Archive of Our Own ^beta

The invite for the annual 4th of July party this year is printed on glossy white cardstock embossed with a navy blue anchor, and that should probably have clued Jesse Allen in before he even opened it. Still, though strictly it is not completely out of their purview, he’d taken lunch to express his trepidation over the concept of a yacht party to Kent Crawford-Tate over a steak and a martini, each.

Kent, of course, is unimpressed and unruffled. But then again, anyone who’d had to live with a name such as ‘Kent Montague Crawford-Tate III’ for thirty years undoubtedly had the emotional sensitivity of a fence post-- of the razor-wire-adorned prison variety as opposed to the quaint white picket version. “Harrington does a yacht party every so often. The weather’s good enough this year for it. Why are you worried, exactly?”

Jesse rolls his eyes and digs the blue-cheese-stuffed olive out of his martini glass. “Why doesn’t he just rent out a ballroom or a club like a normal person? Why a yacht? The idea of a long weekend is not to get trapped into a small space with your coworkers for three days with no means of escape. No offense, of course.”

“None taken.” With a characteristic precision, Kent slices his filet into completely congruent bite-sized pieces. “This is normal for Harrington. You should be honoured for the invite, at any rate. He never brings along more than a dozen people for a weekend sail, and it’s a sure sign that you’ve made it. There are associates who’d kill to be holding one of those, you know.”

This, at least, is gratifying to hear. “Do you know who else is coming, then?”

“I am, if for no other reason than to keep you out of trouble,” Kent answers with a wry smile before picking up one of the precisely-cut pieces of steak. “Harrington’s bringing his daughter as well, or so I hear. She’s a nice girl. Last year in the School of Social Work in Columbia. Then there’s Zimmerman, of course.”

Jesse grimaces and drains the rest of his martini. “Does he have to come? Literally no one likes him.”

“No one goes anywhere without Zimmerman. You have been with us for five years now, you should know this. Would you rather leave him out, incur his wrath and have him fuck with you for the rest of your natural life out of sheer spite and evil? I don’t think so.”

Jesse chews his steak with the stoical glower of a child being forced to eat boiled brussels sprouts before he could have his birthday cake. “You know he’s bound to do that thing where he paces around with a manic look in his eyes and talks to himself, right?”

“He’s our in-house counsel, has saved everyone’s ass from ruinous litigation more times than even I can count, and was wined and dined and wooed like a contestant on the fucking Bachelor just to grace our firm with his genius. We stole him from D Point in some eye-wateringly unethical subterfuge which does not bear repeating in public, and as far as this place goes, he can do exactly what he damn well wants as long as he keeps up with the other stuff. So what if he’s a mentally unstable soulless demon from the 8th Bolgia of the 8th Circle of Hell? He’s a helluva lawyer and you have a whole cabin to hide in if it gets too bad.”

Kent’s completely reasonable suggestion-- minus the nerdy Dante’s Inferno reference-- is met with an eye-roll. “I reserve the right to jump overboard and abandon ship if he gets too bad. I’d rather take my chances with great white sharks and box jellyfish than Zimmerman.”

“I’m pretty sure that both those creatures are found closer to Australia than here, so you’re unfortunately stuck with Zimmerman.” Kent finishes his surgically dissected steak and signals for the check. “Yes, I know, he should join the ranks of deadly animals out to kill everyone in sight so infamously common in that particular continent, but fairy godmothers aren’t real, and wishes don’t come true. You could always bring a plus-one, though. The invitation gives that option, you know.”

“I’ll think about it,” Jesse replies, before waggling his eyebrows. “Say, did Harrington invite Megan? That would almost make up for Zimmerman.”

“Naturally.” Kent infuses the single word with the sawdust dryness of a woodshop floor. “Megan wants no part of it. She said, and I quote, ‘As HR Director, the fewer shenanigans I know about, the better’. Sorry to bust your bubble.”

“What a goddamned pity. You know she would look fine as fuck in a bikini.”

“She is also happily married to an ex-Marine security analyst for the State Police who could probably kill you without leaving a trace. Not to mention she’s your HR lady and could probably make you wish that someone would kill you without leaving a trace. You should probably just stop even thinking along these lines around her in case she guesses.”

“Between her and Zimmerman, I’m pretty sure Satan himself wouldn’t fuck with our firm,” Jesse adopts a woebegone expression. “Why does life have to be so difficult sometimes?”

“Because we’re asshole investment bankers on Wall Street and this is our karma, our penance.” Kent downs the rest of his martini and stands up. “Oh, well. At least you have a fabulous yacht party in your near future.”

**

“Are you quite sure you want me there as your plus-one, Jess?” It’s the third time this particular question has been directed at him in the last two hours. Jesse sighs, rakes one hand through his hair, and gives his little sister a long-suffering look of exasperation.

“Why are you asking me that over and over again, Mere? You know only crazy people do the same thing over and over again expecting a different result, right? Though on second thought… hmm… OW! Bitch!”

Jesse’s sister, Meredith, has exquisite, manicured hands, but the punch she lands on his arm is probably hard enough to bruise. Jesse makes a mental note to compliment her on the technique after grunting in pain. She pulls a face and shrugs. “I’m just saying, you could bring an actual plus-one, you know. Like a girl who’d sleep with you. Not that I want to contemplate that type of thing, ever, because EWWW.”

“Right back atcha, buddy, with a side of ‘Don’t you dare sleep with anything more sentient than a teddy bear until you’re thirty-five’.” His fingers reach up on pure muscle memory to tug at the ends of her long, blonde hair. “Maybe I just think you’d enjoy it. And if you’re there, I can have someone to talk to in the event that someone starts in on Kent about golf again. Or antique furniture. You know he can’t help himself and everyone is born to fight a hard battle throughout their lives and in his case it’s the battle of being fourth-generation stuffy rich guy, but that doesn’t mean that I should have to put up with those moments, even as his friend.”

Meredith glances away at the mention of Kent, but then again, she didn’t know him well, and certainly had less than nothing in common with his friend and colleague. “I don’t think your friends would want someone like me there, though. Manning the front desk at a fashion magazine doesn’t exactly have the same ring as The Wolves of Wall Street. And then on top of that, slinging drinks on the weekends at a hotel bar is even less dignified. I’m pretty sure that in your rarefied world, the likes of me is considered just a step up from a hobo raiding a garbage can in Times Square.”

“First off, if you can’t play it up for all it’s worth like you’re a cross between The Devil Wears Prada and Coyote Ugly, you’re no sister of mine. Second of all, if they want to think some type of way about you, they can all go fuck themselves. With a sharp object tainted with the Ebola virus.”

