Page 8 of Priest (Priest 1)
Sean’s low voice seeped into my grim reverie, and I gradually came back to the moment, listening to the squeaking of Dad’s recliner and Sean’s words.
“…invitation only,” he said. “I’ve heard rumors of it for years, but it wasn’t until I got the letter that I thought it was actually real.”
“Are you going to go?” Aidan was speaking quietly too.
“Fuck yes, I’m going.”
“Going where?” I asked.
“You wouldn’t care, priest boy.”
“Is it the invitation-only Chucky Cheese? I’m so proud of you.”
Sean rolled his eyes, but Aidan leaned in. “Maybe Tyler should know about it. He probably needs to work off a little excess…energy.”
“It’s invitation only, dick-hole,” Sean said. “Which means he can’t go.”
“It’s supposed to be like the world’s best strip club,” Aidan continued, unfazed by Sean’s insult. “But no one knows what it’s called or where it is, not until you’re personally invited. Word is that they don’t let you come until your annual clears a million a year.”
“Then why is Sean getting invited?” I asked. Sean, although three years older than me, was still working his way up through his firm. He made a very healthy salary (fucking incredible, from my standpoint) but he was nowhere near a million dollars a year. Not yet.
“Because—douchenozzle—I know people. Being connected is a more reliable form of currency than a salary.”
Aidan’s voice was a little too loud when he spoke. “Especially if it gets you choice puss—”
“Boys,” Dad said automatically, not looking up from his phone. “Your mother is here.”
“Sorry, Mom,” we said in unison.
She waved us off. Thirty-plus years of four boys had made her immune to pretty much everything.
Ryan sloped into the room, mumbling something to Dad about wanting the car keys, and Sean and Aidan leaned closer again.
“I’m going next week,” Sean confided. “I’ll tell you everything.”
Aidan, younger than me by a couple years and still very much a junior in the business world, sighed. “I want to be you when I grow up.”
“Better me than Mr. Celibacy over here. Tell me, Tyler, you got carpal tunnel in your right hand yet?”
I tossed a throw pillow at his head. “You volunteering to come help me out?”
Sean dodged the pillow easily. “Name the time, sugar. I bet I could put some of that anointing-of-the-sick oil to good use.”
I groaned. “You’re going to hell.”
“Tyler!” Dad said. “No telling your brother he’s going to hell.” He still didn’t look up from his phone.
“What’s the use of all those lonely nights if you can’t condemn someone once in a while, eh?” Aidan asked, reaching for remote.
“You know, TinkerBell, maybe I should find a way to take you to the club. There’s nothing wrong with looking at the menu, so long as you don’t order anything, right?”
“Sean, I’m not going to a strip club with you. No matter how fancy it is.”
“Fine. I guess you and your St. Augustine poster can spend next Friday night alone together. Again.”
I threw another pillow at him.
The Business Brothers left around ten, driving back to their tie racks and home espresso machines, and Ryan was still out doing whatever thing he had needed the car so badly for. Dad was asleep in his recliner, and I was stretched out on the couch, watching Jimmy Fallon and thinking about what movie to pick for the middle school lock-in next month, when I heard the sink running in the kitchen.
