Page 4 of Lost Paradise

Eve Winters plays dirty, and judging by her IG profile, she’s domineering, manipulative, and loyal. She has it all, yet will always want more; an obsessive overachiever with a shaky moral fiber, and she'll go to great lengths to get what she wants. She feels an enormous pressure to be perfect, and her need to be on top of the social pyramid pretty much says it all about her.

She’s exactly my kind of woman, and I’d love to corrupt her even more and bring out that ruthlessness that’s just itching to emerge from her core.

The American athlete hasn’t left her side, as if he thinks he has a chance. He isn’t even in her league. Eve’s not impressed by athletic geeks who prance around in hoodies and jeans. The wanker should have looked up her IG account and checked out the kind of Manhattan crowds she runs in. She’s the Princess of the Upper East Side, while he should stick to his farmland inNowhereville, middle America.

My eyes travel from that crowd to the geezer with the dark-rimmed glasses, standing a few steps away from them. Both he and the athlete arrived together earlier this evening. Probably, the athlete needed some wingman and strung the nerd along. Except he’s been staring at them with this sour, disapproving face all night. Looks like a right downer. If I thought the athlete was a bit of a chav, this fella just added a couple of notches to the status. He’s standing there with his hands in his pockets, looking as if he’s about to blow a tantrum, and I can’t have that kind of drama here.

There is no fucking way he’ll be the cause of this party ending early, so I saunter over to the fella.

“Alright, mate?” I slide over to him, catching his attention.

Anticipating the sour look he’ll give me, I rest my hand on his shoulder and grip it hard, causing him to glance over fast. But he’s more irritated by my move than feel threatened.

Hmmm…something interesting to file for later.

“Sure, almost everyone here is off their face. I’m sure your business must be swelling with all the massive pockets you’re getting ready to dip your filthy hands in.”

This little know-it-all shite is one step to finding himself in a black body bag. I release the grip on him and pass my hand through my hair.

“Don’t know what you’re on about, mate. But I could do with some help in changing the gas pump that’s fitted to the keg. Mind coming down to the basement and holding out my mobile light while I change it?”

I look at him innocently and watch his angry face change to a more neutral one.

“Sure,” the bloody fool replies, and we both make a move towards the staircase. “I heard someone earlier talk about the beer being flat.”

There’s nothing wrong with the draught beer I’ve been supplying at this party, but I’ll let the wanker talk.

In fact, the keg isn’t even in the basement.

“Ah, mate, I forgot my mobile,” I say, opening the door under the main staircase and switching on the light. “You head on down, and I’ll quickly catch up.”

The gullible bastard takes my word for it and proceeds down the steps.

“Wait,” he says halfway down, “there’s a light here. Why do you need your mobile?”

I shut the door and bolt it. Hopefully, I’ll remember to let the fella out after the last person leaves tonight. I can only imagine him banging and screaming, but the music is way too loud for anyone to notice anything.

My gaze travels to the gardening-kid-turned-lackey who’s just come inside and gives me a brief nod. He’ll be helping shift the gear he smuggled onto the campus for me. Most of the stuff here at the party are simply tasters of the good stuff, and he’s busy tallying up potential punters to line up for later.

I make my way to the living room, and everyone here is high on something as they dance away without a fucking care in their honeyed, rose-tinted world. Feeling a wave of disdain as I take in the scene, a scowl works its way onto my face.

A couple of these rich fucks come up to congratulate me for an awesome party, and I hardly pay any attention to them.

Usual shite.

I’ve done this scene one too many times, and as much as I’d love to tell my old man to fuck off, I don’t need him sending one of his thugs to sort me out. My fingers trace the thick scar on the back of my neck; it's healed now and covered in ink, but it’s thereto serve as a reminder of what my father does to slackers and backstabbers, including his own flesh and blood.

They say Greek mythology is just some made-up shite, but there has to be a grain of truth to be inspired to write these tragedies. My family is living proof of this divine power struggle.

With a heavy sigh, I excuse myself from the crowd, slipping away unnoticed to the solitude of the bathroom. Alone in the dimly lit room, I lock the door behind me and stare at my reflection in the mirror.

Is this really the life I want? The silent question echoes in the silence of the room.

Is this who I've become? Some party drug pusher catering to posh tiffs, toffs, and other toffs from fancy postcodes such as SW3?

For a long moment, I allow myself to confront the truth, peel back the layers of denial, and face the reality of my situation.

“Do you fucking mind getting the fuck out of here?”

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