“And on what planet do guys like you watch movies like The Devil Wears Prada and Coyote Ugly, curious minds would like to know?” Meredith’s question is as sarcastically asked as it should be, but her smile belies the inquiry. It’s the wide, sweet smile of a girl who is undoubtedly too good for the borderline-rude people and controlled chaos of New York City, but made the best of it, nonetheless. Jesse gives her a quick one-armed squeeze, then ruffles the hair at the top of her head even as he assumes the sort of condescending leer that only big brothers of adored little sisters could pull off.

“Umm, obviously the planet on which Anne Hathaway and Piper Perabo are both super hot? So, you know, this planet?”

“You are disgusting.”

“I know. All boys are. Write that down. Tattoo it on your forehead so you can read it every morning when you’re taking forever in the bathroom. Don’t forget to pack sunscreen and a very long cover-up over a very non-bikini swimsuit!”

She gives him quite a decent shove, really, but doesn’t contradict him outside of that. Jesse leaves her to her own devices with the comfortable feeling of a man successful in his mission.

**

Harrington’s yacht is a sleek, luxurious beast all white and silver, the name Serene Horizons emblazoned in fancy lettering on the hull. Jesse and Meredith arrive at the marina and make their way towards where Kent is standing, irreproachably dressed in a snowy-white polo shirt and navy blue trousers with boat shoes. Jesse sees a few of the more favoured associates talking amongst themselves, several of whom have brought significant others for the party. Harrington himself is nowhere to be found, likely already on the boat ordering whatever crew there might be around, but Zimmerman’s off a bit to the side having what looks to be a very intense conversation on his cell phone and making absolutely no eye contact with anyone in typical antisocial bastard manner. Jesse finds this completely acceptable; the less actual direct interaction he’d have to have with the Dread Lawyer Roberts, the better.

“You made it,” Kent greets Jesse, then holds out a hand for Meredith in his typical overly-formal way. “It’s good to see you again, Miss Allen.”

“Oh, gosh! No one calls me Miss Allen, not even at work,” Meredith stares up at him from underneath the brim of her white sun-hat. “We’ve met before, you know. You can call me Meredith, or Mere.” She shakes his hand, though, and smiles up at him as if they’re meeting for the first time. “It’s good to see you again. Did you bring a friend?”

“No, I did not,” Kent answers gravely. Meredith looks vaguely as though she’d like to ask why, so Jesse jumps in and changes the subject before Kent is forced to explain to Meredith that he was an old fuddy duddy who had no friends.

“So, what’s with the name of the yacht anyway, does anyone know? I don’t know what exactly Harrington was going for, but it sounds like a drug rehab facility. Or one of those creepy Bible camps where crazy parents send their kids for conversion therapy.”

The soft, delicate sound of a throat clearing behind Jesse has him swiveling, and he finds himself staring at a young woman in a red sundress and oversized Gucci sunglasses, a sheaf of raven hair hanging sleek and straight down her back. Even through the shades, Jesse can all but feel the heat of her glare. “It’s the name of a hospice for terminal-stage cancer patients, if you must know. My mother’s, to be specific.” The words are spoken quietly and evenly, but the chill of them hits Jesse like a slap. Before he can even respond or apologize, the dark-haired woman brushes straight past them and walks up the gangplank without a backwards glance, regal as a queen.

Kent sighs, and rubs the bridge of his nose before giving Jesse a reproachful look. “Jesse, meet Renee Harrington. I’d introduce you to her, too, but at this point you’d need to remove both your feet, ankles and calves out of your mouth, first.”

**

Jesse spends the first hour onboard exploring the yacht and all its amenities, which coincidentally keeps him far away from both Zimmerman the Fiend and Harrington’s pretty but wrathful daughter. It’s clear right away that no expenses were spared; there’s two full bars, a waterfall pool on the top deck, and even the cabins feature LED screen TVs and mini-fridges. Harrington is holding court on the upper deck, standing over a bona fide barbecue grill cooking what seems to be Wagyu steaks, but a discreet black-clad caterer also shuffles around with a tray of tiny, exquisite canapes.

He spots Meredith on the outskirts of the main group, watching with more than a little interest as several of the guests get together a rousing game of pool volleyball. She’d been more than just good back in the day-- perhaps had their high school had such niceties such as a structured athletic program (or even just functional central air and heat and enough classroom supplies to accommodate the students), she might have gotten an athletic scholarship. “You could join them, you know. Unless you brought a bikini like I specifically asked you not to.”

She gives him a withering look. “I brought a one-piece but you can bite me, Jess. I’m twenty-four, not twelve, and I don’t even know anyone here well enough to get into any sort of hanky panky. As a matter of fact, the only people I do know to any extent are you and Kent, and he sort of has nothing to say to me.”

Jesse throws up both hands in exasperation. “It’s Kent. He has nothing to say to anyone unless it involves water polo and solid gold fountain pens and first editions of Charles Dickens novels for nothing else than the irony of owning a book worth gazillions of dollars about some poor schmuck who sleeps in a Harry Potter closet and eats moldy bread when he can get it. He can’t help himself. It’s like fourth generation Fetal Alcohol Syndrome except for instead of booze killing off his brain cells prematurely, it’s cashy money.”

“I heard that,” Kent’s annoyed voice sounds behind him. Jesse turns, but Kent fixes his gaze on Meredith instead, an almost-awkward smile on his face. “You have my most sincere apologies if I have ever made you feel unwelcome, Miss-- Meredith. I promise that I hold you in nothing but the highest regard.”

Meredith stares up at him for a moment, likely in bemusement over an actual living human being with a pulse and a social security number using words in real life that belonged only in passive-aggressive corporate emails to middle management. Kent was also undoubtedly the only person alive who’d say such words and mean them, genuinely. Meredith must sense a bit of the underlying earnestness of his statement, because after a beat, she bestows upon him a warm, friendly smile. “Well, you can make it up to me, I guess. Want to show me around? I know no one here and don’t want to come off some type of way if I just wander about all by myself peering and poking at things like a crazy person.”

“You could do that if you wanted. I’m pretty sure all of that is Zimmerman’s hobby and he gets away with it, and you’re much politer about it than he is.” Kent quickly scans the room to make sure Zimmerman is not within hearing range of that statement, just in case, but of course Zimmerman is nowhere to be found in any of the normal congregating areas on a luxury yacht. Jesse would not put it past the guy to have jumped overboard to convene with his brethren Kraken of the deep. He offers a hand to Meredith after ascertaining the coast is clear, however. “Let’s go then, shall we?”

