Read Online Kingdom by Anderson O'Donnell - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Anderson O'Donnell
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was a schizophrenic mess, a victim of several ownership changes and desperate attempts to graft edginess and authenticity onto an otherwise nondescript building. Genuine was not a necessary trait however; illusion was the only requirement. Allow the 20-somethings, or even the Peter Pans pushing 40, to believe they were somewhere happening, somewhere hip: That was the goal. So, vague concepts were slapped together to procure capital and then half-heartedly implemented, the illusion of exclusivity manufactured, and—voila—you have Void or Absolution or No Exit or wherever the fuck Dylan now was.
The current décor was Victorian mansion: low lighting with lots of plush, over-stuffed chairs and couches, chandeliers with electric candles, a fireplace, velvet drapes, several ancient London newspapers with giant headlines—Jack the Ripper had struck again; the dance area was smaller than usual, in order to make room for the couches. Ambient trance washed across the room as Dylan cut across the dance floor toward the VIP area, sliding between couples and groups of single women as he continued toward the back of the room. Someone was screaming “happy birthday” and then Dylan was doing a shot—piss-poor tequila that went down rough—but he was saying thank you anyway, nodding to someone he had never seen before in his life, smiling at beautiful girls writhing on the dance floor who were watching themselves in the mirrors over the bar, and then Chase and Mikey were there, asking where the fuck he had been, and for fuck’s sake guy—smile: It’s your birthday.
The VIP section consisted of a dozen canopy beds stacked with pillows and serving trays: Some of the canopies’ dark silk covers were up; others were down, rendering the beds’ occupants mere shadows. Waiters buzzed from bed to bed, delivering orders to the open canopies, tactfully ignoring the moans and sniffling noises emanating from the others. In the far corner of this VIP wonderland a girl was crying hysterically, rolling around on one of the beds, gnawing on a pillow while everyone looked in another direction.
Although he didn’t recall making a reservation, four beds had been set aside in Dylan’s name. The beds were arranged in a square, with two or three feet separating each bed, and though Dylan wasn’t even sure he wanted to spend the rest of the night sitting on a bed he didn’t really have any alternative to suggest so he grabbed two of the girls from the limo—the one with the red nails and brunette he assumed was her friend—and jumped onto the bed furthest from the entrance. Chase and Mikey and a girl they grabbed off the dance floor took up residence in the bed across from his.
Dylan slumped back into the pillows stacked against the headboard, the two girls sitting a bit further down on the bed, one on either side of him, handbags, iPhones, and packs of cigarettes occupying every available section of the bed. The brunette leaned over and, placing her hand behind his head, began kissing him, her tongue flicking in and out of his mouth, her lips a combo of cherry and cigarette.
“Happy Birthday,” she said when she pulled away.
“Yes! Happy Birthday,” the other girl said.
“Thanks,” Dylan mumbled, distracted, looking for one of the trays he had seen on the other beds, spying one on the floor next to the bed. He leaned over the side to retrieve it and when he pulled himself back up two bottles of champagne—uncorked and set into ice buckets arranged between his bed and his friends’ bed—had appeared, and everyone had a glass. One of the girls in the bed—the one he hadn’t met yet—handed him a flute filled to the brim and simultaneously everyone screamed “Happy Birthday!”
Mildly embarrassed, Dylan just smiled and drained his glass in a single gulp. He noticed the two other beds adjacent to his were full: a mix of girls, guys, and even a dog—he thought he was hallucinating but someone had not only brought a small dog to
The current décor was Victorian mansion: low lighting with lots of plush, over-stuffed chairs and couches, chandeliers with electric candles, a fireplace, velvet drapes, several ancient London newspapers with giant headlines—Jack the Ripper had struck again; the dance area was smaller than usual, in order to make room for the couches. Ambient trance washed across the room as Dylan cut across the dance floor toward the VIP area, sliding between couples and groups of single women as he continued toward the back of the room. Someone was screaming “happy birthday” and then Dylan was doing a shot—piss-poor tequila that went down rough—but he was saying thank you anyway, nodding to someone he had never seen before in his life, smiling at beautiful girls writhing on the dance floor who were watching themselves in the mirrors over the bar, and then Chase and Mikey were there, asking where the fuck he had been, and for fuck’s sake guy—smile: It’s your birthday.
The VIP section consisted of a dozen canopy beds stacked with pillows and serving trays: Some of the canopies’ dark silk covers were up; others were down, rendering the beds’ occupants mere shadows. Waiters buzzed from bed to bed, delivering orders to the open canopies, tactfully ignoring the moans and sniffling noises emanating from the others. In the far corner of this VIP wonderland a girl was crying hysterically, rolling around on one of the beds, gnawing on a pillow while everyone looked in another direction.
Although he didn’t recall making a reservation, four beds had been set aside in Dylan’s name. The beds were arranged in a square, with two or three feet separating each bed, and though Dylan wasn’t even sure he wanted to spend the rest of the night sitting on a bed he didn’t really have any alternative to suggest so he grabbed two of the girls from the limo—the one with the red nails and brunette he assumed was her friend—and jumped onto the bed furthest from the entrance. Chase and Mikey and a girl they grabbed off the dance floor took up residence in the bed across from his.
Dylan slumped back into the pillows stacked against the headboard, the two girls sitting a bit further down on the bed, one on either side of him, handbags, iPhones, and packs of cigarettes occupying every available section of the bed. The brunette leaned over and, placing her hand behind his head, began kissing him, her tongue flicking in and out of his mouth, her lips a combo of cherry and cigarette.
“Happy Birthday,” she said when she pulled away.
“Yes! Happy Birthday,” the other girl said.
“Thanks,” Dylan mumbled, distracted, looking for one of the trays he had seen on the other beds, spying one on the floor next to the bed. He leaned over the side to retrieve it and when he pulled himself back up two bottles of champagne—uncorked and set into ice buckets arranged between his bed and his friends’ bed—had appeared, and everyone had a glass. One of the girls in the bed—the one he hadn’t met yet—handed him a flute filled to the brim and simultaneously everyone screamed “Happy Birthday!”
Mildly embarrassed, Dylan just smiled and drained his glass in a single gulp. He noticed the two other beds adjacent to his were full: a mix of girls, guys, and even a dog—he thought he was hallucinating but someone had not only brought a small dog to
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