Inferno: Part 1 (6 page)

Bryce

It’s strange having someone in my bed when I wake up, but a good strange. Mila looks so peaceful that I don’t wake her. Instead, I make my way to the living room and check my phone. A text from Phillip last night says that he will be at my mother’s today, so I shower quickly to head over there.

Before I leave, I jot a quick note for Mila, leaving it on the night table.

Mila,

I couldn’t wake you—you looked so peaceful. Please help yourself to anything in the kitchen or call in and order up—just charge it to my name.

Last night was the best of my life. I can’t wait to see you again. I have to go to my mother’s but will be back later. If I don’t see you, I’ve added my number to your phone. Let’s get dinner.

Smitten,

Bryce

As we reach the family home, I see Alexa’s car pull away. Her trademark bright blue Mini Cooper is hard to miss, especially with the Inferno decal on the back windshield. I don’t waste time wondering why she was here, because before I am fully out of the car, Julio notices me, and drops his pruning shears to run over.

“Mr. Bryce, I have to thank you again. I didn’t know you were coming today—my wife sent things back for you from Ecuador. She still—” he pauses, trying not to cry. “She still can’t believe you paid for me to go back and visit. You’re such a good man, too good. My children, they are so big! The youngest took a while to warm up to me, she doesn’t remember, you know.”

“Anytime, Julio. And remember, when you’re ready for them to come over let me know,” I say.

“I can’t ask you for more, Mr. Bryce! And my wife’s mother, she is still sick and cannot travel. Plus she won’t come to America—she wants to be buried in Ecuador.”

He moves to shake my hand, then realizes his own is covered with dirt and mulch, but I reach out anyway. His eyes are filled with tears, and I excuse myself before I get too emotional.

As I walk toward the house, I assess it from an outside perspective. I guess other people would call it a mansion. Rows of windows gleam in the early morning sunlight. The front of the house is grand, red brick almost 200 years old, with columns that stretch two stories up, supporting a small terrace off the master suite.

Although I was just here, there are more additions inside. In the three story foyer, a new chandelier drips with crystal. My mother’s voice echoes from the sitting room.

“I just couldn’t stand that old wrought-iron death trap he insisted on having,” she complains. “It looked like a medieval torture device.”

The marble floors are spotless, and the table in the center of the foyer is resplendent with tall, white lilies. They are beautiful flowers, but somehow stiff and clinical. Each one is almost identical, and the petals are waxy, not delicate.

My mother never ceases to point out the new baroque furniture in the living room—a reproduction, of course, since anything with fabric should never be bought used—and another voice that sounds familiar agrees. I recognize it after a moment—her company must be Mrs. Peters. They continue talking for a moment, and I pause in the foyer.

“You will not believe the latest girl Bryce is chasing,” my mother sighs, as though it were a personal affront.

“Tell me,” Mrs. Peters chimes in, I’m sure itching for a piece of gossip.

“Well, she has no money—Bryce bought her the apartment she lives in. And she’s from some hick town south of the Mason-Dixon line. Gold-digger, I can assure you. Why can’t he just go back to Kayla.”

“From your mouth to God’s ears,” Mrs. Peters says.

They both laugh, in the way that genteel women do—fake, without a hint of happiness to be found.

I’m completely caught off guard that my mother knows about Mila’s apartment, but I want to see Phillip, so I make a commotion in the foyer to announce myself, then enter the sitting room.

Mrs. Peters, Kayla’s mother, smiles from her seat on one of the new sofas, and I lean down to kiss her cheek. Although she’s well into her fifties, her skin is tight and unnaturally stiff, but I am used to the medically-altered states of the upper class.

“Bryce, it’s been too long. How lovely to see you. Unfortunately, I must be going. Lots to do before the party tonight!”

She and my mother exchange a knowing smile, and the clatter of her heels on the marble, followed by the sound of the door shutting are my mother’s cue to voice my current shortcomings.

“Bryce, what are you wearing? Mesh shorts and a t-shirt? There are plenty of suitable clothes in your bedroom, go upstairs and change.”

“Not now, mother. Where’s Phillip?”

“Your brother is practicing his long game out back. Wearing quite nice trousers and a polo. You should find something similar.”

I don’t bother replying, but quickly kiss her cheek and head out back.

Phillip is dressed well enough for the PGA tournament, and looks the part of an upper-class son as he winds back, toes pointed, then follows through to send the ball sailing. I wait until his club is back in a resting position before I call out.

“Hey, Phil!”

He turns around with a smile, and I can see that as we both grow older, we look more alike than ever. We’re almost the same height, both muscular, and have the same hair.

“How’s Dartmouth,” I ask, trying to understand why he’s back.

“Not so great,” he finally admits. “You always were the golden boy. Who knew people would actually expect things of me?”

“So are you taking time off or officially done?”

“I don’t know,” Phillip answers, carelessly. “I just missed some big tests and didn’t feel like explaining to my teachers that I spend more in a month than they earn in a year. So I came home.”

“You just left—no explanation, not even withdrawing from your classes?” I ask, shaking my head in disapproval.

“Pretty much.” He shrugs a single shoulder.

I shake my head but keep my thoughts to myself. Phillip was so young when our parents made their arrangement, he never really had Dad coming down on him, making him accountable. And Mom has always been demanding, but like me, Phillip had a nanny. Even as a kid he was more defiant, more outspoken. But I don’t remember anyone saying no.

He instigated all of our adventures—he is the reason I have a small scar on my forehead. We were playing with darts and he insisted we put apples on our heads and take turns aiming. I had to stand with the target first, and of course the first dart grazed my forehead. Our au pair at the time was yelling about tetanus shots and stitches, but it looked much worse than it was. The scar eventually faded and is now barely noticeable.