**

Once the coast is reasonably clear, Jesse makes a point to pay his respects, such as they are, to his boss. Trent Harrington, one-half of the financial powerhouse of Harrington and Rayburn, delegates out the rest of the grilling to his favoured senior assistant and chief ass-kisser, Richard Kaden, after the first round of Wagyu has been dispensed. Jesse is fairly sure that neither of them had ever operated a grill before, but between the helpful tips of the on-staff personal chef and the exorbitantly expensive cuts of meat, they manage to drum up reasonably decently-turned steaks for the guests. Jesse accepts a filet and makes his way to where Harrington is holding court, brandishing an oversized snifter of brandy like a scepter.

“Nice party. Thanks for inviting me.”

“You’re quite welcome.” Harrington is a powerfully-built man, his dark hair silvering at the temples, his features even and symmetrical but lacking something of the delicacy of his daughter’s. “Ever since you’ve started with us, you’ve done nothing but make us proud at the firm, Jesse. It was the least I could do, and I do hope that you and your lady-friend enjoy yourselves.”

“That’s my sister, actually,” Jesse is quick to correct the very awful assumption that he, like Kaden and a few others, had brought along some iteration of Hot But Worthless Trophy Wife. “Family is very important to me, which I’m sure you of all people would understand.”

Maybe that is stretching it a bit, because Harrington, though certainly too slick and polished to truly give away any embarrassment, takes a quick swallow of booze rather than say anything in return on the subject. “Ah, I see. I suppose now that I think on it, there is a bit of familial resemblance. Does your sister work in the financial sector as well?”

“Er, no. Meredith is currently working for Luxe Magazine as an admin.” Jesse mentally cringes, well expecting Harrington to respond with some form of thinly-veiled derision that he’d have to awkwardly laugh off, but to his surprise, Harrington simply raises an eyebrow.

“She works for Charlotte Rhys-Jones? That lady is a deadly, bloodthirsty battle-axe disguised as a Welsh-American fashionista, let me tell you. Incurring her wrath is akin to diving face-first into nuclear fall-out. Do you know, she was invited to one of the royal weddings in Europe a few years ago and wore a white miniskirt? And no one dared to say anything?”

“No, I did not.” Jesse also did not know that his filthy-rich financial guru boss kept up with fashion industry gossip like a Kardashian-groupie millennial makeup blogger, but that was beside the point. “My sister seems to get on well enough over there, thus far. I don’t know if she plans on making that a career path, exactly, but she’s got some time to decide.”

“Renee is likely about the same age as her,” Harrington murmurs, glancing off towards where his daughter is standing several yards away, listening to whatever inane bullshit Kaden is spouting at her with that typical upper-class small, polite smile which reeks of good breeding spread thinly over a general attitude of ‘Fuck Off’. Jesse finds himself feeling oddly butt-hurt over the fact that the girl, looking even prettier without her designer sunglasses, saw fit to tell him off over an offhand remark made with the most innocent of intentions when statistically, 90% of everything that comes out of Kaden’s mouth is worthless twaddle as interesting or pleasant as expired hemorrhoid cream.

“Kent says that she’s going to school at Columbia.” It is the most innocuous thing he could think of saying at the moment, and though certainly boring and asinine, would likely not incur the ill-will of anything along the lines of “Your daughter is fucking gorgeous and hates my guts and if I get thrown overboard this weekend and not by Zimmerman then she did it”.

Harrington sighs and narrows his eyes over his mostly-empty brandy snifter. “Social Work. The school has a highly ranked program, but I do wish that she would have selected something… useful.”

That is a conversation that Jesse does not want to touch with a ten-foot pole, and almost as though the world truly hates him and wants him to know it, his cell phone lets out a chime. Two simple, ominous notes. Perhaps his selection of the Jaws theme for the ringtone for his mother’s number is a bit over-dramatic and petty, but it fits her down to a T. Soulless, hungry and out to ruin a good time on the water. Another two notes. He can almost picture her getting closer, and sighs.

“I’m just going to go grab a beer and call this person back. Excuse me.”

**

Meredith’s phone chirps with a text message notification just as she finally, finally manages to wheedle Kent into talking to her about something other than the weather or local news events, and she ignores it. Twenty-some-odd seconds later, it chirps again. Kent pauses, and gives her a polite sort of smile. “You can take that, you know. It might be something important.”

“It’s rude to do that when someone’s talking to you,” she protests, staring up at him. The smile is faint, but it transforms his whole face into something-- if not wholly approachable, definitely wholly gorgeous. “And I hate being rude like that.”

“Meredith,” And didn’t her name sound just wonderful being pronounced in those deep, measured tones? “I am certainly not going to think the worst of you over checking out your phone for a moment when I deal with all manners of brusque and demanding clients at work on a daily basis. Go right ahead, with my full blessing, not that you need it.”

She smiles at him, but the smile vanishes the instant she pulls out her phone and unlocks it. The messages in and of themselves aren’t alarming-- they’re from Jesse, and both times they are a random string of emojis. But that had been a code, for as long as she can remember, since the very first time in their lives that both of them were fortunate enough to have cell phones.

What if something goes down with mom again and I need help? She’d been fourteen, a freshman in a public high school in a rough neighbourhood. The foster family was not rich by any means and were doing it purely for the money, but they had no say over the fact that Jesse, working two part-time jobs and attending U-Penn on a full ride, bought her a phone on a shared plan with him. Both of them had gone through the revolving door of Lori Allen’s troubled, skewed maternal care, and ever since meeting each other in a courtroom during one of their mother’s countless misdemeanour citations, had clung to each other through thick and thin. Their mother had given birth to Jesse at age sixteen, and promptly dropped out of school and proceeded to shack up with one boyfriend after another. Meredith’s father was not the same as Jesse’s, but that hardly mattered in the grand scheme of things when Meredith had met six different “uncles” just in the course of her first school year.

Text me. If you don’t have the time or are too afraid to give any details in case someone’s looking over your shoulder or something, just text me a bunch of random emojis. Different ones, not just a row of smiley faces. If either of us texts that to the other, it means something’s going down with mom, come as soon as you can.

“Is everything all right?” Kent’s calm voice breaks through her not-quite-so-calm thoughts, and her head snaps up. Perhaps something of her worry and dismay shows on her face, because he lays a hand on her shoulder, leans in just a little. It’s a casual nothing of a concerned gesture, but the warmth of his hand feels more intense, somehow, than the hot sun overhead. She forces herself to smile reassuringly up at him even though she knows whatever Jesse will be telling her in very short order is nothing to smile about.

