Prologue
Heaven
Seventeen years old
Being a part of the rich and elite isn’t so bad.
Dad is a Senator. Mom is the-every-day-wife wearing her expensive pearls and dresses. She and dad put on a good show, but I know better. They have been having affairs for years. They make appearances at parties, smile, shake hands, laugh, kiss each other on the cheek, but at the end of the night? They go to separate bedrooms.
It’s like it is contracted love, and the only way for them to tolerate being around each other is for events. It’s all for show.
It’s fine; growing up in a wicked ice storm does leave you cold, but it leaves you strong too. I never want to be anything like them when I’m older and have a family of my own. I hate being around my parents. Everything is so formal, so concise, so boring. When we eat dinner, all that can be heard is the clank of silverware against the plate.
If love is meant to be so quiet, I want nothing to do with it when I want to live my life in a roar.
Right now, we are on our way to the Governor’s ball. It’s the event of the year. If you don’t go, you aren’t a part of the rich and famous.
I’d rather not go, but being the son of the Senator of California, I don’t really have a choice. He is trying to pull me into politics, to follow in his footsteps, but there is nothing I hate more than these fancy parties and the corruption and lies. There is so much corruption, and I want nothing to do with it.
In order to win or get ahead in this line of work, lies have to be told, and personal beliefs have to be thrown out the window to give the people what they want. It’s like having a cup of hot, scolding selfishness in the morning before walking out the door for the day.
If politicians aren’t selfish, are they even doing their job? It’s the most biased profession I can think of.
Why the hell would I want to be a part of something like that? I’ll figure out what I want to do when I turn eighteen. Until then, I’m going to enjoy the buffet or the beautiful rich daughters of other senators at these parties like I always do. I’m going to live life to the damn fullest, drink when I’m not supposed to, buy condoms in bulk, and take advantage of the prestige this life has to offer me.
I’m young, I’m fucking good looking, and I have no responsibilities. What else is a man like me supposed to do with my time?
“Okay, do you know the drill for the night?” my dad asks, texting on his phone as my mom sits across from him, staring out the tinted window.
They hate each other.
“Me?” I point at my chest, wondering if he is talking to me or mom. There are so many rules and regulations for events. We go over the rules every single time.
“Yes, you. Your mother is a grown woman who doesn’t make stupid choices—”
“—I married you, didn’t I?” mom says, monotone and unimpressed as she lifts the glass of champagne to her lips.
“Good thing I wasn’t talking to you, then. I was talking to our son that can’t seem to keep his cock in his pants.”
“Like father like son, I suppose,” she says, never taking her eyes off the window.
I stare down at my lap, cheeks heating with embarrassment that mom called me out. If she doesn’t like dad, then she is saying she doesn’t like me.
“Because the only time you’re on your knees is to pray, right?” my dad replies in a casual manner while pouring himself a glass of scotch. He crosses his right ankle over his left knee and smirks at my mom. “Who was that man I had to pay to not run to the news outlets with the information that you are a dirty whore?”
My mom doesn’t flinch. Her face is stone-cold, her skin doesn’t wrinkle, and there is no emotion in her face. “Probably the same man whose wife you fucked in our bed a few months ago, darling.” Mom runs her palms down the pristine, tailored emerald gown hugging her body, unbothered by dad’s insults. How can they speak to each other like that? Did they love each other at all at any point in time? Mom turns to me, folding her hands across her lap, and prompts, “Well, Asher. Answer your father. He needs to make sure you aren’t completely incompetent and understand that you are not to run off with the tramp he wants.”
I roll my eyes, wondering how the hell I ended up with two parents that dislike me because they hate each other so much. “I know to keep my mouth shut, to clap when I need to clap, and not chase tail, or get anyone pregnant until you get the donations you need.”
“If you can flirt with a few of the wives and milk them for a few thousand, I’d appreciate it,” dad winks at me, and my stomach turns when I know he thinks of me as his way of making millions because he thinks I’ll sleep with whoever for him.
I sleep with women for me and it isn’t because I’m using them or think they are objects. I know when women want me, and I obviously want a beautiful woman, but it’s deeper than that. I’m not wanted anywhere else in my life. My parents hate me. The rich fucks I got to school with are assholes and don’t want to be friends with me. They just love that I have money.