One
Armand
I’m woken by a loud clanging that just keeps going. I almost hit the fucking roof as I leap out of my blankets, kicking at nothing.
“What the fuck?”
My own voice sounds alien to me. I don’t know where I am.
“Sorry, Andy!” Alyse calls out from the kitchen. “Dropped the fucking teapot. I’m sorry!”
“It’s okay!”
I try to ignore the clanging and banging just outside as I rub my hand over my eyes. Ever since I quit law school, I’ve been enjoying sleeping in late—when I’m allowed to, anyway.
I let Alyse, Tommy, and Rogan crash here in my apartment in The Bradford. They’re all poor and struggling in some way, so I don’t mind—when they’re not breaking my shit, anyway.
I know Alyse has been struggling as a waitress here in NYC for a while now. I still haven’t figured out if Tommy and Rogan are brothers or gay. Not that it matters; I’m no longer concerned with shit like that.
All I want is my art. That’s it. Well, that and Minette.
My rich bastard parents actually own this building.
Law school was their idea. Then when I quit, they blocked my trust fund. I watched dear old Dad write me out of his will with his own fucking hand—until I go back, that is.
Fuck him, though. You don’t walk this earth as clever as me, as good looking as me, or with as big of a cock as I have without finding a way to make it on your own. I lie back down in my king size bed, trying to ignore the sounds of Alyse cursing in the kitchen.
I have a workshop downtown where I keep my sculptures and paintings. Big-ass beautiful art deco place with vaulted ceilings and more room than I need.
My art doesn’t sell well—not yet. I’m not weird enough, dead enough, or keen enough to blabber on about metaphors or existentialism for that.
The workshop rents out for wild parties just fucking fine, though. That’s where I met Alyse & Co.—down on their luck, living on the streets, and gate-crashing parties just to stay somewhere warm for the night.
If there’s one good thing that comes from the fact that my parents haven’t kicked my ass out of this cushy fucking apartment yet, it’s that I can at least utilize it to help people who actually fucking need it.
That was my problem with law school, really. Not the tests or the professors or the bullshit papers—it was that when I looked around at all my old money classmates, all I saw were people who wanted to help themselves.
So I bounced. I’ve always been my own man—quitting law school was just my chance to prove it to Mom and Dad.
Sometimes I think all they care about is the perfect vision of me that exists in their minds. They don’t give a fuck what’s good for me—or what I actually want to do with my life.
I finish my smoke and grind it out the little red glazed ashtray I made. I have to get up soon anyway—I’m not that mad Alyse woke me, even if it is five a.m.
If NYC’s finest waitress has to be up and at work before the sun, there’s no reason I can’t do the same. I should get to my studio and organize some art. I only have that storage space because Uncle Matt gave it to me.
Once my parents found out I left law school and enrolled in an art program, I had to act fast. They wanted my art to disappear.
They didn’t even come and see it. They called the school, pulled my money, and my art got put out on the street. But Uncle Matt’s a bit of a black sheep.
He gave me the workshop and six months to make it as an artist. No money, but he wouldn’t let all my art go to waste. He’s a painter, too, after all—even if he’s only really interested in the nude female form.
I get up to brush my teeth and get ready. I make sure to make my hair look elegantly dishevelled, and my five o’clock-shadow scruffy but not unkempt. Not because I care about that shit, either.
But because I have to walk past Minette’s flower shop on the way.
Minette will be there. She always opens early.
I haven’t met her—I don’t think a fucking scoundrel like me even deserves her. She’s slight and delicate. Pale brown hair and gorgeous blue eyes.