NOTE: It’s rough, it’s raw, it’s full of spoilers and there’s a good chance it will upset you. You know, all the usual trademarks of an Abby teaser scene. Also, it isn’t finished yet, so even if you read it now, be sure to check back soon when I add the rest to it.
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The double French doors that led to the balcony were open. On each of its sides, black curtains whipped back and forth like wings as the hot L.A. breeze blew into the penthouse. Bare feet padded against the shiny hardwood floor. It was the only noise in the entire place, other than the whooshing of the fabric that was pushed by the wind. The lanky fake-blonde wearing Nathaniel’s white button-up dress shirt with its sleeves rolled up to her elbows moved to close the doors just as he grabbed her wrist to stop her.
“Don’t,” he said. “I like the breeze.”
“But I’m cold,” the 22-year-old named Tori (or maybe it was Shania) complained.
“That’s not my problem,” Nathaniel said. He let go of her wrist and walked back through the penthouse toward the kitchen.
Tori (or Shania) wrinkled her nose and glared at him, folding her arms across her surgically-enlarged chest. “You really expect me to be treated like this?” she asked him.
Nathaniel pulled a half-gallon of orange juice from the stainless steel refrigerator and drank straight from the carton. When he set it down on the island in front of him, he motioned toward the front of the penthouse and told her, “Door’s right there.”
The girl whose name he didn’t remember (or care enough to learn) was completely indignant. “I just gave you the best sex of your life and you’re seriously going to stand there and say that to me?”
Nathaniel smirked at her. “Don’t flatter yourself,” he said. “That was hardly the best sex of my life.”
Not the best thing to say to a self-absorbed model who was convinced that the entire world did, in fact, revolve around her. She marched straight up to Nathaniel and slapped him across the face as hard as her scrawny arms would let her. It didn’t hurt him even remotely, but it did do something to his anger. It didn’t help that Nathaniel was always on the brink of snapping at about every given moment, just waiting for something, anything to trigger it.
His eyes narrowed in on the girl who hit him and he grabbed her by the arm. It didn’t take a fraction of a second for him to put an unnatural amount of fear in her. She started up at him frightened (and no doubt regretting what she’d just done) as she waited to see what he was going to do to her. “I would think long and hard before doing something like that again,” he said. Then he hurled her one-handed across the room, sending her sliding across the hardwood floor on her side, her feet coming halfway up over her head as she skidded to a stop.
The girl scrambled to stand up, trembling as she ran for the door and didn’t even take the time to close it behind her. Nathaniel took another long drink of orange juice and tossed the empty carton into the trashcan on the other side of the island. Models, he thought. They were good for about fifteen minutes and then they were useless.
Nathaniel grabbed the girl’s clothes (which were strewn across the floor of his bedroom) and tossed them out into the hallway. Not that he expected her to come back. He just didn’t want them messing up his penthouse. He liked things clean, and something about lacy red lingerie and four-inch stilettos lying scattered across his floor made it feel dirty.
Six months had passed since Nathaniel had informed Seth and his brothers in London that he would no longer follow the way of the Resitore. It didn’t feel like a mere six months, though. It felt like years had passed since his last night at Highgate. It felt like another lifetime. Nothing about Nathaniel or the life he now lead was even the remotely the same as it used to be. That was intentional on his part. He had gone to excessive lengths to ensure that nothing he knew could be tied to his former life. He wanted no part of that anymore.
