CHAPTER ONE
830 Words
KIERAN
The air is thick, the wind bone-cold, and the pavement underfoot is damp. I walk briskly through the crowded streets of New York, rubbing hot breath into my palms to make some kind of warmth. I pull my headwarmer down, wrap my scarf tighter, zip up my sweater, and draw my coat around me.
My phone rings, the sound cutting through the narrow alley. I answer, my voice raw from the cold.
“Yeah... where is it?” I snap, patience already thin.
“Complications,” the other voice hisses. “Cops are on my tail, man.” Fear threads through his words — he’s telling the truth.
“Y’know I have no problem with cops,” I cough.
“Yeah, you’re a rich boy druggie with a fat trust fund. We’re not all untouchable like his Royal Highness,” he spits, jealousy and disdain in every syllable.
“Whatever. Get my goods to me by the end of the day, you prick — or the cops will get you good this time.” I let the threat hang. He goes quiet; I like the way that feels.
“Okay… okay. You’ll get it. Just chill, Trustie.” His voice is a plea now.
“Pleasure doing business.” I cut the call and scan the street. Across the road, a black SUV waits.
“Let’s move,” I mutter, climbing into the car.
●●●
“And where are you coming from?” A voice startles me. I almost jump.
“Dad!” I laugh nervously, watching his face.
He stares at me with that familiar, unbearable look—disappointment, anger, a kind of cynical disgust. But for a heartbeat, I think I see something else in his eyes: empathy or hope. Ridiculous. My father hasn’t had hope for me since my mother died.
“Sit down, Kieran.” He sighs.
“I just came back from the gym,” I lie, stretching. “Man, I’m exhausted.” I try for a laugh and head upstairs.
“SIT—DOWN, KIERAN.” The bark leaves no room for jokes. I freeze and stare.
I sink into the leather chair, facing his big, too-mighty desk. He looks small and enormous at once.
“Kieran, you never cease to find new ways to disappoint me and disgrace our name,” he begins.
Here we go again.
I can’t help a snort.
“Something funny?” he asks, eyebrow arched.
“Nothin’, old man,” I say, forcing a grin.
“What did you call me?” His voice booms through the study.
Crap. I meant it to be in my head.
“Sorry. Continue.” I put on my best serious face.
“I’m tired of your unruly, irresponsible behaviour,” he says. “You’re a shame to your mother’s memory.”
He did not.
“You watch it, old man.” I snap.
“You can say whatever s**t you want about me, but you leave her name out of this!” I slam my fist on the desk.
“I see I struck a nerve.” He smirks, and something cold slides through me.
“The bastard.” I swallow the word.
“You’re not only using drugs. You’re dealing them now,” he says, voice tight.
“How—?” My face goes dumb with surprise.
“Your dealer was apprehended. He gave you up.” The words land like a blow.
“Ah.” I slump back into the chair, dry and oddly amused. “And now what’s the punishment?”
“Guess.” I try for sarcasm. “No car? No phone? No trust fund?” I laugh hollowly, scratching the itch at the back of my neck.
His stare shifts from disdain to pity.
“Don’t pity me.” I wave him off. “I don’t need it.”
“You’re beyond talking to, boy.” He shakes his head, the regret heavy.
Before I can reply, the study door flies open. Four men in black suits step in and move toward me. A small, uneasy laugh slips out of me.
“They’re going to help you recover,” my father says.
I see the logo on their jackets — a crane between an eagle and a hawk. Panic spikes. Cousin Benjamin mentioned this place before. Rich kids’ correction centre. A van with bars on the windows and mandatory smiles.
“Dad—please. I’ll change. I promise—” My voice cracks. I try to choke back whatever comes next.
My father cups my face with rough hands and presses a brief kiss to my forehead.
“I’m doing this for you, Kieran,” he says.
I’m twenty. I’m only twenty. The men take my arms. I am dragged out of the house. The black van roars away, and the mansion blurs, a framed life shrinking in the rearview. For the next few years, it will feel like a forgotten memory.
- Writer