“It’s Jesse. I should probably see what he wants, I’m sorry.” Meredith holds up a hand, feeling a little ridiculous. She’d met Kent two years ago at a Christmas party that Jesse had brought her to, and had certainly seen him every so often since then, and undoubtedly they are past the point of handshakes. But then, what is the appropriate greeting? He is Jesse’s friend, not hers, and the fact that he is gentlemanly and gorgeous and classy did not negate the fact that this might have been the first real conversation she’d had with him, face to face and one on one.

Maybe he understands the awkwardness of it, though. Kent takes her hand, but rather than shaking it, just gives it a squeeze for a moment, perhaps in support and reassurance. “Go ahead. Take your time. I’ll come find you when it’s time for dinner, all right?”

Surely he means her and Jesse, and it’s just a simple slip of the tongue, but a girl can pretend, right? Meredith nods, and lets what is certainly a meaningless kindness on Kent’s part bolster her in preparation for whatever shitstorm is set to erupt at the dysfunctional household of Chez Allen.

**

Meredith finds Jesse standing alone on the top deck, by what’s certainly a decorative old-school-style captain’s wheel, staring broodingly out at the ocean while holding a bottle of beer. His body is rigid, fists clenched in a white-knuckled grip over the bottle. She doesn’t take the final steps up to where he’s standing, wanting to give him some space for a few moments, but he sighs and glances at her, looking sad and frustrated and simultaneously younger and older than his twenty-nine years.

“How much did she ask for this time?” Meredith doesn’t mince words; she doesn’t have to. Their mother only ever calls for one thing. She doubts if Lori remembers their birthdays, or what age either of them learned to walk or talk or lost their first baby tooth. Lori probably has no idea that Jesse is a diehard fan of the Penguins or that Meredith always picks the mushrooms off of pizzas, but Lori certainly never forgets that her son grew up to become a wildly successful investment banker on Wall Street.

“A grand, which, in her exact words, is ‘nothing for a rich guy’ like me.” Jesse disposes of the beer bottle and scoffs out a cynical, single-note laugh. “The story is that her current flavour of the week was going five over the speed limit and got pulled over, because of course the police presence in the Glenwood slums, such as it is, have nothing better to do than write tickets as opposed to dealing with the crack dealers and gangs. Long, bullshit story short, he had a warrant, and so he was arrested and the car was impounded. So she wants a grand to get the car out of impound so she can go to work. I mean, I have to give her points for creativity. I’m sure that the fact that her preferred weekly consumption of blow costs about a grand if she’s feeling fancy and wants the highbrow mostly-uncut stuff is simply coincidence.”

“Did you give it to her? I hope to hell you said no, Jess! She’s never going to stop sucking at you unless you cut her all the way off.”

“I pretended that my phone was dying and told her I’d deal with it after the holidays. Banks aren’t open today anyway. She wasn’t happy, but I hung up before she could cuss me out. I mean, there is always the infinitesimal chance that she could have been telling some vague version of the truth and she really needs to be able to get to and from work or something, not that I have any way of verifying this.” Jesse scowls and shakes his head. “I knew I should’ve grabbed something stronger than beer before calling her back.”

“If you’re worried about her having transportation, why don’t you just set her up with an Uber or similar ride-sharing account, billed to you? She can get to and from work if that’s the problem and the money can’t be used for anything else.” A new voice interjects, and both Jesse and Meredith jump. The interloper stares at Jesse for a moment out of intense, cat-green eyes. “Then you can track the ride-hails, including times and destinations, and cut off the account if it’s going to a crack house as opposed to a respectable place of employment. As a matter of fact, you can even threaten to sue her for fraud if she violates the stipulations of the arrangement because she is then utilizing your account for something other than its agreed-upon purpose. Furthermore, if the impounded car is registered in the boyfriend’s name, he has to be the one to pick it up anyway when he gets out of lockup. It’s the comically obvious solution to your dilemma. You’re welcome.”

As quickly as he had come, Zimmerman disappears back below-deck, with the lethal silence of a man-eating shark. He doesn’t so much as say hello, or good-bye, or give any sort of explanation as to how or why he might have been in the vicinity, eavesdropping on their conversation. Jesse glares at the spot where the other man was standing as though there was some type of chance that Zimmerman could feel the force of his annoyance through the deck and even care about it. “I can’t stand that guy! He is such a fucking creeper!”

“But... he did give you a very viable solution,” Meredith ventures. “It pretty much covers all the bases of mom’s supposed problem.”

“Well yeah. Zimmerman’s a genius. Like, freak of nature, the aliens would be probing his brain and not his asshole on the UFO. He got into Harvard at some stupidly young age before his balls dropped and his voice changed, graduated Harvard Law summa cum laude before he could legally drink, and has been getting hired by corporations of increasing levels of evilness as their in-house counsel ever since like some type of hellish video game played out in real life in Corporate America. There’s no doubt about his brain, but he’s also a complete psychopath and probably sacrifices virgins to the dark of the moon in Satanic rituals and is just too smart to get caught.”

Meredith privately wonders what, precisely, did this Zimmerman character do to everyone to be so cordially reviled and feared by apparently all his colleagues. From all the stories she’d heard throughout the years, she rather expected someone who looked far more crazy and menacing than the reality, in which he was a lanky man perhaps a year or two older than Jesse himself with sharp green eyes and sandy blond hair. It was a bit strange how he’d appeared and disappeared so abruptly, but at least it served the purpose of pulling Jesse partway out of his funk. And the advice he’d given was sound, however odd the delivery. She affords him a cheeky smile. “Don’t be so salty. You’re on a boat for a fancy yacht party like the rich asshole you are. Shouldn’t you be doing something excessively extravagant at this very instant?”

“I’m on a boat. Attending said fancy yacht party. That isn’t excessively extravagant enough?” Jesse affects a confused demeanour. “Is there anything specific that I should be doing? I’m afraid I’m not up on the latest socially acceptable norms for this type of thing, being not as young and hip as you.”

“You’re not even old, you jerk! Even if you always want to play overbearing father figure and stuff!” Meredith laughs, then puts her tongue firmly in cheek. “I suppose you could always reference that one song about being on a boat if you don’t know what you should be doing, since you want to act like you’re clueless and an old salt.”

