Wrecked

Gabe's POV

The last thing I remembered was taking a quick shower before dozing off. Then, a sound blared from somewhere. I cracked open an eye, locating the source of annoyance; it was a phone—an alarm clock. Cursing, I muted the damn thing. I didn't think about it again, not until my world was thrown in a whirlwind of panicked agitation. The slim body next to me was long gone, having left a serious absence of warmth.

"Gabe!" I groaned at the angry sound of my name. "Gabriel!" I sat upright, startled; I fell back once I saw it was Sharon. She was… hopping on one leg? Trying to slip into a pair of jeans.

"…where's the fire?" I asked groggily.

Sharon's gaze reminded me of sharp shards of a smashed wine bottle, dying to impale me.

"You turned off my alarm! You fucking moron!" she yelled at the top of her lungs. Sharon managed to slip both legs in. I shook my hair out, trying to become self-aware. "I'm an hour late for—damn it!" she threw a camisole on the floor. Probably dirty.

"Shit. I'm sorry, Shar—" Sharon left with the slamming of the door. My lips pressed into a grim line; I glared around the room, alone. I could hear her in the living room, cursing me. "Shit," I rubbed my eyes. Sharon got up at six; my phone marked fifteen past seven. I noticed her abandoned phone; with a sigh, I kicked the covers and grabbed it. Ignoring the slight chill, I sauntered towards the door in boxers. "Hey, you left your phone…"

Sharon snatched it with none of the graceful movements she usually displayed. I did the wise thing, stopped talking and backed out of her way; the girl was on a warpath and I was the epicenter of her fury. Sharon flew past me while chomping on a granola bar. I felt ten years-old all over; I pressed into a naked wall, expecting the short haired girl to pounce, yell all sorts of verbal abuse. Instead, she swiped her sports' bag and purse from the ottoman at the center of the living room.

Sharon banged the front door. I exhaled heavily.

I wanted to chase after her and accompany her to Juilliard; she was running on angry fumes, what if she got hit by a car? Then again, Sharon might push me into traffic if I followed her.

I thought about going back to sleep. It was too early for someone who didn't care about college to be up and about. I walked into Sharon's bedroom and stood there for a moment, debating whether I could sleep. My brain was racing with apologies because screwing up my life was one thing, screwing up Sharon's… It wasn't something to be proud of. I racked a hand through my hair, heading for the bathroom. I lost the boxers and entered the seamless shower; Sharon's routine was strict, she didn't have a lot of time for a social life outside Juilliard, but she was happy with how things were. Three years ago, when she was admitted, she made me agree to no "sleepovers" or getting high or drunk during the week; we'd kept that, for the most part. Though, it had been easier to keep things light when she was a freshman, since she'd stayed at the dorms. She'd moved into this apartment last year.

I touched the beginning of the scar at my shoulder. Since the accident, Sharon had been more flexible… An idiotic smile appeared as the hormonal side of me conjured all the ways she could bend and stretch her body. But that wasn't the sort of flexibility I meant.

I squeezed a handful of bodywash.

Ever since my accident, Sharon had been less strict about when I could come over and have fun. At least, in the sexual department. Getting high or drunk was still heavily restricted to weekends. It wasn't the first time I made her tardy by spending the night, but nothing this extreme.

I stood under the lukewarm waterjet, eyes shut against the pressure. She was pissed. She had a right to be. I was angry at me too. Once I dried off, I scavenged the apartment for my clothes. I found the white sweater hanging off Sharon's desk chair, I slipped it on. Next up, the case of the missing jeans. I spotted them near a tall glass table near the French windows in Share's living room.

I left Ro's apartment around nine. I hoped tidying up the place earned me some forgiveness. Without a destination in mind, I walked the streets of West Side Manhattan, eying the light dusting of snow polluting the streets. I walked into a Starbucks, bought a mochaccino and sat at a small, round table. I stayed there for a bit, reading The Shinning eBook on my phone; I was a big fan of horror, thrillers and mystery. Contrary to some people's beliefs, I read. I just wasn't into boring stuff like Managerial Economics and Business Strategy.

Nursing the warm cup in my left hand, I leaned back, sliding my thumb across the screen. I sipped while reading about the beating Jack's father delivered because he'd thrown a rock at the neighbor's car. Further down the flashback scene, Jack beat the crap of a dude named George; my fingers tightened around the cup. I eyed it. Heaving a breath, I set it on the table before I spilled it all over myself. I wasn't sure why, but this annoyed me. Maybe because, in some ways, reading about George was like staring into a mirror; we were both athletes, we both had money and like George had joined the Debate team, so had I registered for Economics classes because my father wished it.

