Page 17 of False God

We step into the elevator.

“Both,” she repeats as the doors slide shut.

5

Adive bar.

Ellis sent me the address for a dive bar.

I scoff, standing on another grimy city sidewalk and seriously debating entering the building in front of me. I should have looked up what the address was before braving New York traffic and driving here. But I didn’t because I was busy replaying the meeting at Kensington Consolidated and marveling over Elizabeth Kensington’s stubbornness.

She remembers me, right? I’d introduced myself to hertwicebefore.

Most people I meet already know who I am. Introducing myself is just a formality. And Lili does not strike me as shy or forgetful.

And what was she doing there?Doesshe work at Kensington Consolidated?

I grimace, imagining her sitting in a conference room, picking apart the proposal I spent two months working on, exuding the cool indifference that appears to be her trademark.

Then, I shove through the flimsy door, deciding a distraction outweighs the concern of potentially contracting tetanus in this place.

The interior of the bar is as unkempt as the outside suggests. It’s a small space, and it feels even tinier because of the significant amount ofstufflittering every surface. The shelves behind the bar top are shoved so full of liquor bottles; most of the dusty glass cylinders look in danger of crashing to the dirty floor. It’s impossible to tell what color the walls were originally because they’re entirely covered by stickers and posters and sketches and crooked frames and sports pennants. There are mismatched stools lining the length of the scarred wooden counter and several booths in the very back.

Ellis is slumped in the middle one.

I head for him, nodding a greeting back to the grizzled bartender, the bottoms of my shoes sticking with each step.

Howdid Ellis find this place? Andwhatis he doing here at—I check the Patek Philippe watch my father gave me for my eighteenth birthday—three p.m.?

“Hey!” He grins crookedly as I slide into the bench opposite him. “Was wondering what was taking you so long. Did you get lost?”

Without waiting for an answer, he downs one of the shots sitting in front of him. Tequila, I think, although there are so many competing smells in this place that it’s hard to tell for certain.

“Traffic.”

Ellis nods. “That’s why I bike everywhere.”

“I thought biking was your job?”

Last night, he said he worked for one of those food-delivery apps.

“Yeah. That too.” He pushes one of the full shot glasses toward me.

“I’m good,” I say.

He squints at me. “Are you an alcoholic?”

“Because I won’t do a tequila shot in the middle of the afternoon?” I shake my head. “No, I’m not an alcoholic.”

But I did develop a bad habit of escaping into a bottle for a few weeks after my dad died, and I’m determined to stop letting my anger at him keep me from acting like the man—the fucking duke—I was raised to be. Getting drunk in a dingy bar that smells faintly of piss with my underachieving cousin is not how I’ll be spending the remainder of my afternoon. Plus, based on the number of empty glasses, he’s going to need to lean on a shoulder to walk out of here. And probably a ride home for him and his bike.

“Thought you could use a drink after last night.” Ellis downs the shot he offered to me.

I wince like I’m the one who just swallowed it.

Dinner last night with my mum, my stepfather, and Ellis—who no longer liveswiththem, but still lives in the city—was awkward. About as uncomfortable as my last visit. If not for the business opportunities New York offers, I doubt I would have made the trip back this summer.

But then there’s still the confused ten-year-old in me, searching for answers as to why my mum left us. My dad, I get. Their marriage was an unmitigated disaster. Abandoning me and Blythe? That I donotget.

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