“‘I got my swim trunks and my flippie-floppies’, and that is literally the only line I remember outside of the refrain, so yeah, no, I don’t know what extravagant thing I should be doing right now and am a disgrace for a rich asshole on a boat.” Jesse takes a deep breath and visibly determines to put the unpleasant episode behind him. “Speaking of rich assholes, Kent being nice to you and all?”

“Yeah, he’s being nice,” Meredith hopes that any hint of pink on her cheeks can be attributed to the heat. “Kent is generally always nice, from what I’ve seen of him, even if he’s kind of formal and serious with it.”

“You haven’t seen him all up in his feelings over the PGA Championship yet. Or riled up by idiot clients who don’t understand why having a 401K is a smarter idea than stuffing spare change into a hole in a mattress. But yeah, he’s a good guy for all he’s emotionally constipated and stuffier than a prison cell in administrative segregation. I really do hope you enjoy yourself while you’re here.”

“I will, and you will, too,” Meredith finally takes those steps up to where he’s standing, and opens her arms. He hugs her briefly, but hard, and then tugs at the ends of her hair as is his habit.

“All right, then. Go scamper off and socialize and drink champagne and have fun. But behave yourself and don’t get in trouble.”

“I got a fairly comprehensive grand tour of the boat compliments of Kent, and there were no skeevy tattoo parlours and sex shops to be found, so I think I’m safe,” Meredith says dryly. “You should go do the same. Go mingle with your little friends and rejoice in your collective rich asshole status.”

He rolls his eyes, but at least he’s smiling again, and Meredith steps back, satisfied. “I should learn all the words to that song to cement my status and not be a disgrace to the Rich Asshole Alliance. Maybe if this party gets boring or irritating. That’ll give me something to do.”

“And I’m sure the point of a fancy yacht party is to be anything but boring and irritating. Let’s get away from here and join everyone else before they think we fell overboard or something.”

**

The extravagance of the yacht party is such that there is a 4th of July fireworks display in the harbour that evening commissioned specifically for the guests, all of whom are clad in patriotic red, white and blue for the occasion. Jesse, though thankful to have gotten that memo in private from Kent and not been sticking out like a sore thumb amongst the rest of the group, privately thinks that the only way it could have been more obnoxiously jingoistic would likely have involved a marching band onshore performing ‘Yankee Doodle Dandy’ in accompaniment to the fireworks and dinner.

The evening meal is just as fancy and status-symbol-y as he could have expected, running heavily towards finger foods-- caviar and tuna belly slices on crostini, oysters on the half-shell garnished with mignonette and lemon wedges, escargot in parsley butter, and foie gras terrine flecked with black truffle. Jesse finds Kent, politely escorting Meredith, and nods at the food display with a sneer.

“Is it terrible that the only appetizing thing I see is the blueberry and raspberry ricotta tarts they’re serving up for dessert? Which are tackily red, white and blue?” Jesse glances around for witnesses, then fills his plate with an impolite number of tarts. “I had higher hopes than this when we saw Harrington grilling, earlier. I should have had two steaks rather than just the one.”

“Hush, he has to keep up appearances, and honestly, so do you, which means adulting and sucking it up, not stuffing your face with sweets like a third-grader in a candy shop,” Kent says reprovingly. He grabs a fastidious selection of the finger foods, though he stays away from the foie gras. “In the very least, if you must eat incredibly expensive and luxurious foods that normal people will likely never have in their lifetimes, you can rest assured that it is expertly prepared. I’m pretty sure Harrington’s personal chef was a winner on one of the food network shows a few years back, and undoubtedly commands an eye-poppingly extravagant salary for his work.”

“Why is it that all you born-to-richness rich people know everything about each other and gossip about it like a bunch of teenage girls? Harrington apparently knows Mere’s boss, and is either deathly afraid of her, wants to do her, or wants to be her when he grows up, I can’t quite tell.”

“Considering that Meredith seems to work for the Penguin, probably all of the above.”

“The Penguin?!” That sounds a bit horrific and Batman-villain-y, even for the likes of a giant nerd such as Kent, and Jesse stares at Meredith for an explanation.

“She wore a tuxedo dress to some funeral of a politician she didn’t care for across the pond, some years back. It made some waves at the time, and I think one of the UK tabloids called her the ‘Evil Penguin Queen of Haute Couture’ or something similarly awful. When they asked her about it she said something along the lines of ‘It’s bloody black, isn’t it? I can celebrate that he’s finally dead, even though he didn’t have the decency to get assassinated while in office and died at an overly-advanced age of distressingly natural causes’.”

“Huh.” Jesse pauses, slowly chewing ricotta tart. He takes his time to swallow it before speaking. “Okay. I get the Batman villain moniker, I guess. I’ll have to give you that one. I suppose Harrington isn’t so bad, although he’s a bit of a jackass who seems to look down on his own daughter for some reason.”

Dead silence greets this statement, and even the sounds of the fireworks seem muted just at that moment. Jesse looks from Kent’s pale face to Meredith’s wide eyes, and sighs deeply. “Let me guess, she’s standing behind me right now. Again.”

“I don’t know what your problem is, Mr. Allen, but perhaps I shouldn’t be surprised. My father, after all, thinks incredibly highly of you.” Renee Harrington holds a barely-touched flute of champagne in her delicate hand and though her voice never pitches above bland politeness, Jesse is familiar enough with the likes of her and Kent and that particular brand of well-bred, ice-cold rage to hear the loathing in the dulcet tones. “It hardly matters, though. With luck, I shall avoid interacting with you for the rest of this… thing. And we may, fortunately, never cross paths again.”

She turns to leave, dark hair swirling behind her like a cape, and Jesse swears under his breath before abandoning his plate of ricotta tarts with a piteous look into Meredith’s hands and chasing after her.

**

“I don’t know why you’re following me.” Renee Harrington is perhaps six inches shorter than him, and petite and fine-boned with it, but she’d certainly hauled ass and crossed from one end of the yacht to the other just then. Jesse had to jog just to keep up, and he is quite certain that had they been out and about in the city itself rather than a yacht with a limited amount of space, she would have disappeared without a trace. “You have your opinions. So does every other douchey banker on this boat. I could hardly expect you to understand my choices, and don’t even pretend as if you care about my opinion.”

“Why would you assume that I am a douchey… nevermind.” Jesse rakes a hand through his hair. “Not all of us are complete pricks, you know. I don’t think any less of you for not following your dad’s footsteps.”

“You would never know a thing about it, would you? Because from all accounts, you’re doing a damned good job of following in his footsteps. Oh, don’t worry. He’s wildly successful at what he does and makes a killing. Lowly social workers such as myself won’t even blip on your radar in a few years, and that’s probably for the best.”

