Greed

by Fisher Amelie

Page 4

  I shook my head and smiled at her then rolled down the divider. “Joël Robuchon, please,” I told the driver.

  Chapter Five

  Oh my God, my head. The pounding was intolerable. My eyes felt heavy, too heavy. I began to move my arm, but it felt pinned by something, making me crack open an eye. I glanced to my left. Shit. Shit. Shit. The back of Piper’s head rested on my wrist. I slid my arm out from underneath her but she only groaned, dead to the world, it seemed.

  I practically jumped from the bed, staggering back a bit from the pain in my head. Oh, God. Oh, God. What have I done? I asked myself, bringing my hands to my head. Remember. What happened? You went to dinner. . .

  Dinner. It was standard. Steaks, liquor, lots of liquor. More liquor than I thought two people could possibly drink. Random memories of Piper moving to my side of the booth, her hands sliding up my thighs, her tongue in my ear. My stomach lurched and I turned, only to stumble over a random guy sleeping at the bottom of the villa’s master stairs. I felt ill, and not from the liquor. I made my way to the kitchen, meandering around the leeches asleep at my feet. I needed water. I staggered a little, still a bit drunk. I threw open the freezer door and stuck my head inside.

  “Fucking leeches, all of them,” I said, thinking on all the assholes littering my villa floor. She’s the worst, I thought of the burgundy headed vixen in my bed. I lurched into the cold air, ready to spill bile, but closed my eyes and swallowed instead. I breathed deeply through my nose several times and the nausea subsided.

  I closed the freezer and opened the fridge, grabbing a bottle of water and chugging it. When I was done, I threw it on the floor and looked around me. Thirty or so people laid about scantily dressed.

  “You have no purpose!” I yelled at them, but they slept on. “Did you hear me?” I slurred. A few of their eyes opened, so I kept yelling until they were all awake. “You all have no purpose! You’re worthless leeches! Every single one of you is a worthless leech!”

  I stumbled forward and rested my hands on the cold marble of the island facing them. They all looked frightened, their eyes wide before standing and gathering their belongings, tripping over themselves in a sleep-induced hangover to get out the door.

  “That’s right! Get the fuck out!” I screamed, making my head pound worse. My hands went to my hair and I tugged, desperate for the ache to disappear. I looked about me and spotted an empty bottle of wine. I grabbed it by the neck and threw it at the wall to make them move faster. They stopped short when it shattered then kicked it into a higher gear, clambering stupidly.

  I watched them all with an eagle’s eye and spotted a girl near the bottom of the stairwell trying to drape a piece of clothing over a bottle of L’or De Jean Martell.

  I launched myself at her and yanked the bottle out of her hand. “I should have you arrested, you little thief. ” Her eyes widened and her breaths quickened. I balanced the bottle on the banister and shoved her away from me. “Fucking leeches, all of you!” I shouted at her as she ran for the door, but I caught her and clasped her around the upper arms and turned her around. “Always looking for the handout,” I gritted in her face. “Do you know what this costs?” She shook her head in answer. “More than you’re worth, trash. More than you’re worth. ”

  Her eyes narrowed in anger. “Let go of me,” she ordered.

  I peered down and noticed my hands were digging into her flesh. I released her immediately. “Get out of here,” I barked. She ran and I picked the bottle back up, twisting off the top and taking a gulp. It made my stomach turn, so I spit it out and let the bottle spin to the floor, its contents spilling onto the tile as the bottle rocked slowly back and forth. Thousands of dollars of deep burnt orange cognac seeped into the grout and I shrugged my shoulders. Oh well.

  I ascended the stairs once more, running my hands over my face. One more person to kick out. I dragged my foot over the last step, heading for the master but changed my mind at the last second, opting for a shower instead, hoping it would sober me up. I muddled around several empty bottles of liquor strewn about the hall leading to the closest shower and locked myself in the room.

  I never did well with sex. I always felt sick later, and I wasn’t really sure why. Yeah, in the company of friends, I’d brag about my fair share of conquests, pretending that girls didn’t mean shit to me because that’s what guys do. Pathetic as that is, I admit, but the reality of it was my stomach felt heavy with guilt, my chest beat painfully afterward, and all I wanted to do was run away, much like I always did when I made bad decisions. Hence, Vegas.

  Ask yourself something. Have you ever thought about why guys want you gone the next day? It’s not because they’ve got things to do, though I’m sure there are a few assholes who think like that, either because they repeated the folly so often they learned to bury the guilt or because they didn’t have a conscience to begin with. But, truthfully, it’s because they can’t stand to look at the reason they feel a hole in their chest. They don’t like reminders of who helped put that sick feeling in the pits of their stomachs. As long as they had a decent mama, the guilt is always substantial. Always. If they say differently, they’re liars. I’m not sure if the feeling goes for chicks, but I’m willing to bet it might. I mean, they’re human, right? They have the same little voices in their heads we have.

