When Kylo Johnson - an aspiring dancer and college students finally gets the opportunity of a lifetime to attend his dream school in the bustling city of New York City. After a night of unfortunate events he finds himself in the hands of the city's...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
"ARE YOU THERE?"
My father's voice rings through the phone, his voice wise old timey voice filling my ears as I rode in the backseat of the car waiting for us to arrive at the restaurant. "Almost," I replied, my eyes drifting off to the phantom ceiling of the Rolls Royce before drifting over to the men in the car right me who all sat still and silent. Good, they know how much I hate noise especially while I'm in the car.
"You know you don't have to do this," I hear him say already knowing the conversation that was to follow next. I exhaled a low sigh preparing myself. "I could've gotten someone else to handle it, son. You don't have to get yourself involved in these kinds of affairs." Even after almost forty years in the States his French accent still remains on his tongue and it's only seen to grow over the past year with him being in the house all the damn time.
"I think I do because the last time you sent someone to negotiate it ended up costing us half a million dollars," I remind him and I could hear him sigh over the line. "you don't have to keep sending these random ass people who couldn't talk themselves out of a box to negotiate your deals for you. That's what I'm here for. You don't need anyone else."
"I know s-son," a hard cough erupts from his throat and my eyes roll to the phantom roof once again. He clears his throat before he speaks again. "I know you can take care of things on your own, it's just I don't want you to feel like you have to do this because of me."
"I don't. I'm a Bellerose too and I don't like getting fucked over especially when it comes to my money."
I can hear him smile on the phone, picture the lines on his caramel face stretching upwards as he runs a hand over his salt and pepper hair. "Mon amour, tu as raison," my love, you are right.
"We're here." The driver says from up front once we stop at the valet parking of the restaurant. I look out the window at Le Crème, one of the most popular restaurants here in New York. I don't know why the guy wanted to meet here. I think it just goes to show what kind of person he is. Everyone knows this is where all the celebrities go for dinner, politicians have their meetings, and rich men with nothing better to do come and grab drinks. The food is not even good but people still come here to keep up appearances, it's for those who seek attention, validation, and whatever else to inflate their already giant ego. I hate it.
