Page 2 of I Think Olive You
“Okay, well. If you’re sure… Come on. It’s just getting started. We’ve got a surprise for you.” Brandon urges me back toward the revelry.
I take one last lungful of clarity and descend back into the madness of the party—wrap my hand around a drink I sling back rather than savor. The internal voice dulls, my anxiety smothered under the warm hand of inebriation.
The soft body of a gorgeous woman greets me and Brandon makes an introduction I don’t hear. She must be my surprise. It’s no secret I have a weakness for women. Tall, short, blonde, brunette. Pale or richly dark. Lusciously thick and lithely thin. There’s so much to appreciate—every one gorgeous in their own way. Hot lips find my neck, and I bend to return the favor. All I can focus on is salty perspiration, the freshness of mint against my mouth, and the give of a body pressing intimately against mine. This I can do. This I’m good at.
The vibration of her moan tickles my lips as I find a sensitive spot beneath her ear. She offers, and I accept, bodies melting into the dark shadows away from our friends. Time ceases to mean anything. In the repetitive thrum of music and the dire surge of our bodies against each other, we become nothing more than sensation. Nameless—likely faceless by tomorrow, given how wasted I am—she quiets the voice in my mind as I chase the one high I can afford.
New York’s vendetta against me continues. Daylight streams in the cracks between the curtains, slicing into the space with relentless fervor. Summer. My phone vibrates on my bedside table and I can’t remember how I made it home. As tempted as I am to ignore the call, it’s my mother. The part of me that isn’t a total asshole swipes to accept.
“Yeah, this is Matt,” I croak as I answer—and fight against the bile rising in my throat.
“Happy Birthday!” Too loud. Wincing, I pull the phone away from my ear.
“Thanks.”
“Matt, I was worried. I’ve been trying to reach you since yesterday.”
Rolling over in bed, I try to escape the bright light of the window. Ugh, I’m still in last night’s outfit. Sweat and come have hardened on the inside of my clothes after our hurried fuck at the party. God, I’m disgusting.
“Yeah, sorry. I had my party and got home late.”
There’s a sigh on the other end of the line and I know I’ve let her down. Again. A permanent state of being for me. Just a fucking disappointment.
“I wish your father were here to see it all: your birthday, helping at the company, your college graduation. I’m sure he would have been proud.”
I bite back a bitter laugh. My father—the illustrious Thomas Palmer—would have been ashamed his son dropped out twice before finishing, only for it to be a fucking liberal arts degree.
“We both know that’s not true. Besides, Dad’s rotting in the ground right now, so he doesn’t get an opinion.”
My mother gasps in shock, ready to admonish me, when I apologize.
“Sorry. I’m tired and hungover. That was uncalled for, but let’s not pretend Dad was something he’s not. He fostered a company, not a son. I’m surprised he even gave me a stake in it when he has a team far more adept than me to run it.”
The ceiling is spinning. Ten minutes tops and I’ll be spewing my guts.
“You don’t have to accept the role of CEO. He gave you a year to decide.”
And time is almost up. It’s been nine months since Thomas Palmer dropped dead from a heart attack, and everything and nothing changed.
“I don’t know why. Everyone knows Alan is champing at the bit to go from CFO to CEO. He’s practically doing the job already. They shouldn’t even bother with me.”
“Speaking of Alan, he called. Apparently, I’m not the only one who hasn’t been able to reach you.”
Fuck. This can’t be good. My father’s former lawyer weaseled his way to the top of the company and is content to pretend he’s running the show now.
“What does he want?”
“You need to meet him at the office. It… it didn’t sound good, Matt.”
Any number of things could be waiting. The list grows in my mind: I pissed away too much money. I fucked around with the wrong person and they’re going to sue. A greedy asshole is threatening to expose one of the avenues I’ve explored to escape my life. It could be any number of things.
“He’s expecting you within the hour. So please, show up.”
The for once goes unsaid, but my inner asshole is glad to provide it anyway.
“Fine. I’ll be there.” A brief goodbye and then silence from the other end of the line.
I drag myself out of bed, making my way to the bathroom to turn on the shower. Steam fills the room until all I can see in the mirror is a hazy glimpse of my face. There’s a brief impression of bloodshot brown eyes and dark curly hair in disarray. I scrub the sweat and vomit and sickly-sweet stench of her—the girl from last night I’ll never see again—from my body.