Now the man before me is practically a stranger. He plays the part of dutiful son when he needs something from our mother, but otherwise he is careless. People are a means to an end to him, and clearly I don’t offer him anything other than free drinks at a club. Inferno is the main place he visits when in town, and our conversation doesn’t go much deeper than a check-in before we’re surrounded by girls or he stumbles away with a friend for the night.

Phillip extends the club, offering the next swing to me, but I shake my head. We don’t like the same games anymore.

Mila

I will never get used to how expensive coffee is in New York. Shayne is nice enough to buy for us both, but the fact that brown water totals more than eight bucks is ridiculous.

Clips of last night keep playing in my head—Bryce’s hands as he tenderly undresses me, his strong arms scooping me up, the sight of him completely naked, the shattering feelings of having sex with him.

“That’s a new face,” Shayne observes. “Something happened.”

“Are you psychic?” I play with my cup. It’s a needed distraction otherwise Shayne will surely see the excitement that I can barely contain.

“Just observant. Tell me all the gory details,” his eyes widen in anticipation.

Okay, but this is kind of big news and I am not telling everyone.

“Scout’s honor,” he holds up two fingers. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

“So, I slept with Bryce last night. I mean, we made love. Or had sex. I don’t know—it was totally different than anything I’ve experienced.”

“What?” His face is a mix of shock and glee. He shakes his head as if it is an absurd thought. “Okay, so did you spend the night?”

“Yes. We fell asleep in his bed and when I woke up, he had left me a really sweet note.” I bite the inside of my lip.

“You understand this is earth-shattering, right?”

I look confused and try to clarify—“Because he’s my boss?”

“No, Mila. Bryce Cole never has sex in his own bed, or lets a woman stay for the night. You, my dear, are a game changer.” He’s pointing at me while he says it.

Shayne’s words confirm what I secretly hoped—this isn’t just a hookup. Then my curiosity kicks in.

“How do you know all this?” I ask and then take a sip of my coffee.

“He’s not exactly one to seek out women, so his previous companions were mostly from Inferno. And they often came back, telling tales of woe to me.” He shakes his head.

“Remind me never to confide in a bartender,” I laugh.

“Well, I think I can share a secret that will make us even.” His face becomes serious, and I lean in. “I have my first date with a guy tonight,” he says.

I think I keep a straight face, trying not to register shock, but I had no idea Shayne was gay. He explains it’s a recent development, so that explains a lot. We talk for a while, and I make sure to tell him how amazing he is for taking this step and how excited I am for him. The more we talk, the more excited and open he is.

“We’re going to a museum and I need to get a new outfit. So you’ll forgive me if I take off?” he asks.

I nod.

Shayne knows my clothing choices prioritize comfort over style, so I’m not the ideal shopping buddy. Since I’m still buzzing with excitement from all of the developments in the past 24 hours, I call Alexa. I’m too hyper and happy to be alone. She invites me over, and when I hear the address, I know this is a rich part of town.

My estimate of how rich is grossly under the reality, because there is a doorman and front desk receptionist at her building. I am already at the elevator when the woman working the front desk calls me back, requesting that I sign in since I’m unfamiliar.

She has a pretty necklace on, which I compliment, and we begin to make small talk. After reviewing the sign in sheet, she notes that I’m visiting Alexa Summers, and she launches into a whole new topic of conversation.

“Alexa is pretty popular,” the receptionist confides. “Lots of different guys in and out—all of them hot. But the best is definitely Bryce Cole. I’m surprised the paparazzi doesn’t stake out the building just to wait for him, not that I would call to let them know when he arrives or leaves.”

She laughs and I excuse myself. I‘m a little taken aback by the information just relayed to me by a complete stranger. But I guess this is exactly how the tabloids get their info.

In the elevator, my mind races about why Bryce would visit Alexa at home, but it must just be something friendly or maybe she needs help on occasion. I mean, the lady at the front desk never said what time of day he visited, but I don’t think Bryce would sleep with someone he employs. Then I realize how stupid that logic is.

Alexa’s apartment is gorgeous, and I can’t imagine how her Inferno wages pay the bills, but it’s none of my business. We go back to her bedroom, and I notice the small frame of a girl with blonde hair who looks familiar.

“Do you have a sister?” I ask out of curiosity.

Alexa laughs. “That’s me before I fell off the straight and narrow, as my dad calls it.”

She flips through a massive wardrobe stuffed with expensive clothes, but my attention is drawn to the enormous bed. I’ve never seen one in real life, but it looks like a California king-sized round bed, complete with red silk sheets. The bedspread is on the floor, and just under the hem I see a watch peeking out.

Alexa goes into the bathroom that adjoins her room. I hear the faucet come on and decide to examine the watch more closely. I pick up the bedspread and see a Rolex. It looks exactly like Bryce’s.

All those weeks ago, he showed up at my apartment drunk and smelling like perfume—could he have been with Alexa? I shake it off—I’ve never smelled that perfume on her and they seem to have more of a sibling relationship. My mind is still arguing over the idea when Alexa’s voice snaps me back to reality.

“So there’s this party tonight, and I’m serving,” Alexa says.

I drop the sheets and take a few steps to the side so she doesn’t know that I’ve been being nosy.

Alexa continues, “You should come along—super bourgeois people but they do pay the best.”

“You’re a lifesaver, I could use the cash,” I say quickly so she doesn’t realize I’ve been preoccupied with ludicrous thoughts.

We spend time deciding what to wear, and then I head home to change for the job after Alexa gives me the address.