5. Drew

The Heir is home early tonight, but he's not empty-handed. Just before the stroke of midnight, he appears at the door with a gorgeous brunette I've never seen before. They're holding hands outside, but as soon as they cross the threshold, he drops hers like she's burning him.

"A few deliveries arrived for you, Mr. Arnaud," I say.

"Excellent. You can bring them up like last time, if you don't mind."

I scowl. I actually do fucking mind. The entitlement—after getting arrested for assaulting a police officer, no less—is incredible.

"I'll get them for you right now," I say, my tone pointed.

"That's fine. It'll wait until morning. I'll get the elevator." He and his lady friend breeze through the lobby, and Olivier pushes the up button all by himself.

He looks not the least bit disheveled, drunk, nor cheerful. Little fucker. I want to shout at him—take your shit yourself—but I lock my jaw. If there's one thing I need before I decide on my next steps, it's this job. I can't have one of the penthouse tenants complaining about my attitude to the superintendent. I'd be even more fucked than I already am.

So, I simmer.

My latest internet search getting me through the night is male escort services. If I had a sliver of a sex drive, the idea might appeal more, but I discover, through my research, that the demand for male sex workers is typically on the gay end of things.

Maybe I could find a sugar momma. There are plenty of rich divorcées in this neighborhood. I might have aged out of modeling, but I've got a decent body. Maybe if I were being bankrolled, my dick wouldn't be such a depressing fucker and pay its way.

I scroll Tinder, looking for prey.

Jericho would fucking kill me.

I close my phone and pick up Atomic Habits again.

Soon enough, the joggers and the dogs begin trickling out, The Martinezes are leaving town and need help with their luggage. I get to hold the baby for a minute.

Dr. Jerrod is in a big hurry. "Aortic dissection!" he tells me, sounding disturbingly pumped about it. Bruiser balks at the snow and gives me a look like save me from this woman, and finally, William arrives. He's the weekend guy. Older man, granddad type.

"How is everyone?" he asks—the way he starts every shift—like he's inquiring about his family.

"Safe and sound," I assure him and let him know about the comings and goings.

"I have a few packages to run up to 1204 before I go," I say.

"Appreciate that. Is he being a little shit again?"

I'm going out on a limb here and assuming William doesn't watch TMZ or YouTube. He strikes me as more the Dickens by the fire type. "He had his hands full when he came in," I lie.

I collect The Heir's mail and the three larger items that were delivered late yesterday evening by courier before taking the service elevator to the twelfth floor. The brunette Olivier brought home last night is standing at the resident's elevator waiting for it to slowly make its way up.

She catches my eye. She appears neither well-fucked, nor happy about it. Her expression is annoyed at first, and then appreciative as she gives me a once-over.

"Good morning," I say curtly.

"Good morning," she purrs. "Long night?"

"Went by like clockwork."

There are about twenty standard questions doormen get asked. Long night is at the top of the list. I have pat answers and short scripts to address all FAQs. No one here gives a shit what I have to say about pretty much anything except the traffic or the weather.

"See you around," she says as the elevator arrives, and I lift my hand to knock on 1204.

I give her a final nod as the door in front of me opens.

"Finally," The Heir says.

He's not naked, so that's new. I try to hand over his shit, but I'm not quick enough. He's already walking away, leaving me forced to either follow or set his mail down in the foyer and go.

I do the thing least likely to get me in trouble and take a few steps inside. "I can't find my scissors," he calls out. "Help me."

"What happened to go fuck yourself?" I mumble, not making a move to help. I'm not going any further into this penthouse than I have to.

His head snaps around. "Excuse me?"

"I said I wouldn't know where to begin."

He's high. It's more than obvious. His eyes are glitchy and wild. His cheeks burn bright. "The kitchen, you idiot. The knife block like I told you. Weren't you just here?"

"With all due respect?—"

"Oh, cut the shit, asshole." He storms right up to me, looking like a caged animal ready to snap at the bars holding him in. "Do you even know who I am?"

"Yes, sir," I say in a low voice. Deadly low.

"Then help me find my fucking. Scissors."

Inside me, the thread snaps. He's too close. His tone is too disdainful. I'm too close to the edge to trust myself not to strangle him.

William knows I'm here. I'd never get away with it.

The woman at the elevator saw me.

And yet—something inside me comes loose. I shove my handful of his things into his chest, backing him up a step.

He gasps, catching them at first, and then, meeting my gaze again, he drops them on the floor and charges me with one hand raised. It meets my cheek with a harsh crack.

Did he just slap me?

