Huh. I wonder what this one might bring.
I keep walking.
Wood creaks beneath my feet, and somewhere to my left, a gull screams. The sound scrapes against my nerves, too loud, too alive for what this moment is supposed to be.
My heart doesn't race.
My palms don't sweat.
There's just this hollow space in my chest where something should be.
Three more steps.
His back remains to me. Why does his back remain on me? Why hasn't he turned yet? That's fucking bold. Maybe Nonna signed me up for that TV show, where you don't know what your bride or groom look like until they turn at the altar.
Two more steps.
What else did Nonna have on this dude? I can't even remember. He speaks five languages? I think? Fuck. I bet he's into long walks on the beach and prowling on young girls.
One more step.
Ocean blue melts into different color pallets as the world around him fades to nothing. Everything tilts. My stomach drops, and I'm pretty sure my heart is going to break free from my chest.
Impossible. It can't be him. He—
His back turns, and there, standing in flesh, is Asher fucking Jameson.
Asher
Past
9 years old
Music sticks to my skin like grease, thick and choking beneath the low-slung lights that pulse with the beat.
Behind their masks, the eyes don't lie. They watch me. Painted lips hiding foul words behind smiles, women throwing soft threats wide in the flushed heat of too much whiskey and cigarette smoke.
Nine years old, but no one here gives a fuck about something like age. I'd always looked older than I was. Heavy is the soul that wears the Devil’s suit, or whatever the fuck it was that my mother always went on about.
Salt air whips sharp in my nose as I grip the yacht's lower deck rail. Around me, nicotine stench curls, mixing with spilled liquor's sour tang. Atlas is nowhere to be seen—again. Whenever things get close to real, the bastard disappears. I should hunt him down and slap sense into his head, but deep down, I don't really want him to see the world the same way I do. To have the same responsibilities that I do.
He's younger by a few minutes, but sometimes it feels like years. Especially since whenever I need the bastard, hedisappears like smoke. One day, that'll come in handy, but for right now, it's annoying.
The bass thumps harder, shaking the floorboards beneath my boots. Dancers stumble, weaving in blurred shadows that are wrapped in glitter and sweat.
I hate this place, but I hate the father who bred us to live in it more. He expects me to be the good son. The soldier. The one who carries the weight his frail ass shoulders can’t carry anymore.
“You’re always running, Atlas,” I mutter, annoyance thick. “Can’t stay in one damn place.”
Masks float through the night, in some creepy hellish kind of way. Fucking sloppy drunk like usual, everyone is.
My patience stretches thinner before Atlas staggers through the crowd like some drunk fool lost in a nightmare. Wobbling like a drunkard's compass, a flask clutched in his fist.
“Put that down,” I growl, shoving through the sweaty bodies until I’m face-to-face with him. His eyes glint with madness, wide and defiant.
“It's empty,” he slurs, but my hand shoots out, snatching the flask before it hits the deck. Engraved at the front is the family crest, all twisted in a vine of flowers. This is Dad's flask.
“Don’t fucking use that!” I snap, teeth grinding. “You wanna get me in trouble?”
