Broken Boy

Chapter 5

I drag my sorry, tired ass up the plush red carpeted stairs of the St. Regis. Thank goodness there's no bell hop at the door to tell me I don't belong here. I don't have the energy to dig through my pocket for my room key. The cream marble floors, crystal chandeliers, and gold that cover every inch of molding in the lobby welcome me with its bright judgmental gleam. I slip into the King Cole Bar and Salon—it's empty—and seat myself on one of the taupe leather bar stools. Old King Cole stares at me from atop his throne on the mural above the bar. Even in my solitude I can't evade scrutiny.

The rash decisions I made last night finally sink in and weigh heavy on my shoulders as I sag deeper into my seat. What the hell am I doing? I haven't changed a bit. With my face in the palm of my hands, I try to scrub the grit of my shortcomings away like I could undo this weekend, but it does no good—I can't escape myself.

I dig out my phone from my pocket and stare at the text from Elizabeth. What would she say if she knew what I'd done? Nothing. She'd say nothing, because that's her way, and the disappointment from that silence would be far more than I could bear.

The phone shakes in my hand so I grip it tighter to calm myself. But the money—the money would fix so much. She'd have to forgive me then, right? And it wouldn't be forever—I can afford to take the time off. It doesn't have to be like last time.

My thumb hovers over Elizabeth's name. I'll call her, she'll understand. She always understands—she would've disowned me long ago for all the trouble I've caused her. My mouth goes dry, and I wipe the back of my hand across my clammy forehead. She has to under—

"A.J., man, is that you?" Bryce's voice echoes in the empty bar.

Damn. Saved or punished—I'm not sure.

I stand up and turn around. Bryce and Jackson stride towards me. No joke, they look like a J. Crew ad, all khakis, checkered pastel button-ups, and Top-siders. The Hamptons called, they want their wardrobe back.

Bryce whistles once he's close enough to get a good look at me. "Damn, bro, you sure know how to party. I underestimated you."

I run my hands through my dark unruly waves like it'll do any good. "Yeah, just got caught up. No reception," I say, waving my phone at them before shoving it back in my pocket.

"No problem. We're all about having fun." Bryce gives me a knowing grin, but I don't think he knows the half of what happened last night.

"Cool. You guys see Charlie?"

"He's upstairs packing." Jackson nods back the way they came.

"Checkout isn't for a few more hours. We're going to grab breakfast. You can join us," Bryce says.

I don't think I can eat if I wanted to. My hand is still wrapped around my phone in my pocket, and I can't stop looking for an exit. The guys recap last night at Elev8 after I bailed, but I've tuned them out. They laugh and I hear a word or two about the girls they hooked up with, but the last thing I want to listen to are the raunchy details. I force a smile and half chuckle as they pat each other on the backs. I got to get out of here.

"Nah, I'm going to head up and catch some sleep before we leave. I'll meet you back down here at checkout." Before they can say another word, I maneuver past them and walk as calmly as I can out of the bar. Once my feet hit the marbled floors, I break into a jog until I reach the elevators. I jab at the call button and an elderly woman with her white lapdog in her arms glares at me. Hurry up, hurry up.

Somehow I make it up to the twelfth floor with only a disgusted 'tsk' and another glare from the old lady on the ride up. I rush into my room and close the door behind me, a second of relief washing over my body and leaving my knees weak. But it's short-lived—Charlie stands in front of the large window overlooking Central Park, his back to me.