Page 1 of I Think Olive You
New York
The city has a grip around my throat. Lights strobe through the club, slashes of blinding white overwhelming me. This is my scene. It’s where I belong. So why does it feel like my skin is too tight around my bones? Bass pumps from the speakers through my chest and the room tilts. This cannot be happening right now. Have the clubs and parties always been this loud and chaotic, or am I losing my touch?
My hands pass over sweaty bodies as I stumble through the crowd. It’s incredible how fucking hot it gets in clubs, how thick the air I’m gasping in is.
“Matt!” Brandon shouts above the din and it’s tempting to ignore it, but he grabs the back of my shirt. I make out his floppy blonde hair and easy smile in between flashes of lights.
“Where are you going, man?”
“Fresh air and a smoke.” I tug out of his grip and forge onward.
It’s true. There’s no way I’m about to tell him I’m on the verge of panic. The Matt Palmer he knows doesn’t have anxiety attacks. What do I have to worry about when I have it all?
There’s so much money. It’s my cure-all for anything that might crop up to bite me and the first thing people think about when they hear my name. There'll be no sympathy for the poor little rich boy who inherited the keys to a corporate kingdom. But this is the third time in the last two weeks I have found myself unable to escape into a party’s bliss and blinding intensity.
I’m used to being one of the last to leave, living a little too fast and getting too close to ruin. It goes unsaid that if I’m driving, then it can only mean it’s a getaway car. The high of a good party extends into the delicious tangle of limbs and lips—heat and hunger. I never seem to find my fill.
Until now.
I rip myself from the dance floor toward the rooftop. The city glints around me—black skies and golden lights. My hands grip rails just too tall to jump over, knuckles aching under the strain as I suck in as much humid, summer air as possible. Still, it’s not enough.
Never enough.
My fucking motto.
My vices are many—my pleasures plentiful—and appetite drives me from one fleeting experience to another for as long as it provides joy. But joy comes fewer and further between.
Ah, another night of being a fuck up? When will you realize you aren’t worth the name on your birth certificate and give up?
It’s my own personal inner asshole. The voice is like a regular lush fighting closing time—never kind, never welcome, and only muted by the slick burn of alcohol. I try to shake it. The delusion is a comfortable lie I tell myself and others. I reinforce it now, repeating it under my breath like a mantra.
“Fuck-ups don’t have degrees. Or an open invite to every social event of the season.”
No one hears it; just me and the breeze. I pull my vape from my front pocket, sucking it in like a drowning man seeks air—wishing it was something stronger. But there are rules—stipulations to being the Palmer heir.
No drugs. No gambling. No tarnishing the Palmer name. So far, I’ve skirted along the edge, unwilling to give up the lifestyle I’m used to. Somehow my father still controls my life, even in death.
White puffs of smoke paint the night air around me and none of my emotions leave along with them. After a minute of heavy drags, I give up and tuck it away. My eyes flick back to the railing and the drop beyond. Dread swirls in my stomach alongside all the alcohol.
“Hey, what the fuck are you doing up here?” Brandon asks, and I wonder how long I’ve been out here.
“I told you, fresh?—”
“Fresh air and a smoke. Yeah, yeah. I mean, it’s your birthday party, and everyone’s wondering where you are.”
Twenty-six years old with a newly-released inheritance. A room full of people wait below—many of whom I don’t know. It’s not only my money getting me here—well, not all of it. I charm. I smile and laugh and listen. I sow as much revelry as I do trouble.
Because you have nothing else to offer. That fucking voice again.
I work my hands through my dark sweat-dampened curls, anger surging through me and killing what little buzz I have left.
No.
No. I won’t do this. I won’t succumb to this feeling.
“You sure you’re good, man?” Jesus, if Brandon is concerned, I must look more fucked up than I think.
“Yeah. Needed to clear my head, that’s all.”