Page 77 of Filthy Elite

I recognize the necessity for them.

Completing tasks, surviving the hazing, passing the gauntlet—this is how I secure my family’s name. This is how I prove to the others that I’m still one of them, that I am allowed elite status again. And most importantly, this is how I gain the power to make people think twice before they fuck with me, and therefore, to listen when I put out a warning that Magnolia is too young to be messed with. One uneasy look from Gideon tells me I’m already on my way.

twenty

Rumor Has It… If you’re looking for something to do tonight, don’t even think about coming to the PARTY OF THE YEAR without an invitation. Commoners, rabble-rousers, and those of the criminal persuasion are not welcome at the elite court’s table—or at their royal ball.

Colt Darling

The party is nothing like they used to be. The house is open, but the bar is on the back deck, so everyone congregates there. Armed with beer, mixed drinks, glasses of wine, and soda, the few dozen attendees begin to gather around the giant tower of wood I erected out on the lawn for the bonfire. It’s cold but clear, and it’s nice to be outside under the stars, next to a fire. I light it, and people start claiming chairs.

This is more like the parties at the quarry than the Darling parties of old. There are no strippers or hookers, no Den of Iniquity, and only a fraction of the crowd that used to pack the East Wing at Grandpa Darling’s. The invite wasn’t as exclusive this year, so the draw is minimal, though all the founding heirs make their obligatory appearance. Besides the founders, a lot of other people aren’t sure where I fit, if they can really associate with me. They’re waiting for Duke to come back to school and make an official decree that he’s not going to throw me back in the gutter.

He arrives an hour into the party, pulling around the house and parking on the lawn. He hops down from the Hummer with Cotton, Rylan, and the Walton twins in tow. Ikeep watching even after they walk away from the car, waiting for the queen of hell herself to emerge, even though I know she’s not a Dolce girl anymore. When they join us around the fire, DeShaun opens a cooler next to his chair and gestures for them to get a drink.

“Lame party,” Duke says, cracking a beer.

“I thought you were the party,” I say.

“Yeah,” Maggie says. “Don’t the Dolces always bring the party?”

“Where’s all the girls?” DeShaun asks, looking around. “Where’s your sister, Ry?”

Rylan scowls. “At home, where she belongs. Besides, she doesn’t even talk. Why would you want to party with her?”

“Because she’s hot,” DeShaun points out.

Cotton punches his shoulder, and they both laugh like they’re in on some joke while Rylan glowers. I don’t know why the kid showed up at all. He seems to hate everyone, and he doesn’t even drink.

“We’re here,” one of the Waltons says, pouting. “Don’t we count?”

“Yeah,” says the other one. “Aren’t we hot?”

“Sure, you’re hot,” Duke says. “But we’ve all already fucked you. You know what they say—new year, new pussy.”

DeShaun lifts his beer in a toast, and Duke and Cotton both knock their bottles against his. I just watch, an outsider at my own party, as they laugh and carry on, so confident in their positions, so self-assured, so certain of their ability to pull hot girls. I want to forget the past three years like they expect me to and be the guy I used to be, to join in. But I’m not that guy anymore, and my eyes keep wandering to the Hummer, as if Gloria might still materialize.

“Where’s your sister?” I ask.

The twins stare at me a second, identical down to their deer-in-the-headlights expressions.

“I don’t know,” one of them says at last, shrugging one shoulder and sipping her beer. “I haven’t seen her since school let out.”

“Yeah,” says her echo. “We don’t hang out with her anymore. She’s low value.”

“Don’t you live with her?” I point out.

“No,” says the first twin, giggling nervously. “She moved out a long time ago.”

I’m bothered by her revelation for reasons I don’t understand. What happens to Gloria Walton is none of my business. For all I know, she spent Christmas with her dad back in Savannah.

As soon as the thought enters my mind, I’m hit with the possibility that she moved back there. That she won’t be back. That I won’t see her again.

The idea should make me happy, but instead, it has me searching my pocket for a pill and washing it down with a swig of pale ale.

“Where’s she staying?” I ask.

“How would I know?” says her sister. “I told you, we don’t associate with her kind.”

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