“Now hold on a second--” Against his better judgment and best intentions, Jesse feels his hackles rising. “Just because I work in the same field as your dad doesn’t mean that I’m completely ignorant about what you’re studying or why it’s important.”

“Oh, I’m sure,” Renee says snidely. “Wall Street has its share of substance abuse problems, for sure. Who knows, you may actually meet a real social worker someday.”

Jesse takes a deep breath, but it does nothing to calm him down. “Is that what you think?” She’s standing against the railing and he’s looming over her, standing too close, but the proximity barely registers. He’s not in the habit of picking fights with the fairer sex, but she’s spoiling for one and he’s too angry to resist it. “Do you know how many fucking social workers I’ve met, how many I’ve had actually assigned to me by the time I started high school? Fifteen. I learned not to be surprised or even care if I walked into that damned office and saw a strange new face and had to go over the same bullshit background info all over again. As a matter of fact, I learned to be surprised if I saw the same face for more than a three-month stretch. And you know what, I can’t even hate on any of them for burning out, because the system sucks and you end up seeing shit that will give you nightmares and drive you to drink. Hell, I was better off than half the other kids they had to deal with. Sure, my mom had me as a teenager, dropped out of school and started shacking up with increasingly shitty boyfriends and getting into drugs, but at least no one beat me or molested me, and I got to eat mostly every day. But do you know what? The first person I ever respected, who straightened me out and got me together, was a social worker, too. Ms. Evanston, Central High School. She got through, stopped me from mouthing off to teachers and skipping class to check up on my sister during the times that we weren’t placed together, made me understand that the only way out of that hell was to graduate, make something of myself, and pull myself out of that mess. So please don’t lecture me from your high horse about how I know nothing about you, Miss Harrington, because you know nothing about me, either.”

He turns away, a bit ashamed of going off on her, of ranting out his whole life story to her as though they were friends and not virtual strangers, and perhaps he would have stammered some type of lame-ass excuse and run off, jumped overboard and swam to shore, anything rather than face her after that far-too-personal narrative. But she lays a hand on his arm, soft and hesitant and conciliatory, and that makes him turn back, face her with all the trepidation of a condemned man in front of a firing squad.

“I’m sorry.” She doesn’t offer any platitudes, and he senses that the apology is only for her behaviour, or her words, and not pity for his past. “Let’s try this again. I’m Renee. I’m twenty-four years old, an only child, and working on getting my MSW from Columbia. It’s nice to meet you.”

He had thought her pretty when she was mad at him. Pretty in that sophisticated, unapproachable way as befit a daughter of his boss. But here and now, fireworks ended and the stars coming out, her face open and slightly contrite and staring up at his, she’s damned near impossible to resist. He takes the hand she holds out, starkly aware that his own is not quite steady. “Okay. I’m Jesse. I’m twenty-nine, and I have a little sister named Meredith. I graduated from U-Penn and am currently working on Wall Street. It’s nice to meet you, too.”

**

Jesse and Meredith are given a two-berth cabin to share during the duration of the yacht party, and though it is well appointed enough, it’s fairly cramped, with twin-sized bunks against one wall.

“I call dibs on top bunk!” Meredith chirps as soon as she sees it, and Jesse rolls his eyes.

“You always called dibs on top bunk. Aren’t you afraid you might fall?” They’d had to share a room before, on a few occasions growing up. Generally speaking, those occasions involved as close quarters as this, and not nearly as swanky as a scrupulously clean, spit-shined luxury yacht cabin. When there’d been bunk beds, she’d always wanted the top bunk, too.

“Obviously, if I fall, I’ll end up on your bunk, and you’d be irritated but okay. If you fall on me, I’d totally just get smushed.”

“Are you calling me fat?!”

“No, -ut-our-heavy-an-ta-e-up-more--pace-than-I-oo.” This comes from the direction of the bathroom-- or the ‘head’, Jesse supposes, where Meredith is currently standing in front of the sink with a foaming toothbrush in her mouth.

“That was neither English, Spanish, French, German or Japanese, and I don’t know any other languages.”

She rinses, then pokes her head through the door to give him a contemptuous look. “Knowing the meaning of ‘¡Chinga tu madre, pinche pendejo!’ does not count as knowing Spanish, dummy.”

“Excuse you. I know how to say hello, goodbye, where is the bathroom, I don’t speak Spanish, and bring me a beer. In addition to what you just said. I have it on good authority that that’s a good grasp on Survival Spanish.”

“I’m sure after enough tequila, it would definitely seem so. Bathroom’s yours, Jess.”

“For the record, I have studiously avoided ‘ta-kill-ya’ since my college days, and you should do the same. Just because I have bail money does not mean that I want to shell it out, and furthermore we all know what skeevy shithead guys get like around drunk girls.”

“I just love how you seem to think that I’m still four years old,” Meredith’s voice is muffled by the door of the lavatory, but he can hear the sarcasm in her tone. “I have lost quite a few baby teeth and gained a decent amount of inches and bra sizes since we first met, big brother.”

“Ugh, not a mental image I need, thanks!” He’s pretty sure she hears him hollering that through the door as well.

Soon enough, though, both of them were ready to turn in for the night, and she nimbly climbs up to the top bunk. Sure, she’s all grown up, and he couldn’t possibly be more proud of the smart, kind-hearted young woman she’d become, but without makeup and wearing pajamas with heart-shaped buttons, still calling dibs on the top bunk, she’s still so much the little sister he’d dedicated his life to protecting and providing for. He hears her rustling up above, getting comfortable, and lets himself smile. “Having fun yet, I hope?”

“Yes, I am, surprisingly. No one’s been mean thus far. Did you manage to come to some sort of truce with your boss’s daughter?”

“Something like that.” He turns his face into the pillow, not that Meredith could see the goofy smile which for some reason had just crossed his lips. “Glad you’re having fun. Good night, kiddo. Love you.”

“Love you too. You better not snore or anything!”

**

There is a light brunch served the next morning, and it is clear that several of the guests might have over-indulged the night before. Meredith spots a few of Jesse and Kent’s coworkers hunched over Bloody Mary’s, looking distinctly worse for wear, and shakes her head. She can only imagine that the motion of the boat would exacerbate hangover symptoms.

Jesse is sitting with Renee Harrington, apparently deep in conversation, and it is a credit to just how infatuated her brother must be that he doesn’t even notice her walking into the galley. Meredith smiles; the other girl is quite lovely, and if body language is anything to go by, doesn’t seem to hate Jesse’s guts any more.