Instinct takes over. I catch his wrist as he tries to retract his arm. Using a move I learned in high school wrestling, I twist him into a half-nelson chokehold. Fucker. I slam him into the nearest wall and breathe heavily against his neck. "What did you just call me?"

"I called you a fucking asshole," he barks.

"Before that."

He's gasping for air, and I flex my biceps, putting even more pressure on his throat. He taps the wall, but this isn't a fucking game. Not to me.

"You called me an idiot. Remember that, you rich bitch?"

His body heats to boiling as he suffocates. He struggles against me, putting friction on my crotch with his stupid bubble butt that I don't fucking appreciate. I release him suddenly and hurl him to the side. He collapses on the marble floor, rubbing his neck and groaning. "That all you got?" he breathes.

"Is that an invitation?" I ask, loosening my tie and flexing my fists. It's a good day to beat the shit out of this spoiled little punk.

I'm done for in this city anyway. Why not go out with a bang? In a way, I feel like this has been inevitable. He's had it coming. What have I got to lose?

The Heir pushes to his feet and turns to look at me again. "Yeah, Jack. It's a fucking invitation."

Reason rears its ugly head. "You're not worth it."

He snorts. "Okay, doorman."

I lurch but stop myself.

He does what he does best—taunts.

"You can't hurt me. You're no one. Let me guess. You wanted to be an actor, right? Thought you were pretty enough to make it on Broadway? Or what? General Hospital?" He sneers. "Where are you from, Jack? Cleveland's my guess. Someplace dirty."

I stare hard at him, leashing my temper. Doing everything in my power to remind myself I do have something to lose.

"When did you give up?" he goes on in a tone filled with so much derision, it's a wonder he can even bear having my feet on his floors. "When did you realize you were a has-been that never even was?"

With those words, he disembowels me. This time, I don't just snap—I break in two. Part of me is standing there, still taking his condescending abuse, but the other part of me slaps him once, twice, advances on him until he's on the ground, skidding across his floor. I grab him by the throat and slam his head into the marble tile. I hover over him and spit in his face, staining his flawless skin. "I'll fucking kill you."

"Do it," he chokes out.

His face gets redder and redder. He flops beneath me. I kneel to slide my knee between his thighs, holding him firmly in place, and he grunts, his legs locking around my hips to try and gain leverage.

His lips go purple. Even if I wanted to loosen my hand, I can't. I won't. His pelvis bucks up, and his very stiff erection bumps my crotch.

That's what shocks me loose from him.

I back away, getting to my feet. "Fucking pervert."

He sucks in air, flipping to his stomach, slender fingers splayed on the floor while he tries to catch his breath. His other hand reaches down to adjust himself in his pants, the same pin-striped ones he left the building in last night. "Fuck," he groans, his cheek pressed to the tile.

I need to get the fuck out of here. He's nuts. High and crazy and too rich to know how to behave in front of a stranger—too entitled to realize not everyone wants to know his every move or indulge in his whims.

But as I'm turning for the door, I feel something I don't want to acknowledge as he groans again, louder and longer than the first time, followed by the distinct sound of skin slapping skin. He's jacking off, and knowing that makes my own cock twitch, blood rushing to the base and filling the shaft. By the time I get to the service elevator, I'm hard.

It takesme a while to fall asleep, my adrenaline not dissipating until after my second double shot of rye. I'm not a fighter. I, in fact, sucked at high school wrestling. Once, I tried to break up a fight on the subway, and ended up getting clocked in the jaw, but I've never thrown a punch, much less tried to choke the life out of someone.

But for someone who's about to get fired from a job that's nearly impossible to get—I feel pretty fucking great.

The only thing I want to be able to do but can't, is tell someone about it.

I would have probably told Silas about it—if it had only been the choking. Who among us plebeians wouldn't want to choke out a few of the smug little shits in our buildings? But because of—you know—the rest of it—I get a weird feeling in my chest thinking about it. And yet, I find myself reliving every second over and over with all the satisfaction of someone who just wrecked someone who needed to learn a goddamn lesson.

That should teach him not to fuck with me.

I was running on pure adrenaline at the time, and therefore expected a crash, but I actually have peace about the whole disgusting incident. Maybe I've needed to beat the shit out of someone for a long time now. Maybe bottling up all my difficult emotions is as unhealthy as it feels. Letting them out, however—that had felt good.

If I had any money, I'd join a boxing gym.

But I don't.

After today, I probably won't even have a job. Nevertheless, when I finally do drift off to sleep, something deep inside me is satisfied, like a beast who finally got fed a decent meal.