"Did they both just leave?" Chad asks as I stare at the front doors of Esquire.

I am shell-shocked. What just happened? Did she actually get mad because I wouldn't bang her? When she looked up at me from the floor, her eyes were all red and her make-up was smudged and this annoying dull ache crept up into the pit of my stomach and I just couldn't do it. She just looked like a wounded animal and it just felt...wrong. For fuck's sake. The one time I try to be a gentleman and it explodes in my face. I don't get women.

Fuck, I need a drink.

"Looks like it." I begin to walk over to the bar. She wouldn't even give me her socials... What?! "Did uh- Priya give you her number?" I ask, trying to sound casual.

"I- um... didn't ask for it," Chad responds slowly as I hand him a beer. "Whatever, it's cool. Fuck those girls anyway."

"Yeah, fuck them," I agree but my tone lacks conviction. As we're about to head back upstairs Adriana longlegs breezes past us. I instinctively grab her arm. "Hey, Adri, you off soon?"

"I don't know. I could be." Adriana bites her lip as she looks me up and down. "What's in it for me?" she coos.

I scoff as I drop her arm and take a step back. This is why I don't double-dip. They start acting cocky.

Bad idea.

Adriana quickly takes a step forward as she reads my expression. "I'm off in 45 minutes."

"I'm leaving in 30."

"I'll get someone to cover!" Adriana turns and walks towards the back room. I give her backside a once-over.

Meh, could be worse.

"Adri?" I call out and she quickly spins around with a wide smile on her face.

"Yeah?"

"Bring some friends."

***

Knock. Knock. Knock.

"Asher!"

The aggressive knocking is causing my head to throb, the pain reaching my teeth. Fuck. I turn on my side and cocoon my head between a pillow. "Go away!"

"Asher! Get up. It's already lunchtime and I need to talk to you!" my mother's voice roars from outside my bedroom door. Talk? Hah. More reason to stay in bed.

I pat around my nightstand until I find my phone. Opening my eyes briefly, I check the time. Shit, it's already past noon. I didn't get back from Adriana's until 3 am. I would've been home sooner if she didn't insist on cuddling. Luckily, she fell asleep quickly so I managed to slip out undetected.

I guess my days of going to Esquire are over. Adriana is going to think our hook-ups will become a regular occurrence and that's the last thing I want. I know she doesn't actually like me, she just hopes she'll get featured on some blog. But after Poppy left I felt lost and confused. The fact she had the audacity to ditch me after I took care of her and probably saved her from a morning of regret is just astounding. Well, a lesson learned. Chicks do not like good guys. I don't know what came over me. It sure as fuck won't happen again.

"Asher!" She bangs on the door again and I jerk up, irritated.

"Ok! I heard you! I'll be down in fifteen minutes," I shout at my door.

"Do you want breakfast?" she asks, her tone slightly more pleasant.

"Coffee."

"Ok, I'll get Ellen to brew you a pot."

Yes, because if Trish had to make it herself the entire world would collapse. Mom really takes the whole trophy wife trope to heart. I vaguely remember her being more independent when I was younger. Dad had just left his wife and she wasn't yet accustomed to this lifestyle. She'd make my lunch for me every day when I started kindergarten, even going as far as leaving little notes. But the woman hasn't set foot in a kitchen in ten years. Last week, our housekeeper had the day off, and she actually asked me how to set the timer on the oven.

I sluggishly pull myself out of bed and take a shower. Adriana's cheap perfume clings to my body and I scrub feverishly to wash away the scent. After drying off, I toss on a white t-shirt and pair of black joggers and make my way downstairs.

"Good morning, Mr. Prescott!" Ellen sings as I enter the kitchen and plop down by the island.

"Morning, El," I mutter as she hands me a coffee. "How's your day going?"

"Oh, it's wonderful. The sun is shining, the laundry's done and your mother was gone all morning. Couldn't ask for a better Saturday."

Ellen's worked for us since I was five. Her relationship with my mom is interesting. I think she's the only housekeeper who can talk back to her boss. Over the years, my mom's grown to see Ellen as a friend, mostly because she doesn't really have anyone else. Or maybe it's because she's scared to fire her seeing as she knows all of our family secrets. Either explanation fits the bill.

"You look a little rough this morning." Ellen rummages through the cupboard and hands me an Advil. "Fun night?"

I was having a fun night until she decided to run away. "It was ok. Nothing special."

Ellen hums as she narrows her eyes. "Ok, well, your mother's in the study waiting for you."

I pick up the cup of coffee and head to her office. "Pray for me, Ellen," I joke as I leave the room.

Faintly, I hear her say, "Every night, dear."

