Page 1 of Where the Current Takes Him
Chapter 1
Beau
Beau knew it was wrong, oh so wrong, yet he continued to dump bottle after bottle of goldfish flakes into his mouth. Salty, fishy, melt-in-your-mouth—
“Hey!” yelled the Pet World cashier. “Not you again! Get out!”
Beau hissed, wrenching open the next bottle and jamming it between his teeth. The cashier charged toward him, wielding a broom like a greatsword.
He bolted toward the door, but not before filling his pockets with as much salty goodness as his pants could hold.
Beau jolted awake in a cold sweat.What the living fuck was that.
The sound of his father’s thick knuckles rapping the door shook him from the depths of his own self-disgust.
“Beaumont,” his father’s oddly nasal voice said. “What the hell are you doing? It’s 6:45 already. Get up. We need to talk.”
Beau rolled his eyes, suddenly spying a sleeping form beside him.
Shit. Forgot I brought a guy home.“I’m up, Dad, what do you want?” he called loudly. `The man beside him jerked awake at the noise.
“What the—” Beau clapped a hand over his mouth.
“Shut up,” he hissed.
“Watch your tone, boy,” Beau’s father snapped. “Meet me in my office.”
Beau groaned as his father’s footsteps retreated down the marbled halls. No good ever came from a discussion held in the confines of his father’s office. It was so expensive that it bordered on hostile. There was even a pool. Though, in his father’s defense, that was for the comfort of Mer diplomats, and was built long before his time. It was tiled in pristine, white marble and featured a tunnel leading to the ocean.
Beau wondered if his father actually had something to tell him, or if this was just another opportunity for the man to toy with him. Probably the latter.
He rolled out of bed, already mourning the loss of those 1500 thread count sheets. Being a politician’s son was a shit lot in life, but at least he slept well.
“Sorry about that,” he said to the naked man who was lying, bewildered, in his bed. “You’re gonna have to sneak out the window. Like. Now.”
“Seriously?”
“Unless you want to come face to face with Ashford Montgomery.”
The man paled. “You’re Ashford Montgomery’s—”
“Yeah, yeah, trust me, I’m just as upset about it as you are.” Beau tossed an unfamiliar shirt at the bed. “Window’s on the ground floor. There’s a gate a few feet to the left. Go through that and just keep walking until you hit the road.”
The grumbling man dressed and tugged the window open, dropping out of sight. Beau turned around and pulled ona pair of pink chino shorts he knew his father would hate, then paired it with an equally atrocious Hawaiian shirt. It was the small acts of rebellion that made his existence tolerable.
Sure enough, Ashford Montgomery’s lips pressed into a thin line beneath his graying mustache the moment his only son walked in.
But rather than comment on his lurid attire, Beau’s father gestured to the heavy chair in front of the mahogany desk. Beau sank into it, feeling the cool, blue velvet upholstery give beneath him.
The decor was Grecian in style, with carved marble, an unnecessary set of Parthenon pillars, and completely ludicrous frescoes across the ceiling. Hand-painted angels flew in a spiral around a crystal chandelier, which cast dappled light across the tiled walls.
Despite the sheer size of the room, his father’s potent cologne always managed to pollute the air—a thick, suffocating scent of woodchips and sage.
“Beaumont,” Ashford began.
Beau cringed. He hated his full name, and his father knew it.
“I have a task for you.”
