Page 60 of Fractured Fates
Tristan
Saturday night.Same old same old. Some girl whispering into my ear, her fingers trailing down towards my lap. Same girl giving me eyes from the other side of the table, even though she’s been dating my friend Max for the last month. Same group of friends relaying the same old stories around the same table.
I smile at the girl opposite, and take another sip of my beer.
Warm. With too much head.
This place sucks.
I’d rather be at one of the private clubs down by the harbor. But though my name alone would carry me through the front doors, half the rest of this rabble wouldn’t get within ten feet.
So we’re stuck here. As always. Same old same old.
I’ll drink some more beer. Dance with one of these girls, finger her in a dark corner of the dance floor and then take the other one home to my bed.
Next morning, I’ll wake up with a pounding head, a dry throat, and will throw out whichever girl it was who ended up there the night before.
It’s Cassandra whispering into my ear which has her friend Aysha pissed. She’s throwing daggers at her from a table two feet away. It makes this evening a little more entertaining. Maybe tonight will end in a cat fight. Maybe it’ll end in me taking both of these girls home.
I yawn, not paying attention to whatever bit of gossip Cassandra’s relaying down my earhole, and think of the latest message from my father. He wants me to go meet him tomorrow, says there are things to discuss. The idea irritates me and I push Cassandra away and stumble through the maze of seating and people towards the bar.
Immediately, some new woman, older, not from the academy, attempts to strike up a conversation. I turn my back on her and stare at the mirror behind the bar. Bottles are lined up along its length. Behind them I can make out my reflection and the door of the bar.
Because there is one thing that would make this night different. That would shake things up.
That girl.
That fucking stupid pig girl.
The one who marched into my common room like she owned the place and …
I drum my fingers on the bar top. I haven’t told anyone. It could have been the weed. It could have been the post-coital buzz. It could have been my fucked-up imagination.
Because her?Her?
I think not.
The girl may have had an attitude, but that’s about all she has. No manners, no respect, no name, no education and not even a fucking figure worth looking at.
Still.
My reflection snarls back at me. There is no ‘still’. I’m fucking Tristan Kennedy. There’s talk of me being a future Chancellor once I join the Council. I was born to lead, born to rule.
The barman skips past the other people waiting at the bar and comes to serve me next.
“What will it be, Kennedy?”
“Two shots of whisky.”
“Add to the tab?”
I nod and watch as he scoops ice into a tumbler and then pours the liquor in free hand, giving more than the double I’ll end up paying for. If he charges me at all.
He slides it along the bar and I twist the glass in my hands before taking a long sip. The alcohol burns my throat and warms my belly.
But it’s not satisfying. Nothing much is these days. Nothing but the unleashing of my powers and I’m not permitted to do that as often as I’d like. I can’t wait to ditch this place and show this world what I’m really capable of. Far more than sitting in boring council meetings, discussing politics, deciding how the authorities will bring the underworld gangs into line and sifting through intelligence from the West. Screw that. Give me a free hand and I’ll bring those gangs to heel, will show those bastards in the West they are nothing compared to us.
I lift my glass to my lips and freeze. It’s that feeling. That hook in my stomach, tugging me in a certain direction.