Economy was a bust, but hey, maybe I could graduate in four or six years. Just thinking about it made me want to hurl my cup at someone's head. Imagining running Dad's Company was worse, the sheer boredom of it razed my spirit like a tornado of epic destruction. At some point, I would have to put in some work—some hard studying hours—to actually learn that shit.

I sighed, resigned.

***

A subway and a bus ride later, I planted my ass on the large couch at my penthouse. I fell asleep watching a Game of Thrones rerun and woke up three hours later, bleary eyed and starving. I ordered pizza, not feeling up to the task of fixing lunch. Once the pizzas arrived, I sat down on a red Egg chair digging into the largest one. It was a mushroom, pepper and pineapple fest. According to Sharon, I was a maniac for putting fruit on pizza.

I was a happy maniac.

Hours ticked away as I watched Pulp Fiction for the gazillion time. Every now and again, I would check my phone, hoping for a call from Mom or a text from Sharon. Neither became a reality. By the time late afternoon rolled around, I was lighting my third cigarette, sitting before the panoramic window overseeing the Hudson. I sniffed, then took a long drag; the burning in my throat and lungs was a welcome friend, the silent presence of nicotine soothed some tedium.

I needed to go out and just do something. Visiting Sharon was out of question, so, hitting up a party or a club were the alternatives. I sauntered over to the glass table, grabbing my phone; I flicked ash into a crystal ashtray. I scrolled through my contacts; there were some peeps I didn't recognize, people I'd met once and forgot the next day.

I tapped Tara's name. Tara was a chill girl and a party animal. What was not to love?

"Sup?" I asked after a coarse hello came through. Tara smoked a cigarette pack a day, her voice was gritty and rough. "Know any parties worth hitting?"

There was a drowned out laugh.

"Hell, yeah. I've been invited to two frat parties this weekend."

"Yeah, cool, but I was talking about something happening tonight."

"Nope, sorry. I'm doing a super important paper that I should've started very, very long ago. It's just going to be me and a whole lot of Red Bull." Papers. I probably had those to turn in too.

"Good luck with that."

"Yeah—hey! You're invited this weekend."

"Thanks, Tar."

I dropped into the white couch. I called Peter Tory; he was a guy from back in the day, when Trip was still bitter and wanted to get into as much trouble as possible. Peter's family owned shares of restaurants, bars and clubs. Those clubs overlooked the underage problem if you knew Peter or his immediate family, no fake ID needed. Paradox was one of those bars, it was the quietest and most discrete, reasons for it being Trip's favorite.

Peter was somewhere loud. I could tell he was getting away from the center of it as he yelled into the phone, the sound of pounding music grew further into the background.

"Where are you?"

"The Torch." the newest addition to his family's collection. "You want to drop by?" I glared at the muted screen, I shut my eyes. Yes, please, I sounded so desperate inside my head it was pathetic. Truth was, if I had to stare at the damn TV for another hour, I was going to lose it.

"Sure, man."

"Sweet. Hey," he said in a voice I equated with trouble. The fun kind. "Do you have any on you?"

"I have the good stuff." I murmured thinking of the 7 grams sitting in the darkness of my desk; about a week ago, it used to be an ounce.

"Cool, bring some. Is Trip coming?"

I let out a harsh laugh.

"No way, dude."

The call ended and I ran to my "office". The bookshelves were practically bare, the books in them were fiction, some were encyclopedias I'd never used, and others were about economy and business models. I rolled the office chair to the side, opening the drawer below. The bag of weed smiled at me and I smiled back.

***

The Torch was large. It worked both as a club and a bar. As I neared it, I could see it occupied three floors. At the door, the bouncer let me in once I gave him my name. People waiting in line, some older than me, glared openly, going as far as to call me a motherfucker. That wasn't accurate, as far as I knew, I'd never fucked someone's mother.

The first floor was the club; there weren't any chairs or tables cluttering the dance floor, a counter was pushed into the opposite end—opposite to the stairs—stretching along the entire room. The bottles on display shone in vibrant color as lights shimmered in all directions. I made my way towards the stairs and kept going once I made it to the second level, where the bar was. The third level was for the VIP section; I didn't need to have been here before to know that. Instead of one guy, two guys were stationed outside narrow double-doors.

"Gabriel Holland," I stated coolly.