Once the stupid model’s clothes were out in the hallway, Nathaniel walked over to the opened double-doors and out onto his balcony. Leaning over the railing, he stared out at the lights of the city and listened to the noise. Everything in Los Angeles was so busy, so alive, and yet so dead at the same time. He loved it and hated it as much as he loved and hated himself. The people here were always moving, always doing so much, and yet they were completely hollow. That was exactly why he had chosen to relocate here. He wanted to be somewhere that people didn’t feel so he could become like they were and blend into the crowd; these mindless masses who moved without living, existed without breathing, did everything they could for themselves and never had to know the sting of conviction.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
The double French doors that led to the balcony were open. On each of its sides, black curtains whipped back and forth like wings as the hot L.A. breeze blew into the penthouse. Bare feet padded against the shiny hardwood floor. It was the only noise in the entire place, other than the whooshing of the fabric that was pushed by the wind. The lanky fake-blonde wearing Nathaniel’s white button-up dress shirt with its sleeves rolled up to her elbows moved to close the doors just as he grabbed her wrist to stop her.
“Don’t,” he said. “I like the breeze.”
“But I’m cold,” the 22-year-old named Tori (or maybe it was Shania) complained.
“That’s not my problem,” Nathaniel said. He let go of her wrist and walked back through the penthouse toward the kitchen.
Tori (or Shania) wrinkled her nose and glared at him, folding her arms across her surgically-enlarged chest. “You really expect me to be treated like this?” she asked him.
Nathaniel pulled a half-gallon of orange juice from the stainless steel refrigerator and drank straight from the carton. When he set it down on the island in front of him, he motioned toward the front of the penthouse and told her, “Door’s right there.”
The girl whose name he didn’t remember (or care enough to learn) was completely indignant. “I just gave you the best sex of your life and you’re seriously going to stand there and say that to me?”
Nathaniel smirked at her. “Don’t flatter yourself,” he said. “That was hardly the best sex of my life.”
Not the best thing to say to a self-absorbed model who was convinced that the entire world did, in fact, revolve around her. She marched straight up to Nathaniel and slapped him across the face as hard as her scrawny arms would let her. It didn’t hurt him even remotely, but it did do something to his anger. It didn’t help that Nathaniel was always on the brink of snapping at about every given moment, just waiting for something, anything to trigger it.
His eyes narrowed in on the girl who hit him and he grabbed her by the arm. It didn’t take a fraction of a second for him to put an unnatural amount of fear in her. She started up at him frightened (and no doubt regretting what she’d just done) as she waited to see what he was going to do to her. “I would think long and hard before doing something like that again,” he said. Then he hurled her one-handed across the room, sending her sliding across the hardwood floor on her side, her feet coming halfway up over her head as she skidded to a stop.
The girl scrambled to stand up, trembling as she ran for the door and didn’t even take the time to close it behind her. Nathaniel took another long drink of orange juice and tossed the empty carton into the trashcan on the other side of the island. Models, he thought. They were good for about fifteen minutes and then they were useless.
Nathaniel grabbed the girl’s clothes (which were strewn across the floor of his bedroom) and tossed them out into the hallway. Not that he expected her to come back. He just didn’t want them messing up his penthouse. He liked things clean, and something about lacy red lingerie and four-inch stilettos lying scattered across his floor made it feel dirty.
Six months had passed since Nathaniel had informed Seth and his brothers in London that he would no longer follow the way of the Resitore. It didn’t feel like a mere six months, though. It felt like years had passed since his last night at Highgate. It felt like another lifetime. Nothing about Nathaniel or the life he now lead was even the remotely the same as it used to be. That was intentional on his part. He had gone to excessive lengths to ensure that nothing he knew could be tied to his former life. He wanted no part of that anymore.
Once the stupid model’s clothes were out in the hallway, Nathaniel walked over to the opened double-doors and out onto his balcony. Leaning over the railing, he stared out at the lights of the city and listened to the noise. Everything in Los Angeles was so busy, so alive, and yet so dead at the same time. He loved it and hated it as much as he loved and hated himself. The people here were always moving, always doing so much, and yet they were completely hollow. That was exactly why he had chosen to relocate here. He wanted to be somewhere that people didn’t feel so he could become like they were and blend into the crowd; these mindless masses who moved without living, existed without breathing, did everything they could for themselves and never had to know the sting of conviction.