The door to the study is propped open and I slip inside. Ever since dad went to jail, mom's been holed up in here trying to handle the family's financial 'affairs'. Seeing as she just bought me a Tesla, I'm going to go out on a limb and say that affairs seem to be in order. Either that or we'll be bankrupt in six months. Mom was actually dad's executive assistant at Carlisle Industries, and I guess one of those late nights resulted in my existence. A mistake is what dad would call me when he'd get mad like I had any say in being born. Anyway, the point is that her knowledge of company practices runs deeper than just being married to the CEO.

"Well, good morning, Asher," mom says as she straightens out some documents on the desk. "How nice of you to join me. Did you sleep well? Hmm?"

"Morning, mother. I slept great, thanks for asking." I suck on my teeth as I sit down in the armchair. I swear if you look up passive-aggressive in the dictionary, Trish Prescott's, sorry- Trish Carlisle's, photo will be plastered right alongside the definition. "You said you wanted to talk?"

She holds up a stack of papers. "Do you know what these are?"

I shrug. "Pieces of chemically processed cellulose fibers derived from wood?"

"Asher!" Mom slams her hand on her desk. "Do not give me attitude right now."

"Attitude? I was simply answering your question."

"Don't be a smart-ass." Mom exhales sharply as she grinds her teeth. "Let me rephrase. Do you know the content of these cellulose fibers?"

"No, but I'm sure you're about to tell me."

"These are your midterm marks from NYU. Let me refresh your memory." She begins to read the transcript, "C, C, D, C-, D and, oh look at that, another D."

I blow on my coffee. "I have yet to hear the reason why I'm here. I'm passing." Mom and Mr. G really need a copy of NYU's grading rubric.

"Barely!" she exclaims. "How can you sit there and give me the Wikipedia definition of paper and not get an A in History? You can clearly memorize material. What is going on with you?"

"Maybe I find the history of paper far more fascinating than the French Revolution," I reason. "We all have our interests, mother, perhaps mine are a tad more obscure."

I know I'm pissing her off, but...oh, well.

"Is that so?" Trish blinks a couple of times and an eerie smile appears on her face. "Are dad's credit cards one of your interests?"

I immediately sit up. "What did you do?"

"Oh, now I have your attention," she says smugly. "I've canceled all of your credit cards, and hired you a tutor."

"Are you serious?" My jaw drops.

"As serious as a heart attack, my son." Mom reaches into her desk drawer and pulls out a wad of cash. "Since all your spending money comes from our accounts, I will be giving you a weekly allowance until you get your grades up. The amount will be equivalent to what you would earn as a part-time intern at Carlisle Industries. I think that's more than fair."

This is woefully unfair. My parents never allowed me to get a job to earn my own income because we were 'above that', and now this? Really?

"You can't do that. Give me an allowance? I'm not in high school anymore."

"Well, you sure as hell are acting like a teenager." Mom crosses her arms and leans back into her chair. "These are my conditions: You will meet with a tutor twice a week, and if you pass this semester with A's and B's like I know you are capable of, then I'll reactivate all your cards. Until then." She passes me $300. "I suggest you budget."

I grunt as I grab the cash from her hand. I guess my plan to put off graduating has backfired. "You know that I don't need a tutor, right? I can get my grades up myself."

"Oh, I'm sure you can but maybe this will help you stay a little bit more accountable. Plus, I will be requesting weekly progress reports from Miss Sinclair. This way I'll be in the loop in regards to your studies."

Great, two days a week with a stuffy, boring tutor. Can't wait. "When does Miss Sinclair start?" I ask.

"On Tuesday. I've requested appointments every Tuesday and Thursday evenings for two hours. I've talked with Eddy and he knows you'll have to leave work early those days." Mom pauses. "I've also requested that your tutor sign an NDA."

"An NDA? Isn't that a little excessive?"

"No, it's not. I don't want to open up the newspaper and read an article about how my son, the heir to Carlisle Industries, is an idiot who can't pass English 200."

"But I am passing," I remind her quietly, not wanting to poke the hornet's nest.

"Asher," she warns. "Don't start with me."

I raise my hands in defeat. "Alright, alright."

I get up and head back to my room. I flop down on my bed and open my laptop. What to watch? I pause briefly before Googling 'Helvetica documentary.'

After the film is over, I open up Wikipedia and get lost down the hyperlink rabbit hole. Helvetica...Typography...Graffiti Artist... Ancient Egypt...Mark Antony...Roman Empire...Latin.

I glance over the clock and realize that three hours have gone by. Rubbing my eyes, I close the laptop and sprawl out on my bed. Latin. Semper Ad Meliora. The words repeat over and over in my head. Her silky blonde hair. Glistening blue eyes. Her hand on my shoulder. I sit up, furious. Damnit. Why can't I stop thinking about her? I pull out my phone and call Chad.

"What up, Ash?"

"Let's go out."