Without word exchange, the shorter of the pair cocked his head towards the door. Grabbing the double handles, I pushed in. The VIP room was large, divided into five different spots. One was the private bar. The other four spots were stationed near the corners, where large sofas were lined against walls and across from those, were lunar-shaped couches, large oval tables sat between them. In one of the corners, I spotted Peter. He was with five other people, two I recognized: Marcus and Dean. Dean had attended middle school with Sharon, Trip and I. Marcus was the son of one of Dad's clients; he'd been hard to get along with; he was one of those snot-nosed kids whose hands got a little too clumsy and a little too happy around girls.

Summoning a blank mask, to prepare, I drew in a long breath then exhaled smoothly, a radiant smirk adding to my good looks. It was Dean who jumped from the velvet blue couch and threw an arm around my neck.

"I didn't know you were in town." I tipped into Dean a bit, since he was shorter. I clapped him on the back.

"I flew in last night. I'm staying for a week. I was going to give you a call."

Dean released me.

"How's England?"

"Rainy. All the damn time. I never leave the flat without an umbrella."

"I'll bet."

Peter was on his feet to greet me once we reached the others. Peter was lean, lanky and taller than me. Not many people made me look up to them—Trip didn't count, since he was only a couple of inches taller. Peter was like, a head taller. Or more. Whenever Sharon and Peter were in the same room the height difference was hilarious.

"You brought the stuff?" that, ladies and gents, was Marcus. Always so debonair.

I caught Peter rolling his soulful eyes. I chuckled sympathetically. Marcus was a little like foot fungus, you caught it once and you could never get rid of it—not really. Peter liked to have a good time, sure, but he'd never gotten into scandalous fights like Trip and I. Though, to most people's knowledge, I was the Golden Boy. Because way back when, Trip had been trying to denigrate his family name however he could, so, his misdirections weren't enough. Many of Trips "ugly" moments had belonged to me; though, I never minded when he wanted to take credit for them. It worked out well for me.

"Hold your horses, Mark." A groan came from Marcus. Peter ignored him, gesturing toward two of the unknown people. "Jackie and Evie." Jackie and Evie were girls, probably sisters. They could've been twins with their matching dark eyes and ruddy dark hair; they weren't beautiful, their noses were sharp, their faces were long, like Peter's. "This is..."

"Gabriel Holland," Evie filled in. My name sounded like a sharp rebuke on her tongue. Oka-y. "We know. I go to school with him, everyone knows who he is."

"That's weird," I said, quickly flashing a smile. Her eyes fluttered. "I didn't think I showed up enough for people to know me over there."

Whatever tension seemed to have gripped her, eased out in the form of a laugh. Though she wasn't devastatingly pretty, her laugh was. I took a seat beside Dean, glad that Marcus was on the other end.

"Right, well..." Peter muttered, sitting down beside the remaining unnamed guy. "Gabe," I stopped slouching to look his way. He gestured to the guy who—honestly—reminded me of Jessie McCartney. "This is Desmond. He's my boyfriend."

"How's it going?" Desmond looked as comfortable sitting across from Marcus as a guy sitting on a pin-cushion.

"Good," Desmond chose to focus on the friendly grin still plastered on my face instead of Mark's evil aura. "Great to meet you, Dez. Do you mind if I call you that?"

Peter looked at ease then.

"He nicknames everyone."

"Sometimes he gives people more than one nickname." Dean added. He reached for a tall glass with a colorless liquid.

I held up my hands, shrugging.

"It's my superpower."

Desmond stretched out his legs. A half smile curled his mouth.

"Dez is fine. Do you have a nickname for him?" he thumbed at Peter.

Peter paled.

"I used to call him Bean Stalk. He's always been freakishly tall."

Peter shook his head, "I really didn't like that."

"I stopped."

"You started calling me MJ." Desmond looked super lost, blinking at his boyfriend. "As in Michael Jordan..." he trailed off. "But people thought he was calling me Mary Jane."

"Because you smelled like Mary Jane." I winked. "Speaking of which..." I threw the 7 grams on the table, along with rolling paper.

"Whoa," Jackie intoned, making a noise for the first time.

Peter's long fingers reached for the bag once I jerked my chin. Peter's dark skin clashed heavily with the paper between his fingers; expertly, he got one leaf loose and then unzipped the little bag. While Desmond leaned in, asking something too quietly for anyone to hear.

I focused on Evie.

"You go to Columbia?" she nodded. "Have you picked a major?"

"Biology. I'm just seeing where things go, I guess." that made two of us.

There was a soft, derivative noise from Dean. I slid him a narrowed glance.

