Page 33 of Glutton for Punishment

One, two, three…

Am I counting towards something important? Or just watching time slip past me?

A shot glass gets shoved in front of my face. “Blaise! You’re falling behind.”

I blink, dragging myself out of the haze, and toss the drink back without bothering to ask what’s in it.

The party comes back into focus. Bodies move everywhere—dancing, laughing, pressed close together beneath the shifting lights. Someone has already collapsed across the white leather couch, passed out, while two others argue loudly about whose yacht we’re taking out tomorrow.

It’s chaos. Perfect, predictable chaos.

I lean against the marble bar with a drink in my hand as a girl drapes herself over my shoulder, pressing her body into mine.

“You haven’t done a line with me yet, Ryker.” She pouts. Her pupils blown and her eyes hazy as she pulls a baggy from between her cleavage and dumps white powder onto the bar.

“Yeah, Ryker. How have you not done a line with Stacey yet?”

A few of the guys across the bar jeer.

“How could you, Ryker?”

Laughter ripples through the group as they watch me, waiting to see if I’ll take the bait.

They’ve caught on to how distracted I am, which is blood in the water to these sharks.

I flash the vultures a simple grin and lean forward, snorting the line of powder without hesitation. The burn slides down the back of my throat as the guys erupt in approval, clapping me on the shoulder like I just accomplished something impressive.

Another girl slips up beside me almost immediately, her fingers tracing the line of my chest like she’s already decided how the rest of the night is going to end.

Typical behavior from the Greed leeches.

Sure, a few people here are friends. Loyal enough members of my posse. But not a single person in this room would hesitate to stab someone else in the back if it meant climbing one rung higher on the power ladder or adding a few more zeros to the end of their bank account.

I sink into the noise, just for a moment. The attention, the simple rhythm of a party that requires nothing from me except a witty comment and another drink.

I wonder where she is?

The question slips into my head so suddenly that it irritates me. I reach for another shot without thinking, swallowing it harder than necessary, as if the alcohol might drown the thought before it has time to settle.

It’s not healthy to give that much space in your head to one girl. Women aren’t worth that kind of attention. They never have been, and they never will be… Years ago, someone drilled that lesson into me.

The reminder drags up flashes of a memory I’d rather not revisit.

Laughter behind a nearly closed door.

Soft whispers slipping through the crack.

The dim glow of a lamp spilling across bare skin.

I blink and shove the images away before they can take shape. No use dwelling on ancient history.

The doors of the suite swing open, and the shift in the room is immediate.

“Councilor Blaise!” someone calls out in greeting.

The reaction ripples through the crowd like someone cranked the music up another level. Heads turn, people straighten, glasses lift in acknowledgment. The party doesn’t stop, but something in the air tightens as the room instinctively reorganizes itself.

Bodies drift toward the far side of the suite, dancers and drunks suddenly finding another place to be. Hierarchy settles, even through a drunken haze. Only the highest ranks get close enough to make face with their king.