I made a decent chunk playing warm-up sets with my band before my brother Bay’s concerts too. So no, I don’t need to go chasing after old pricks, and suck their musty dicks.
But I’m not stupid either. I know that as long as I’m young, I can milk it for what it’s worth.
Even if it’s not my ultimate goal, I’m open to taking the chances that come my way. I don’t exactly have a career plan anyway.
But if nature gave me something worth showing off, why not cash in?
Other people use their genius brains or insane work ethic to get ahead. Genius was never my thing.
I wasn’t a bad student, just disinterested as hell. My parents had to pay for tutors just to get me to crack open a notebook. I scraped by, barely, bored out of my mind in most classes.
Geography was the one subject I actually liked. I loved travel blogs, nature shows, wildlife docuseries, flipping throughatlases. But what am I supposed to do with that, become a teacher? No thanks.
I glance up and look toward Anzo. Whatever. Nothing’s gonna happen anyway. That interaction we had? Way too brief. I shouldn’t even let my thoughts go there.
Some forbidden thrill, some adventure? It’s ridiculous.
Martin catches my look and shoots me a glare, so I obnoxiously flash my screen at him: a top-view photo of the Ferro family fortress, ironically named ‘The Sun’.
I snort under my breath.
"My future home. Look, Anzo already named it after me."
Martin grabs my phone and slaps it face-down on the table.
"Can you stop staring at the display while we’re eating?" he growls.
I flip him off, not giving a single shit what the waitstaff thinks.
Then I grab the phone back and turn it on again.
"You don’t get to tell me what I can and can’t do," I snap.
"Geez, Sun, I’m getting real sick of your nonsense."
I almost feel relieved hearing that, because that’s exactly what I was planning to tell him today. Word for word. So I open my mouth to say it, but just then, a waiter shows up and drops an expensive bottle of wine onto our table.
He looks right at me and says, flat-out, "Compliments of the gentleman over there. Year 3000 vintage."
Then he makes a face like I’m the last person on Earth who deserves it.
Tactless, sure. But then he does something subtle. When he sets down the white napkin, I notice a tiny note tucked inside.
The look he gives me says it all—yeah, that note’s for me.
"What the fuck is this? I don’t want any goddamn wine," Martin hisses, grabbing the bottle and practically shoving it back at the waiter. "And bring the check."
Then he turns to me, spitting fire.
"Just because he’s a fucking mafioso doesn’t mean he can make moves on someone else’s boyfriend."
The waiter bows with this smug little smirk and walks off. But the napkin, and the note, stay on the table.
"Didn’t you just say you were sick of me?" I mutter. "So what do you care if he wants to send me wine? You’re being totally irrational." I shrug.
"What I want is to get the fuck out of here."
I pretend to grab the napkin to wipe my mouth but palm the note instead.
