“We all make mistakes,” he said.

I smiled politely. “Speak for yourself.”

There was a beat of silence before he continued.

“She thought she deserved the place. And in Alma’s opinion, she did.” Fairhurst sat back and glared at me.

Was he trying to rile me up? Privately, and only to myself, I could admit that Lenora wasn’t, in fact, completely talentless. Her art was a little psychotic, which obviously spoke to my unbalanced self. Lots of skulls, monsters, dragons, babies crawling on spiders’ legs and dead horses were created by her small hands. Her mind was a fascinating place, if you didn’t consider one thing she kept there—a particular memory of me—that I wanted to erase.

“Who the fuck cares? Edgar and you disagreed.” I yawned.

Both Edgar and Harry had a reason to give me the internship. It had nothing to do with my prodigious talent.

I pitied Lenora in a sense. She didn’t lack talent, skill, or discipline. What she lacked was balls, lies, and a cunning mind.

“Correct.” Harry stroked his chin. He would have chosen her if he could.

Edgar, too.

“Discussing who didn’t get the internship, and revealing her reaction to her opponent, is a waste both of time and manners,” my father said pointedly, crossing his legs on his imperial recliner, putting his phone aside.

“I’m sorry. That must’ve sounded inappropriate. Lenora is my niece, and I care about her dearly.” Harry looked over to my father.

“Raw meat. Don’t dangle it in the boy’s direction and expect him not to feast on it.”

“I’m not a boy,” I snapped.

“Stop acting like one, then,” my father deadpanned.

I knew what that was about. The parties. The blow jobs. The aftermath.

The servants talked, and I didn’t think there was any doubt that I was a loose fucking cannon in a very dangerous, fully operating machine.

“My life’s none of your business.” I felt my nostrils flaring, my fingernails clawing at my recliner.

“What an incredibly mindless thing to say. You are my son. Your life is nothing but my business.” My father’s voice was neutral, factual, and dispassionate.

Mom patted Dad’s hand. “Time to tone it down.”

He took her hand and kissed the back of it, dropping the subject.

We entertained Harry for another twenty minutes before he fucked off. I could tell he wanted me to escort him to the door, along with my mother, but I had other plans, like, I don’t know, digging my tonsils out of my throat with a kitchen knife. It was bad enough I’d have to suffer his existence up close for six months.

A few minutes after the door shut behind Fairhurst, Mom appeared at my bedroom door, hugging its frame and looking at me in a certain way. Though I lived in an existential vacuum and viewed girls’ mouths as a free parking space for my dick, Mom sure knew how to butter me up with just a glance.

I was glad no girl would ever measure up to her. It made life simpler.

“Take a picture. It’ll last longer.”

Fairhurst had put me in a crap-ass mood. I wasn’t sure if it was his sheer existence, the fact that he’d said Lenora might not take the assistant intern role, or both. I was lying on my bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering why I’d stolen the vintage CDs I saw on her desk one night when she wasn’t home and Edgar was in the shower.

Only I knew why. They were right there for the fucking taking.

Blur. The Stone Roses. The Cure. Joy Division.

My truck was older than the queen and had a CD player. It made sense. Plus, served Lenora right for being a weirdo who still used a Discman.

I just didn’t find her taste appalling, and that bothered me. I’d also downloaded all the movies on her iPad—Shawn of the Dead, A Clockwork Orange, Monty Python and the Holy Grail, and, unfortunately, Atonement, which turned out to be such a chick flick that even Kiera Knightley getting nailed against a bookshelf couldn’t save it for me.

But just because her taste wasn’t awful didn’t mean the rest of her was bearable.

“You were acting strange out there.” Mom pushed off the doorframe and walked inside, taking a seat at the edge of my bed. I toed my army boots off, grabbing a bottle of water from my nightstand and squeezing it into my mouth.

“Newsflash, Mother, I am the strangest asshole alive.”

“Top two.” She scrunched her nose on a smile, reminding me that Dad took first place. “So, what’s the deal? Do you not like Fairhurst? I thought you’d always gotten along.”

I felt the muscle in my jaw twitching, but smiled to ease it away. The painting she’d hung in front of my room in record time—not even hours after she purchased it—made me want to burn down the motherfucking house.

“What’s not to like about him? He’s a fine artist and a well-connected son of a bitch. I can’t wait to get his input on my piece.”

“What’s your piece about?” she asked.

I shook my head. She was pretty rad for a mom, but sharing was not in my nature. “Nice try.”

“You’re too complicated for your own good.” She sighed.

“Easy when you’re surrounded by teenyboppers and simpleton jocks.”

She scanned my face, trying to read me, before nodding and adding something about how she’d arranged for my piece to be sent from Edgar’s house to England next month, so I could continue working on it.

They deserved more than the ungrateful, moody bastard I’d turned out to be.

Two things a man can’t choose that define him: family and height.

Mom and I talked shop, mainly about her gallery, and it was only when she was completely sure I was happy (as much as an ass face like me could be) that she finally retired to her bedroom.

“Close the door after you,” I demanded, unnecessarily snappy.

She did, shaking her head and smiling at my antics. Nothing disarmed an asshole more than a person who didn’t take them seriously.

“Sweet dreams, my love.”

“Whatever.”

“Love you.”

I looked the other way. This shit again. “You, too.”

I could hear her laughter carrying down the hallway laden with stupid paintings.

Restless, I picked up my phone and scrolled through my text messages.

Knight: I’m having THE talk with Luna today. Wish me luck.

Good luck trying to get your man card back, you ball-less sack of emotions.

Stacee: You awake? ;)

Not for you, Stacee, you slut-shaming, gay-bullying, diet-personality Barbie, whose only unique characteristic is that your parents were illiterate enough to fuck up your generic name.

Hunter: On a scale of one to ten, when one is yawn, why-are-we-even-discussing-this and ten is I-will-fucking-dip-you-in-cold-fire-then-feed-you-to-my-blind-cat, how angry would you be if I told you I namedropped you to fuck the Lenke twins? (P.S. at the same time, if it makes a difference)

Minus thirteen, and their name is Lemke. At least that’s what their matching lower-back tattoos said when they licked my balls at the same time. (P.S. it doesn’t)

Arabella: You awake?

No, idiot. I’m asleep at seven pm, the time you sent me this message. I’m eighty like that.

Alice: Soooo, it’s official now. Jason and I broke up. Drinks at mine?