She grabs a croissant and a glass of orange juice, then sees Kent sitting by himself, working-face on as he methodically types away something or another on his phone. Meredith smiles to herself and shakes her head. It would just figure that even on the holiday weekend, he’d probably check in on work rather than socialize with the others.

“May I sit here?”

Kent does look up when she speaks, and if he’s startled at all, it doesn’t show on his face. He doesn’t quite smile, but she thinks that perhaps she’s learning to read him, because his gray eyes soften just a little. “Of course.” He scoots in his cup of coffee just a little to make room.

“Did you eat already?” she asks, spreading Nutella on her croissant. “They do seem to have a great deal of food. The chef must be very good at what he or she does, considering that they undoubtedly have limited space and amenities to work with on a boat as opposed to a regular kitchen.”

“I had a bagel and some eggs, and yes, the chef is good at what he does. Even if your brother seems to disagree with some of the menu selection.”

“Yes, well, Jesse is a party pooper. He seems to be getting along with Miss Harrington now, though. Is that going to cause him any issues at work, do you think? I don’t know too much about your boss, but Jesse says he’s a bit of a hardass.”

“Harrington is that, certainly, but he won’t have any say in what Renee chooses to do with her life. They’re not super-close; he’d always put work first, when she was growing up. His wife got sick and passed away about twelve years ago, as I understand it, just around the time he bought this boat. And as some sort of misguided gesture, he told Renee she could name it. She named it for the hospice that her mother spent her last moments in, and he likely went with it as a sort of penance. She’s still a bit angry that he wasn’t there for them more, I daresay, but at least they’re civil to each other in public.”

“That is so sad,” Meredith frowns into her orange juice. “I can’t judge, of course. I don’t exactly have the best relationship with my mother, but I’d like to think that if she was capable of being a regular parent, and didn’t screw up her life so early, maybe things would have been different. And of course all this has nothing to do with you.”

“It doesn’t, but that doesn’t mean that I don’t admire you, and Jesse, for making the best out of your situation and growing up to become successful, well-rounded adults who are still capable of befriending others, and I admire you for it. A lot.” He reaches over and lays his hand on top of hers for the briefest of moments, and Meredith can’t quite help the blush.

“Thank you.” Feeling decidedly awkward, she glances around the room in search of a distraction, and finds one in the form of the reviled Zimmerman, who walks in at a brisk clip, cell phone to his ear, his free hand running through his hair until it vaguely resembles a lion’s mane. He makes a beeline for the food buffet, grabs a cup of coffee, and downs it, black, before it has the chance to cool down from scalding. He then picks up a slice of toast and eats it plain and dry without so much as a smidgen of butter, before snagging another cup of coffee, to go. All in all, he’s in and out of the room in less than five minutes, and manages not to speak a word to anyone present. None of that is inherently evil in and of itself, of course, but Meredith can sort of see why Jesse and Kent find the man a bit unsettling.

Kent follows her line of sight and grimaces. “There is something wrong with that man. I don’t think he even tries to be normal. Doesn’t care enough to try, actually.”

“He seemed a bit agitated. Hopefully he didn’t get any bad news on the phone or anything.”

That she expressed some concern over Zimmerman of all people has Kent looking like he wasn’t sure whether to be awed by her kindness or afraid for her sanity. “He’s probably getting another job offer. Perhaps from Walmart this time. Or Monsanto. Some place even more vile than our hallowed firm, at any rate.”

“Do a lot of places try to steal him from you guys, then?” Meredith asks curiously.

“Enough to have Harrington reaching for the Tums on a regular basis. But then again, we stole him from D Point, so it would in a way serve us right.”

Meredith shakes her head in bemusement. “What a stressful life that man must lead.” Out of the corner of her eye, she sees her brother and Renee leave the galley, still deep in conversation. Jesse says something that makes Renee laugh, and it lights up her whole face, and he can’t keep his eyes off of her. “Oh Lord. He’s smitten. He’s well past infatuated, he’s smitten.”

“She’s a nice girl, he could definitely do worse. But, are you okay with it?”

That Kent would ask that, in his grave and thoughtful way, makes her smile. “Oh, as long as she’s nice and doesn’t treat him poorly, I don’t care. I’ve never bothered with Jesse’s personal life much. Wish he’d extend that same courtesy to me, but I suppose it’s different with big brothers. They’re such a bossy lot!”

“Mm-hmm.” Kent seems to mull this over for a few moments. Meredith breaks the silence, however, before it could get awkward.

“So, what else is there to do around here? I mean, if you’re done with breakfast, that is?”

“I am.” He stands, and offers her his arm. “Let’s find out, shall we?”

**

Dinner the second night is just as highbrow as the first, with lobster puffs, steak tartare garnished with quail egg and capers, scallop and sea bass ceviche with sea urchin roe, and jamón ibérico de bellota on herbed toast points with olive oil and heirloom tomatoes. True to form, Jesse still fills his plate with dessert-- this time, black-bottom mini cheesecakes topped with maraschino cherries, actual food be damned.

“Why must you eat like an irresponsible middle-schooler out here where everyone can see you and judge?” Kent asks with an aggrieved air. “Harrington is going to think you expect him to pay for your next cavity, at this rate. Or perhaps for your insulin shots when adult onset diabetes sets in.”

“I eat like an irresponsible middle-schooler because maybe I am still a growing boy,” Jesse retorts, picking up another mini cheesecake out of nothing more or less than spite. “Not all of us are antediluvian relics from the Jurassic Period, Fred Flintstone.”

Kent sighs deeply even as he fills his own plate. “Has he always been like this?”

“Honestly, he was worse when he was younger,” Meredith answers, shooting Jesse an arch look. “I think he’s gradually mellowing out in his old age. Maybe senility will set in soon and he’ll forget to antagonize you any more.”

“Mere, by the time I finally succumb to senility, Kent will already be in a nursing home, with no hair left, confined to a bed and peeing in a bag. I thought the two of you were becoming friends, so why would you wish that upon him?”

“Why would you wish that upon him? You guys have been friends since you started out here. I don’t understand why guys who are friends with each other are always so mean to each other.”

“Umm, because our dicks shrink if we don’t put each other down at least once a day. There was an article about it in Playboy magazine. Which, of course, we read for the articles.”

“Ugh, gross, Jesse! Girls read each other’s text messages to boys and emails to work supervisors before they get sent. And we share tampons and gum. We totally have a superior system.”

