Aleks
Dash texts early.Too early.
Puck Pad Thanksgiving Parade Invitees
Dash:
Be here or you suck.
He shares his location and I stretch, “Fuuuuccckkkk.”
It’s early enough that Central Park West is still mostly quiet when we arrive, barricades half set, cops sipping coffee like this is just another morning. No crowds yet, no balloons, just the city waiting for all of that to start their tradition.
We get there before Noelle on purpose.
Dash lets us in, and it’s evident in his excitement that this is a reveal.
“Okay,” he says, hands in his pockets, looking around like he’s seeing it again through our eyes. “So. This is the place.”
Marshall lets out a low whistle. “You didn’t mention it was a whole damn building.”
“Didn’t want to oversell it,” Dash says, dry.
Faulker moves toward the front windows, clocking the width, the ceilings, the way the light settles. He understands real estate the way other people understand simply surviving.
“This isn’t a random find,” he says.
Dash shakes his head. “Costello’s friend owns it. Bought it years ago and now he’s in Europe and ready to sell, but quietly. Didn’t want to list it, didn’t want strangers dragging brokers through it.”
“So, you slid in,” Marshall says.
“Short-term rental,” Dash corrects. “Sixty days. Furnished. Option to buy if I want it.”
“How much?” Marshall asks the question I wouldn’t ask, but yeah, it’s got to come with a massive price tag.
“Seventy-five a month,” Dash says easily. “To buy, we’re talking fifteen. Depends on how hard I push, but Costello already vouched for me. I’m in if I want to be.”
That part hangs in the air.
He nods to the stairs, “Galley is on the second floor.”
“Galley,” Marshall chuckles as we all follow.
“What sold me wasn’t just the space,” he says. “It’s the location.” He gestures up. “Parade’s a bonus. Roof deck’s ridiculous. But this—” he turns east now, toward where the city drops away, “This is the part that matters.”
“Pembrooke’s straight across the park,” I say, already knowing where his head is.
“Ten minutes,” Dash confirms. “Less if you cut through at Seventy-Ninth. Close enough that it’s normal. Not hovering. Not inconvenient. I don’t want her feeling like I built a shrine around her job, but I also do.”
Faulker nods. “You want her close.”
“I want her comfortable,” Dash says, pouring coffee. “I want to see how she feels walking into this place. If it feels like too much. If it feels right. I’m not buying anything permanent without that.”
I watch him as he says it. The way his voice stays steady, but his shoulders don’t quite relax.
“She’s coming later?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he chuckles. “She was up writing at four. She’ll come by once the parade gets loud enough to distract her. My mom and sisters, Paul, Moretti, Claudia, and Savannah, and their families will be here for the parade. Koa and Nalanie may show with his folks and her grandmother. They flew in at two this morning. Then off to The Bridgeview.”
