do today other than sleep—my current favorite pastime. On better days, I enjoy a run in the park, a workout at the gym, but I've had to force myself to stay in shape lately with the gloomy weather and my total lack of motivation.

Since my modeling agency has forgotten I exist, I should be doing some job hunting. I could look for open calls for commercials, extra roles, random shit that doesn't pay much but adds lines to my pathetic resume. But not today. The pull to sleep is too strong.

The elevator doors open.

The twelfth floor has only six apartments, which take up the thirteenth floor as well. These are the penthouses with rooftop access. The most expensive real estate in the building. Two are currently on the market, and along with The Heir, the floor houses the Broadway actress from the elevator and her producer husband, the owner of a major publishing house, and one of my personal favorite tenants, Andre Martinez—starting catcher for the New York Yankees along with his wife and three kids.

I contemplate leaving Arnaud's mail on his doorstep, just to be a dick, but I figure the bigger dick move is to ring the doorbell at seven a.m. As many times as it takes for someone to answer, which, in this case, is six times.

The redhead answers, a sheet wrapped around her tall, skinny, curveless body. Her hair has that morning-after look—slept on, yanked. Her lips are swollen, and she has three fresh hickeys dotting her collarbone like a necklace. She gives me a head-to-toe assessment and tucks a tangled lock behind one ear, adjusting her body to look more seductive. "Good morning, Jack," she says invitingly.

"Good morning." I give her the once-over she seems to be expecting before drawing her attention to the packages I'm holding. "Is Mr. Arnaud available? He wanted these delivered directly into his hands."

"Right." She steps out of the way to let me in. "He's been waiting for you."

"Oh, good. He's still up."

"I didn't say that. One second." She leaves the short foyer, and I follow, watching the sway of her slim hips as she mounts the stairs to wake up her host.

I take a look around the open space. The biggest flat screen I've ever seen is mounted on the stark white wall to my right. A creamy-white leather sectional takes up a ton of space on an enormous Persian rug and brackets a coffee table littered with bottles of liquor and unsnorted lines of cocaine. The unobstructed view of the park is to my left. The smell of sex, Dior, and old money suffuses the air. So, more or less, exactly what I expected.

A chuckle from the top of the stairs turns my head.

The Heir is naked except for his Cartier necklace. I narrow my eyes as I stare up at him.

In a suit, he gives the impression that his body is relatively flimsy—heroin chic. Adolescent and gangly.

In the flesh, however, he's lean. Too lean maybe, but not lacking definition. He glides down the stairs with his bedhead, displaying all the hickeys besmirching his pale skin while his long cock bounces on a sizable pink sac.

This fucking guy.

I hate my job.

"Here's your mail."