Page 11 of Burn Bright
3
BEN COBALT
This isn’t some cheap apartment complex. It’s high-end and ritzy with a bellhop, entrance security, a member’s only club lounge, an infinity pool, steam room and sauna, and other luxury amenities. I’ve been here before, but never for this long of a stay.
The elevator dings, and I walk out onto the 21stfloor. Yeah, I wouldn’t call this inviting. Ominous, maybe. The hallway has an eerie elegance with deep red walls, dim lighting, and gold fixtures. It’s like I’m stepping foot inThe Shining.A potential bloodbath could occur.
And I know exactly which brother it’ll be with.
Blowing out a large breath, I shake out my arms, my muscles burning in hot bands before anything has even happened. I stare down the gold-plated 2166 apartment number on the dark wooden door. I’m not lacking in confidence.
That’s engrained too deep within me.
I think it makes these situations easier. The ones that feel like I’m about to hurdle the Empire State Building. I dig out a key to their place from my dark jeans.
Theirplace—yeah, it hasn’t sunk in that it’s about to be mine too.
When I’m inside, I quickly see I’m alone.
I’m just met with a spacious, overly clean marble kitchen. Most appliances stored away except for a dual coffee and espresso machine. It smells like lemon Lysol and fabric softener. The floors are immaculate, and I have a feeling they had a service do a deep-clean.
I wonder if it’s something that happens weekly.
The apartment is an open floorplan, and stepping farther inside, I pass barstools tucked against the spotless kitchen island. Industrial lighting hangs in the vaulted ceiling of the living room, and a camel-leather couch faces two dark-blue lounge chairs that can rotate 360-degrees.
There is no TV.
Just a Van Gogh on one wall and a marble fireplace on the other with built-in dark wooden bookshelves.
I can’t take in all the vases, knickknacks, artifacts, various leather-bound books displayed fast enough. From a kantharos (a type of Grecian cup) to a glass figurine of two bodies intertwined to a carved wooden pipe to an old flute to Shakespeare’s entire works in thick black binding.
Most, I’m positive, belong to Charlie from his travels. Jet-setting around the world could be his occupation if he postedanythingabout it on social media, but most of the time, wedon’t even know where the hell he goes.
No family photos on the shelves. It’s not that my brothers aren’t sentimental, but more personal items are contained to their bedrooms since they’ve held parties here before and things have “mysteriously” gone missing and then “mysteriously” been up for bid on eBay.
I toss my duffel on the couch and stride closer to the humongous windows overlooking the city. It’s late morning, andthe sun refracts against the glass high-rises. But with the tinted window, the natural light is dulled.
A concrete jungle.
I don’t love New York.
I’ve never loved it. As a kid, I’d cry and beg my mom to take me home because I didn’t want to hear the gurgle of exhaust or the honk of pissed-off drivers. I wanted to listen to the rustle of leaves as the wind swept through oaks. Even in Central Park, the cityloomed.
Now I’m living inside it.
My nose flares as I consider the possible outcomes of being here. Honestly, some don’t feel great. Some feel fucking terrible.
“And so he arrives.” The dry, slightly bored tone could only belong to one brother.
Fuck.
I was hoping to run into Eliot first.
Tensing, I reluctantly turn to see Charlie leaning a shoulder on the arched entryway of a short hall. Which I remember leads to his bedroom and Beckett’s. His ankles are crossed, and his hands are loosely threaded over his white button-down, the shirt partially untucked from his khaki slacks.
His golden-brown hair is unkempt. He looks like he gives zero fucks because he does givezerofucks. About almost everything.
Charlie Keating—he’s number two.
