New York smells different. It doesn't smell bad, but it doesn't smell good, either. It sometimes smells like urine or garbage, but mostly the city just smells like people. The only reprieve is Morningside Park, a block from campus. Or Central Park, a few blocks beyond that. But neither is like the river valley I grew up in, which offered a constant crisp breeze. But that's okay—New York also smells like opportunity, something I never could smell at home.
Natasha turns over in my bed. She's still sleeping, and now and then, she lets out a gentle snore. I want to record a video and post it online. After all, who wouldn't want to see this month's Vogue cover model snoring. But I don't. She made it clear a long time ago that she hates when people record her without her permission, and while most models post videos of themselves doing everything, Natasha plays the role of the beautiful recluse.
I lie beside her in my boxers, waiting for her to wake up. I've been here only two days, but it already feels like months have passed, making my memories of home foggy. I spent the first day wandering around campus like a vagabond, trying to find a dealer I could score some coke from. Turns out, I only had to look in my fraternity.
Natasha's eyes flutter, and her body goes rigid and long in a full stretch. She extends her legs out until her feet hang over the bed.
"How long have I been sleeping?" she asks.
"Only four hours."
Her lips press together, and she looks disappointed. "I was hoping for longer."
"Do you want some coke?" I ask.
She smiles and shakes her head. "Not now, I'm still sleepy. We should just spend the day in bed."
"That's not like you."
"I have a shoot all day tomorrow, and flying back from Paris always fucks me up."
She stretches again. Her body is long and lean, and when she tenses, every muscle is accentuated through her frame. She's wearing only panties—which create the perfect bridge between her hipbones—and nothing else.
"Did we have sex?" she asks.
"No."
I pull my vial out and tap a small mound of coke no bigger than a Smartie onto the back of my hand by my thumb.
"Are you sure?"
"Yeah."
I snort back the coke.
"Too bad," she says. "I would be more awake if we did."
She rolls over and drifts back to sleep.
YOU ARE READING
The Heir of New York
General FictionNew York changes people, and not always for the better. Evan and Chantal have a life planned together, but when he moves to New York to attend University, things go off track when he runs into an old flame from high school.
