Chapter 11 : THE SILK AND THE SUDS
458 Words
The sun didn't rise over the Brooklyn skyline with the same majesty it had in the Alps. Instead, it poked through the gaps in Clara’s Venetian blinds like a persistent debt collector.
Julian Blackstone woke up with a groan, his six-foot-two frame feeling every inch of the "decorative prop" Clara called a sofa. His feet were hanging off the edge, and his neck felt like it had been cross-examined by a sledgehammer. He sat up, rubbing his face, only to be hit with the realization that he was wearing a t-shirt that said Yale Law: Class of 2018 and nothing else.
"Good morning, Prince," Clara’s voice rang out from the kitchen. She sounded far too awake for a woman who had almost committed arson the night before.
Julian wandered into the kitchen, leaning against the doorframe. The scent of coffee—actual, cheap, grocery-store coffee—filled the air. "I believe the Geneva Convention has rules against sleeping on furniture that small, Sterling."
Clara didn't look up from her laptop. She was already in her zone, a pair of blue-light glasses perched on her nose. "The Geneva Convention doesn't cover disinherited billionaires who refuse to sleep in their own penthouses. There’s coffee in the pot. Drink up, because we have a schedule."
Julian poured himself a mug, staring at the dark liquid. "A schedule? Does it involve finding a locksmith who accepts 'charm' as a form of payment? My father blocked my access to the Blackstone building. I have a wardrobe worth fifty thousand dollars locked behind biometric security, and I’m currently wearing your alma mater."
Clara finally looked up, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "Actually, it involves the laundromat on the corner. You wore your last clean silk shirt to the 'Domestic War' last night. Unless you plan on going to our new office—also known as my dining table—topless, you need to do a load of laundry."
Julian froze, the mug halfway to his lips. "I’m sorry. You want me to go to a public facility and put my clothes in a communal spinning drum?"
"It’s called 'doing life,' Julian. Here." She tossed a roll of quarters and a bottle of detergent at him. Julian caught them with the reflexes of a man who played varsity polo, though he looked at the detergent as if it were a live grenade. "There’s a deli next door. Get me a bagel. Plain. No cream cheese."
"I don't even know how much a bagel costs," Julian muttered, looking down at the quarters in his hand.
"Figure it out, Blackstone. Consider it a discovery mission," Clara teased, turning back to her screen. "And Julian?"
He stopped at the door. "Yes?"
"Try not to flambé the dryer."
- Writer
