BEAU
The great goat accident
Dallas, Texas
23h47
Well, I walk into the room / Passin' out hundred-dollar bills / And it kills and it thrills like the horns on my Silverado grill - Big & Rich
***
If I had known that the night was going to end with me barefoot in the back of a sedan watching federal agents arrest my DJ, I probably wouldn’t have ordered the third tequila.
Okay, that’s a lie. I definitely would have ordered the tequila. I just would have chugged it faster.
Being Beau Sterling requires a certain level of commitment to bad decisions. It’s a brand. A lifestyle. If I wasn’t the one dancing on a table at 2:00 AM while pouring Dom Pérignon into a fountain that wasn't designed for it, who would I be? Just another rich kid with daddy issues and a trust fund. At least this way, I was a rich kid with daddy issues, a trust fund, and a trending hashtag.
"Beau. We have a problem."
The voice in my ear was tight, clipped, and sounded like it was coming from inside a wind tunnel. Z—Zachary, my father’s executive assistant and the man currently aging in dog years because of me—was shouting over the bass thumping from the rooftop speakers.
"Define 'problem,'" I shouted back, dodging a tray of oysters carried by a waiter wearing nothing but gold body paint. "Did the ice sculpture melt? Because I specifically asked for the mermaid to have structural integrity."
"The FBI is in the lobby."
I stopped walking. The bass rattled my ribcage. "I’m sorry, the who?"
"The Federal Bureau of Investigation, Beau. Men in windbreakers. Earpieces. Guns. They’re in the elevator. ETA to the roof: ninety seconds."
Well. That escalated quickly.
"Why?" I asked, scanning the crowd. My rented penthouse rooftop was currently hosting half of Dallas’s social elite, three influencers with combined followers equal to the population of France, and a lemur I was pretty sure was illegal to own in Texas. Oh and there was a goat too. Wearing diamonds, even the dj named it Lil Bleat. "Is it the lemur? I can hide the lemur."
"It’s not the lemur," Z hissed. "It’s Saint Sylvain. Real name, Marcus Chen. Wanted for wire fraud in three states."
I looked at the DJ booth. Saint Sylvain—Marcus—was currently transitioning into a sick drop, one hand in the air, looking like the king of the world.
"But his set is fire, Z." As soon as I said it he yelled out“Make some noise for LIL BLEAT !”Aka the goat who I swore bleated on clue.
"BEAU."
"Fine! What do I do?"
"You disappear. Now. Service elevator in the kitchen. I’m waiting in the alley."
"But my guests—"
"Are about to be accessories to a federal raid. Move."
I hung up. I had ninety seconds.
"Beau! Baby!"
A pair of soft arms wrapped around my waist from behind. I turned to find Solène—Sophie? Sloane? daughter of an oil tycoon, legs for days, and a dress held together by double-sided tape and good intentions. She pressed herself against me, her lips brushing my ear, smelling of vodka and mint.
"Come downstairs," she purred, her hand sliding dangerously low on my stomach, nails dragging sharp against the fabric. She leanedin closer, her voice husky. "I’ve been thinking about you all week. This pretty pussy needs to be fucked, Beau. Hard."
Any other night, I’d have taken her up on it. Five minutes was all I needed to make her see stars; I was very good with my hands.