"Not everyone wants to study medicine. At Oxford." I deadpanned. "Plus, there's nothing wrong with going slow and taking the time to enjoy life."

Dean shook his head and for a split second, it reminded me of Dad's disapproving tell. I inhaled deeply through the nose, keeping myself under control. What was that saying? Check yourself before you wreck yourself? Trip learned that from one of the first shrinks he'd been catered off to.

"I just think you're wasting your potential."

"He has all the money he could want. Why work? It's just stupid." Marcus defending me left a sour hole where my stomach should be. As if having a single thread of thought similar to his was enough to shape the world into the Twilight Zone.

"You work to fulfill yourself, dimwit. I mean, you have to do something with your life—something besides spending money like trash."

"Boys, boys, don't fight. You know how much I dislike fighting..." Peter put in, nearly finished with making a second joint.

"We're having a conversation." Dean stated as a matter of fact.

"It sounds like the start of an argument." Dez added, supporting Peter.

Jackie wandered off behind the lunar shaped couch I was sitting on. Maybe she was getting herself a drink. Maybe I would join her if this kept getting...

"I'm surprised you didn't bring Sharon." Thankfully, Dean changed subjects.

At the mention of my bestie, I felt the urge to dig for my phone. Though, since it hadn't buzzed, I was pretty sure she hadn't called or texted.

"It's a week day. She's always exhausted."

"I didn't think you had a girlfriend."

I frowned at Evie.

"Sharon..."

Marcus vehemently cut me off.

"Is Gabe's fuck toy."

I leaned forward.

"What did you say?" I asked softly, calmly, having righted myself.

"Oh no..." I heard someone breathe. Dean or Peter, didn't really matter.

Marcus looked as impassive as ever, grinning like the whole damn world was his to control, like it belonged in the palm of his hand and he could crush it at any minute, for whatever reason, and there wouldn't be consequences. Even I wasn't that arrogant. His chauvinism disgusted me.

"Well, I could use classier wording, but I think Evie got what I meant. Right?" one second, two seconds, three seconds... Evie was deathly silent. Because unlike Marcus, who'd known me for almost five years, she knew a dam was about to crack. "Personally, I don't get the fixation. She's not a winner in the chest department, but she's tiny, so, I guess her pussy must be really tig—"

Dean tried to keep me from reaching him. That's why my punch didn't land sooner. But now that I was on Marcus, he was dead meat. A shriek came from behind, gasps were let loose throughout the VIP space and suddenly the ambiance was dreadfully quiet, except for the background music. Marcus lifted a leg to kick me. I fisted a hand around the ankle, stopping it from connecting; I tugged on his leg with such force, he slid down—back meeting the hard floor.

I punched him in the face again. A ribbon of blood ran down his lip. Crouched above him, with heavy intent in my eyes, I heaved.

"Say that again. I dare you."

There were hands pulling me—tugging on me. One hand, large and strong, sunk too hard into my left shoulder—I gasped. I chanced a glance over it, seeing Desmond's face. The guy was stronger than he looked. Looking away was a mistake, one Marcus exploited by punching me square in the chest.

"Enough!" Peter's voice boomed. "Guys, I'm calling security—Desmond!"

Marcus was fighting back. I brought up my arms to defend myself, knocking Dez on the ground without really meaning to. I was prepared to beat Marcus to a pulp, then, the guy underneath me writhed and screamed in agonizing pain. Someone threw some... water? At him. I looked up, scaling black nylons on curvy legs, my gaze roamed higher, reaching Jackie's face. Jackie was holding an empty cup. What she'd thrown onto Marcus' face hadn't been water. It had been alcohol. Desmond was successful in pulling me off Marcus' this time; I was too stunned to fight. My lips tipped slowly as I savored Marcus' pain.

"He tried to cop a feel earlier, he deserved it." was Jackie's reason. Then, like a fucking badass, she whirled around, heading back to the bar. Probably to get a refill.

Peter had left to get security; one of the stationed guy's was now in toe. The man who could've passed for a CIA agent bent down, grabbing Marcus, giving no room for escape. He seized the swine's arms behind his back.

"What the actual fuck, Peter?" he yelled loudly. Like a baby throwing a tantrum.

"You provoked Gabriel. Plus," he paused. "Sharon's a cool chick. You don't get to say those things around me. Get him out, Fletcher and make sure he stays out."

"Will do, sir." Fletcher—the tallest security man—dragged a disgruntled Marcus off the premises.

