Page 16 of Rogue Romeo

I pivot to observe my image in the elevator mirror.

Tailored suit. Designer scruff. A body that I work damn fucking hard for.

Simple brown hair that’s immaculately styled, as always.

Tanned complexion, courtesy of my absentee father.

Amber eyes, courtesy of my deranged mother.

There’s nothing notable about me, at least that I can see. I can hold a decent conversation. I have a sharp wit and a semi-photographic mind, which means I’m never short of an anecdote or two.

Charismatic.

That’s the word the rags have used to describe me when I’ve been to an event or other.

Truth is, I’m a fucking fraud. I plaster a smile on and do what's expected of me, just as I always have. And all the while, I’m screaming inside, hating the face I show the world, and wanting nothing more than to wipe the slate clean and start all over.

But when you’re a DeMarco, that’s not possible.

No one loves you, Alexander. No one cares.

Those ever-present words rattle around inside my brain. They’re always in there, behind every interaction I’ve ever had.

My eyes bore into my reflection, noting the rising flush in my cheeks, and suddenly, I feel too hot. I shuck my jacket, dropping it to the floor of the elevator without thought.

Having arrived on the ground floor, the doors open into the pristine lobby. Wall Street is bustling just outside, and I cross the space, marching onto the Manhattan sidewalk.

As always, my driver, Damien, is curbside, awaiting my instructions. He opens the back door of the uniform black town car, waiting on me to slide inside as I normally do, except my feet don’t move.

I glance to my left, then to my right, and then left again. Holding my hand up, I indicate to Damien that I’m going to walk, and turn left, vaguely noting his surprised expression.

My cell vibrates in my pants pocket, so I slip it out, and seeing Grayson’s name on the screen, I quickly power it off.

Take the day, Alex.

I nod succinctly to myself. “Yeah. I think Iwilltake the damn day.”

Having made a firm decision, I quicken my pace, unfastening the buttons on my shirt sleeves to roll them up to my elbows. I unknot my skinny blue tie, dropping it into my pocket before I open the top three buttons of my dress shirt.

I run my hand through my hair, mussing it up as I smile to myself in silent rebellion.

I feel freer already. Like I’ve discarded the shackles of my heritage in one fell swoop, and the thought is liberating.

My feet take me left and across a pedestrian crossing before I take a sharp right, coming to a standstill outside of a bar called Molly Malones. The wordsTraditional Irish Pubstand proudly beneath the name.

I’ve been here with Grayson a time or ten, and at this time of the day, it’s practically guaranteed to be empty.

Which is precisely what I need. No outside noise.

I step forward, pushing the heavy oak door inward to find an ornate, old-world quintessential Irish bar.

There’s a long, wooden, immaculately clean counter that runs the length of one wall, with matching wooden stools along the outside. I move closer, my shoes clacking noisily on the marble flooring beneath my feet.

I grab a stool and slide onto the wooden seat, glancing around in search of the owner, a flame-haired Irish ex-pat named Darcy.

There’s an array of signage plastered to the walls with advertisements such as ‘Guinness is good for you,’ and the entire wall behind the bar is packed with every kind of Irish whiskey known to man.

But the place itself is exactly the ghost town I predicted until a girl emerges from the door markedStaff Onlyand rounds the bar to slip onto a seat at the end of it.