1
DIEGO
The streetlights flicker above me as the city of Boston hums with the distant echo of nightlife and the closer growl of motorcycles lining up along the Seaport District.
My heart is pounding in sync with the rhythmic thumping of the engines. It’s Saturday night, and the air smells like freedom and burnt rubber. Our usual cocktail.
The air is crisp now that it’s fall and the start of my final semester. The beginning of my last class. One credit short from graduating with a degree in chemistry, adjusting the load after my accident, and still trying to catch up.
Makes no difference as I’ll roll right into my Master’s program, then Ph.D., before working for big pharma or a biotech company. At twenty-two years old, the blueprint of my life is already laid out for me, so I don’t worry.
The extra semester gives me time to fuck around with my boys and lap up this last semester before shit gets real next spring. MIT for two years. Harvard for another four. Then I’ll be making bank.
It’s not about the money.
I come from money.
My parents come from money.
This is about making my own. A personal challenge to step out of the long shadows my last name casts to carve my path. To make a name separate and apart from those of my grandfather. I’d say I am the richest of all of us, except for Holli.
Hollister Prescott Morgan Harrington III. Dude sounds like a law firm. But yeah, Morgan—from those Morgans—the American dynasty that created banking as we know it. The other knuckleheads are from new money, something their families are proud of, even if old-money families at the club look down on them for it.
Another thing I don’t give a shit about. Social status, economic, and political crap. Holli is trapped in the middle of it, having to go to galas and fundraisers, unlike my family, who abstain from all the bullshit, while our summers are spent in the Hamptons.
The twins blast past me, signaling to something up ahead that catches their eye. They are the newest nouveau riche.
Too loud.
Too ostentatious.
Too wild for almost everyone I know.
Their first-generation wealth affords them all the toys they ever wanted, all the ones I’ve already had. The newness wears off faster than one might think.
Bringing up the rear is Dominic.
The smartest of us all.
That’s saying shit, considering we all attend some of the most prestigious schools in the nation. Dom already graduated from MIT, finishing in under three years, and has moved on to Harvard after finding “Princeton too liberal.”
He’s also the most calculating. His wheels are constantly spinning and analyzing every aspect of his life.
“Man, this strip never gets old, huh?” I yell over the roar to Holli when I catch up to him.
My grip tightens on the handlebars of my BMW S 1000 RR, a sleek black beast that’s gotten me through more street races than I can count.
Growing up racing bikes, I’ve taken my share of spills, broken bones, and laid down my bikes too many times to count. I had to give all that up after the last competition, where I came down wrong and heard my spine crunch. Several weeks in the hospital convinced me to become a leisure rider.
“Gets better every time,” Holli shouts back, flashing his trademark grin that is catnip for the chicks.
He’s the best-looking of us.
His confident smirk and charismatic personality get him laid far too much. A revolving door of chicks to his apartment, sometimes two at a time, and getting noise complaints from his neighbors. He’s idling next to me at the stoplight, astride his cherry-red Ducati Panigale that practically glows under the streetlights.
Of the five of us, Holli is the golden boy with a sharp jawline, dirty blond hair, and tatted sleeves. He lands more phone numbers than any of us when we hang out at our local bar.
Dominic pulls up next to me, leaning against his black Aston Martin AMB with sick red accents, arms crossed, surveying the scene with casual indifference.