I tilted my head, side-glancing Desmond who looked relieved to see Marcus' go. It didn't surprise me, since Marcus' wasn't just an asshole when it came to women.

"Why do you invite him?" Dean stole the words right out of my mouth.

Peter's shoulders slumped as the imminent danger dissipated.

"I don't. Not really. He shows up at my clubs and... A client is a client. As long as they pay, they have as much right to be here as any other customer."

"You don't need his money, dude."

Peter made a tired sound. He ran a hand through the short curly hair.

"I'm going to reassure the other people here. Be right back." he pressed a hand against Desmond's cheek, offering a small apologetic smile before walking off.

Once Peter was out of ear shot, I said, "You don't like Marcus."

Desmond blinked. I wheeled for the bar, I needed something strong. I found Peter's baby-faced boyfriend tagging along.

"I don't know Marcus well, but what I know, I don't like. I've been around enough homophobes to spot one." Peter wasn't stupid either; while I had no problem where sexuality was concerned, I'd seen and heard some ugly stuff first hand. "Peter's a nice guy and I get that he has a business to run—" Peter was running the business? Like, this entire club? "But there are some guy's who just leech you."

"Roger that," I muttered crossing my arms, leaning forward on the bar. "Yo, a bottle of your best Whiskey." Why bother with cups? Might as well take the whole bottle. That way, I wouldn't need to get up every ten minutes. "Have you told him that?"

Dez stopped, blushing under the bluish bar lights.

"We've been dating for a short time. I don't want..."

"To impose?"

"Yeah."

I eyeballed the mirror beyond the exposition of priceless bottles.

"If you care about Peter tell him how you feel. He likes honesty." It was something we had in common. "He won't take it the wrong way, Dez. It might just be the push he needs to stop hanging out with boneheads like Marcus."

There was a quiet break before Dez leaned on the milky countertop.

"Peter's told me about you. I didn't think you were going to be like this."

I gave a hearty laugh.

"Like what?" the man behind the counter set a Whiskey bottle and a glass in front of me. I fished out my wallet, pulling out a card.

"I don't know... Smart?" that earned him a furrowed brow.

"This is me trying not to look offended."

"No, I mean—I thought... I thought you were going to be like Marcus. Or something." the question must've been tattooed on my forehead, because he went on, "It just sounded like you were another rich guy who likes to spend his parents' money, party and have no respect for people."

"Getting two out of three isn't bad. I do like to party. I do spend my family's money. But I respect others as long as they respect me."

Desmond considered me; I still couldn't tell if his eyes were green or blue, least of all underneath this light. I punched in my card's number; the exchange went through and I put it away. I grabbed the bottle and glass.

Once Dez and I returned to the couches, Peter was back from damage control. He offered me a perfectly rolled joint. I took it, searching for the Zippo lighter lost in one of my pockets.

"You okay, Gabe?"

"I'll be peachy in a minute..." I muttered, joint between my lips.

"You're not going to throw another punch if I ask about Sharon?"

I cut Dean a dry look.

"Your humor is terrible. You must feel right at home with the Brits."

Dean's eyes rolled so far into the back of his skull that for a second I could only see the whites of his eyes. I lit the joint, then tossed Peter my silver Zippo. I leaned back, taking a long, long drag focused on watching the joint's tip sizzle.

"Sharon's doing good, doing what she loves, praying she doesn't tear a ligament..." Peter coughed at that last part, throwing a disapproving glare at the jinx. "She's too stubborn to get injured."

"What does she do?" Evie asked.

"She's a dance student at Juilliard." I puffed out a large sum of curling smoke.

Jackie reacted at that, joining Evie in her wide-eyed stare of admiration. Something stirred in me, I think it was joy—no, not just that, pride. I felt proud over Sharon's massive achievement. I stretched an arm across the velvet half-moon.

"How's Trip?"

"Married, with two kids and a dog."

Dean sputtered, getting Vodka juice on his shirt. Peter and I burst out laughing after sharing a look. Dean had been gone for nearly a year. Knowing Trip as well as I did, I knew his contact with people he didn't consider close was zero to none.

"Kidding. About the married and kids part. He does have a dog, though."

Dean cleared his throat for any liquid that might have gone down the wrong pipe. When he was composed, he asked,

"Still with that girl... Avery?"

"It's Ava, but yeah." Thava for the ages, I shut my eyes amused, taking another drag, feeling my muscles sag a bit.

I sat there, smoking a wonderful joint, sipping on Dalmore Whiskey, talking and just listening, until the only thing I could focus on, were other peoples' lives.