This is a bad idea.
Should I have listened to Quinn? My instincts tell me to stay the course — to do what I came here to do, but my instincts also told me getting Lance cocaine would work out okay and that Quinn was a stone-cold bitch. Maybe my instincts aren’t that reliable.
It’s not too late to turn back — to just hang out and enjoy the party. I could hobnob with all of Darren Prescott’s rich friends and drink his top-shelf liquor.
Nah. I’d feel like a fucking asshole, knowing how I left things with Quinn. I’m not here to have fun.
To this day, I haven’t been inside the Prescott home many times. Usually when I saw Lance, I’d meet him out back by the pool, or I’d wait for him in the garage. I never really questioned that when I was younger.
The interior bridges the divide between millionaire opulence and political benignity. Busts and portraits of Washington, Franklin, Jackson and more pay homage to the pedigree to which he aspires, while the flowing champagne, crystal chandeliers and antique furniture show off his wealth.
Tonight the house is louder than I’ve ever heard it, though that’s not saying much. Usually, when I’ve been inside the mansion it’s been eerily quiet — Darren was often away in DC, while Lance’s mother lived in southern France with a new family, enjoying a divorce settlement rumored to be at least eight digits. I never met her — she passed not long after I met Lance.
Now there are people everywhere — mostly older men in custom-fitted suits, but a few of them have wives — and a few young girlfriends — tagging along. They smile politely, sipping from champagne flutes, while the men smoke cigars and drink rare, aged whiskey. Caterers in formal wear circle the crowd with finger food platters, A handsome pianist about my age plays soft tunes for ambiance, and roaring fireplaces cast golden glows and dancing shadows.
Not seeing Darren anywhere, I leave the south wing and work my way deeper into the house. Crossing into the main living space, the noise of the crowd quickly dies out, replaced by a thumping beat coming from the gaming lounge. I knock on the door, but nobody answers, so I try the knob, finding it unlocked.
“Whoa,” I mumble out loud, stunned by the scene.
No one hears me — house music blares from an unseen speaker system, and in the center of the room, two women dance to the rhythm. Nude except for cash-stuffed elastic bands around their thighs, they smile and twist, giving the dozen or so men in the room a nice show. Not everyone is watching them, however: some of the men linger around a pool table, while others sit at a minibar drinking and whispering in each other’s ears. With the lights turned low and a hovering haze of cigar smoke, I can imagine all kinds of backroom deals happening here. Prescott sits in a leather recliner, talking to a few other men, ignoring the dancers.
Lance would fucking love this,I realize. If he hadn’t wound up in a coma — if he had learned some restraint and mellowed out, wouldn’t this be him someday?
Was Quinn right about Darren after all? Was coming here a mistake?
I turn to go, but then Prescott calls out. “Reed, what a surprise! Come, join us!”
Shit.
Nodding, I force my feet to move.
“Byron said to give you his regards,” I say when I get close. “He wishes he could be here.”
“Give him my thanks,” Prescott replies, taking my hand in a firm shake. “And tell him not to worry: this party is the first of many. I’m ahead of Miller by double digits in the polls, so the next one will be in November.”
“That’s fantastic,” I lie, faking a smile. “Congratulations. I hate to interrupt all this, but do you think we could talk for just a minute?”
Prescott rises from his seat, his grin fading. “Right now, Reed? Is this really the best time?”
Part of me wants to play it off, tell him later would be fine, and leave. That’s what Quinn would probably want me to do, isn’t it? I could come back to the prison and help her find a way out.
I can’t give up now, though. If I can get through to Prescott, this could all end peacefully.
“I promise, it’s important. it’ll be fast.”
“Fine,” says Prescott after a deep sigh. “Follow me.”
I go with him to his office, which I’m not surprised to see is bigger than my apartment. Every piece of furniture looks like it could cost me a year’s salary, but for once I don’t really notice the flagrant displays of his wealth — my attention turns immediately to a naked woman passed out on a long, black leather couch. I’ve never seen her before, either among Lance’s friends or at the prison, but her look feels familiar. I could swear I recognize her thin lips and the long, dark hair curling around her narrow shoulders.
“Is she alright?” I ask, though I see her small breasts rise and fall.
Prescott waves off my concern. “She’s fine, she’s just sleeping off something I gave her. Why don’t you tell me what’s on your mind?”
How does one start the conversation,I think you’ve lost your shit? Is there a diplomatic way of doing it?
“Did Byron tell you about what happened to Corbin?” I ask, taking a seat across from his desk. There’s one way that could work — I have to try it.
“I know about it, yes,” Prescott replies, getting out two tumblers and a bottle of Four Roses. He sits and pours us both a drink. “It’s a terrible loss, but I hear Byron has the situation under control.”