Page 3 of The Money Shot

The place was packed for a Thursday night. I scanned the crowd, squinting through the artfully dim lighting at the sea of young professionals unwinding after work. The exposed brick walls and copper fixtures seemed to amplify the buzz of conversation and clinking glasses.

“Over here, Jack!” Liam’s voice cut through the noise. I spotted him and Brad at our usual corner table, both nursing what looked like craft beers. Liam had loosened his tie, and Brad had rolled up his sleeves—clear signs they had been here for a while.

I made my way over, doing my best to ignore how my wet shoes squeaked against the concrete floor. “Y’all would not believe the day I’ve had,” I said, shrugging off my pin-striped jacket and draping it over the back of an empty chair. The fabric was damp, but hopefully not ruined.

“Let me guess,” Brad drawled, pushing a glass of bourbon toward me—my usual. “Johnson & Mills again?”

I collapsed into the chair, grateful for both the drink and how well they knew me. “Who else? Three hours of nitpicking every single comma in the contract.” I took a long sip of the bourbon, letting the warm spice of it chase away the chill of the rain. “Sorry for being late.”

Liam shook his head, that crooked smile of his making an appearance. “You know the rules, Jack. First round’s on the late arrival.”

“Fair enough,” I conceded, already signaling the server. As I settled in, I couldn’t help but notice how right this felt—the three of us here, just like we’d planned during all those late-night talks senior year. Different city, different bar, but same old us.

Liam leaned forward, his beer forgotten. “So, how’s the corporate life treating you? Missing those all-nighters in the library yet?”

I laughed, though something tight caught in my chest. “God no. Give me project management over Professor Harrison’s exams any day.” The words came easily enough, but I thought about the quad in springtime, the way the cherry blossoms would scatter across the grass. The way everything had seemed possible then.

“You sure about that?” Liam pressed, reading me like he always could. “No regrets about trading your freedom for that corner office?”

“Corner cubicle,” I corrected, taking another sip of bourbon. “And no regrets. Though I will say, dealing with client expectations isn’t that different from managing group projects. Just with better pay and fewer pizza bribes.”

Brad straightened in his chair, adjusting his already-perfect tie. “Speaking of better pay,” he said, that familiar gleam in his eye, “you’ll never guess who made associate partner this week.” He paused for effect, as if we couldn’t see this coming from a mile away. “Youngest in the firm’s history, actually.”

“No way,” I drawled, sharing a knowing look with Liam. “You? The guy who once tried to argue his way out of a parking ticket by citing maritime law?”

“Hey, that almost worked,” Brad protested, but he was grinning.

I turned to Liam. “What about you? How’s life in the startup lane?”

Liam shrugged. “Same old. We’re working on this trading algorithm at SynergyCoin. Supposed to revolutionize the market or whatever.” His voice was flat, as if he were reciting a pitch he’d heard a hundred times but didn’t believe in anymore. “It’s all about machine learning and predictive models. Pretty cutting-edge, I guess.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Sounds exciting.”

He gave a half-hearted chuckle. “Sure. If you’re into that sort of thing.” He took a long sip of his beer. “Don’t get me wrong, it’s solid work. Just... a grind, you know? Meetings, deadlines, more meetings.” He gestured vaguely with his fork. “The usual startup stuff. Crypto millionaires, blah blah. Anyway.”

For a moment, just a flicker, I wondered if I’d been wrong to push him toward tech. Back in college, Liam had been full of life when he talked about his art—photography, paintings, even the giant sculpture project he’d spent half a semester on. He used to light up when he described an idea. Now, he looked like someone whose battery was running on fumes.

The thought passed quickly, replaced by my usual logic. Art wouldn’t have paid his rent, let alone landed him in an up-and-coming crypto firm with a steady paycheck. Still, for a split second, I wished I could see that version of him again—the one who couldn’t stop talking about how cool his work was.

Before I could respond, Brad let out a startled gasp, his eyes glued to his phone. “Oh my God, look at this apartment on Long Island. It’s huge, and surprisingly affordable.”

“That’s because it’s on Long Island,” I muttered, but I took his phone, anyway. The listing showed a sprawling three-bedroom with floor-to-ceiling windows and a terrace that looked bigger than my Airbnb. The price was... I blinked, sure I was missing a digit. “Damn, this is almost too good to be true.”

I passed the phone to Liam, watching as his eyes widened. The rain outside had settled into a gentle patter, and the bar had filled up even more, the after-work crowd giving way to the dinner rush. Something about that apartment listing nagged at me—it was too perfect, too cheap, like one of those dreams where everything seems fine until you notice all the clocks are running backward.

“We should check it out,” Brad said, already pulling up the realtor’s contact information. “I mean, what’s the worst that could happen?”

I thought about responding, about pointing out all the reasons why a too-good-to-be-true apartment usually was exactly that, but I kept quiet. Maybe it was the bourbon, or maybe it was the way Liam was still staring at that listing like it was the answer to everything.

“Maybe we should look at places in Manhattan,” I said, leaning over to scroll through Brad’s phone. “Or Brooklyn. That commute from Long Island’s gonna be brutal.”

Brad switched to a Manhattan search, and we all winced at the results. Studios the size of walk-in closets were going for more than our combined budget. Even the sketchy-looking ones with weird stains on the walls and “cozy” in the description were out of reach.

“Jesus Christ,” Liam muttered, running a hand through his hair. “I can’t keep burning money on Airbnbs. We need to find something fast.”

A waitress appeared at our table, all bright smiles and carefully tousled hair. “Can I get you boys another round?” she asked, her gaze lingering on me a beat too long.

“Bourbon, neat,” I said, barely glancing up from the phone. “Thanks.”

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