  Girls, I’m gonna tell you something that I could probably get my ass kicked for copping to, but what the hell, here it goes: Waiting to have sex with someone until they say they love you is a trick, a device, a deception. . . a game, if you will.

  Now, before you lose your shit or something, listen to me. I’m not saying that it’s not possible for you to have sex with someone you’re dating who loves you, but I am saying if they loved you like they said they did, they wouldn’t put you in the predicament to begin with. I won’t lie, I’ve had plenty of sex with plenty of girls, and it rocked. Well, it rocked until the next day, anyway. Hell, I’ve even lied to a couple and told them I felt more than I did. Shocking, but, baby, we all do it because guys love sex more than they love you, trust me.

  There are two things I’ve found with the act. One, guys love sex because they love the feeling. Nothing more. Two, girls love sex because it feels good as well but, whether or not they want it, there’s also an emotional tie. I can’t imagine a girl having sex with a dude she didn’t really know and not feeling almost psychotic afterward because she will forever be tied to this guy she barely knows.

  Damn, I just realized why so many chicks I’ve slept with lost their shit afterward, why they become a little desperate to call and connect and search for something that will never be. Almost makes me feel bad—almost.

  I started the shower and leaned against the marble at the sink until the water began to steam. I scrubbed my face with my hands, frantic to sober up, noting the stubble that’d grown and trying to decide whether I wanted to shave. Screw it, I thought.

  I closed my eyes.

  Piper moved closer to me, pressing her body closely to mine as the beat of the music permeated our skin and vibrated against every sense we possessed. Her mouth moved on mine. I could feel the corners of her smile lift against my lips. Her eyes lit with amusement like she’d won something but I didn’t care as long as she let me touch her more. I realized briefly I didn’t know where I was, but I was too happy, too sloshed to give a shit.

  “Want some?” she asked, extending the palm of her hand. A tiny pink heart sat in the center.

  “What is it?”

  “Ecstasy, of course,” she said, popping the pill in her mouth.

  “Can’t,” I told her, shaking my head. “I have drug tests at school,” I slurred.

  “Who cares,” Piper offered, swinging her body tightly against mine, making me forget about school altogether. She brought her face in close to mine. “Come on, all the cool kids are doing it,” she taunted.

  I smiled at her and that was all the answer she needed. She kissed me and I realized sh
e’d placed another pill on her tongue. I swallowed, uncaring. . . for the moment.

  “Stupid fool,” I told the mirror, disgusted with the memory.

  I shook my head, hoping to evade the flashback and began to undress. When I lifted my shirt over my head, my ribs felt sore as shit. I inspected my reflection, wiping the steam off the mirror first. On my lower left side, my ribcage felt like it was shattered. It was a dark black and blue. I lifted my left arm over my head and tentatively traced the massive bruise with the fingers on my right hand, wincing at a particularly sensitive spot.

  “Have you ever felt free?” she asked.

  “Never,” I answered truthfully. I could barely keep my eyes open. “I live in a cage,” I embellished.

  “Poor baby,” Piper cooed, swiping her crimson lacquered nails down my face. She wasn’t sincere, not even in the slightest. Anger briefly flashed across her face.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” I rumbled through a thick tongue, “but you’d be wrong. ”

  “No I wouldn’t,” she whispered. “You live a life of privilege. ”

  “It’s not half what it’s cracked up to be. Do you know how hard it is to be a good person with money?”

  “Do you know how hard it is to be a good person without it?”

  We were quiet, watching the fountains below my twenty-story villa.

  “Do you want to feel free?” she asked.

  “Of course,” I admitted.

  She grabbed my hand and we stood. She dragged a chaise to the edge of the concrete balustrade and perched on top, almost toppling over she was so inebriated. She giggled then braced a hand on my shoulder before balancing one high-heeled foot on the balcony edge.

  “You’re crazy,” I told her.

  “I know. ”

  But I followed her. For some reason, I followed her. My mom’s voice of reason popped into my head, something about friends and bridges and jumping, but I ignored it. I anchored my dress shoes from Church’s in London on the cushion of the chaise. I stared down on the foot, seemingly unable to move another inch. Fear crept into my stomach, securing me where I stood.

  “Come on,” she whispered in my ear.

  I steeled my stomach and lifted onto the chaise. I turned toward the world around us and breathed deeply of the cool air that can only be found at the height we stood. I let the wind rush through my hair and took one more step onto the edge of the balustrade before lifting my entire body.

  I stood on the precipice of twenty stories, of exhilaration, of adrenaline, of stupidity, but most importantly, I stood on the precipice of death. I turned to Piper, her eyes were wild as the wind whipped her hair around her face and plastered her gown to her body.

  She grabbed my hand to steady herself and turned toward me.

  “Do you feel it?” she asked.

  “Feel?”

  “Do you feel alive yet?”

  “No. ”

  She ignored me and faced the fountains below.

  “I wondered what would happen if I jumped,” she stated matter-of-factly, but I could tell she didn’t care if I answered her. She was contemplating.