“Yeah, but you have a system which requires the use of tampons, so I’ll pass.”

“Don’t even--- I know where you sleep, Jesse!”

“Fine. See who picks up Godiva next month for you, then, you little brat. Or maybe I will, but I’ll eat all of it myself.” As though proving his point and his sweet tooth, Jesse pops another mini cheesecake in his mouth. “But we digress. I thought you and Kent were slowing becoming friends of a fashion, so that you two won’t be brushing past each other in awkward silence the next time there’s something going on during which both of you happen to be in attendance.”

“We’re getting along well enough. Meredith obliterated a few people in volleyball earlier, and considering one of them was Kaden, I can’t complain.” Kent’s statement is spoken with his usual calm detachment, but she has learned by now to tell the minute differences in tone, in the faint smiles that did or did not reach his eyes, and feels her cheeks warm.

They’d been spending more time together in the last two days than they had done in total for the last several years since she’d met him, through Jesse. It was slightly thrilling and slightly nerve-wracking in the way of all of the best crushes, and Meredith had been gratified to find that Kent was just as gentlemanly and decent as she’d thought him to be, under the slightly stately demeanour. Of course, it’s a crush that she would carry to the grave, one without the potential to end up anywhere, but who could blame her for having it, really?

One of the other guys from the office comes up to them, initiates a conversation with Jesse about some client or another, and the two of them wander off, Jesse still cheerfully eating his pastries. Kent grabs two glasses of champagne from a nearby server and hands her one, his innate good-breeding carrying through the gesture as naturally as breathing.

“Well, I hope you’re enjoying yourself. This group’s a bit self-important and pretentious at times, but I don’t think it can be helped.”

“I can’t say that I feel like a part of this crowd, but at least I have Jesse, and you.” She tacks that last bit on bravely, as an afterthought, but he simply nods as though to say of course she had him. “I don’t think you’re self-important or pretentious, if it matters.”

“Thank you. It does.” That brings on a genuine smile, and she ducks her face into the champagne glass to hide her embarrassment, swallows the sweet liquid a bit too fast, and feels heat rising into her cheeks. But with it comes a bit of hard-earned courage, to relax her shoulders and not overthink everything that either of them may have to say.

It’s all going very well-- good food, champagne, and the company of a handsome man who talked and listened to her almost as though she was something more than just the pesky little sister of his work colleague. He tells her about growing up in Greenwich, Connecticut, and going to Yale, where he would meet his best friend who’d eventually become his brother-in-law. She didn’t have quite as many glamorous stories about her past, so she mostly talks about the trouble that she and Jesse-- mostly Jesse-- used to get into as kids. On two occasions, he even laughs, and she’s almost positive that her heart skips a beat both times.

Of course, all good things come to an end, eventually.

It starts with the feeling of someone’s eyes staring at the back of her head, and she glances over her shoulder to see one of the other bankers staring at her. He looks vaguely familiar, though she can’t exactly place him, and then he approaches with a smarmy sort of smile on his face.

“I knew it was you! I never forget a pretty face.” Smarmy Banker lays a hand on her arm, which she jerks back reflexively, almost spilling champagne. “You’re the girl from The Polo Bar, aren’t you? I took a girl there on a date two weeks ago.”

Meredith grits her teeth and forces a customer-service smile as she sets down the champagne flute. “Yes, I work there part-time. I waited tables through college, worked the bar after I turned twenty-one. Figured it wasn’t a bad idea to stay on, supplement my income on the weekends.”

“Hah! Should’ve told Harrington not to bother bringing on a bartender if we knew you were coming,” Smarmy Banker chuckles obnoxiously. “You’re better-looking than the average help, anyway, baby. What’s your name again?”

Before Meredith could even do anything more than gape, dumbfounded, Kent interjects, his voice still even but now all but vibrating with cold fury. “Her name is none of your business, Danbury. And never, ever let me hear you refer to her as ‘average’, or ‘the help’, ever again, because so help me God I will make damn sure that you will regret that unfortunate decision for years to come. As a matter of fact, here is some advice for you, in the interests of personal safety. Don’t talk to her, don’t look at her, don’t turn your ugly mug in her direction for the rest of this trip. Do I make myself clear?”

He then takes her arm, firmly but not painfully, and steers her away from the area. He’s walking almost too fast for her to keep up with his long strides, and he doesn’t stop until they’re on the upper deck. Even when he stops, he doesn’t move his hand off her arm. “Please don’t let the likes of him bother you, Meredith. He’s not worth it.”

“I know that.” Between the combination of alcohol and the snobbery of the banker and Kent’s fierce, unexpected defense of her, Meredith is a little horrified to find herself fighting back tears. “I just… Jesse brought me here, to New York City, as soon as I graduated high school. Just to get me out of back where we came from, you know? I enrolled at NYU and waited tables there, because even though he’d made some good money by that time and was paying for my tuition, I was determined that I’d do my share, pay for my own books, at least. He didn’t have to do anything for me, you know? But for as long as I could remember, it was just the two of us against the world. And so that’s what I did through college, and after I graduated and started working at Luxe, I just kept on, part-time. I know the likes of your coworkers probably look down on the service industry like they’re peons, but it serves a purpose, and dammit, not everyone is a rich asshole who grew up with that kind of money!” She belatedly remembers that Kent did, in fact, grow up with that kind of money, and had never let it go to his ego, and that thought has her jerking her head up, the tears spilling over. “Oh gosh, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean it that way! You’ve been nothing but nice to me the whole time and I’m being a such a bitch!”

“No, I would never think that of you.” It’s a credit to his nature that he doesn’t even repeat the word she’d used to describe herself. Carefully, the hand that had been on her arm lifts up, brushes tears off her cheek, lingers. “You’re incredibly brave, and that life has not robbed you of your kindness and goodness is a wonderful thing. Don’t ever think that you’re inferior to any of us because of your bank balance or your past. You’re better.”

His face is incredibly close. So close that she can all but taste the champagne on his breath, count his surprisingly long eyelashes. “You’re being so nice to me, Kent. Why?”

His Adam’s apple bobs with a dry swallow. “Because I want to.” The hand lingering at her cheek slides into her hair, hangs on to the silky strands. “Meredith, I---”

Maybe he did have something important to say, just at that moment. Or maybe not. But she’s just tipsy enough to be brave, to let the emotions of the moment get the best of her and not think of the consequences, to take the guesswork out of that tense moment out of it for the both of them. Perhaps he didn’t intend to kiss her. But when her lips touch his, he all but hauls her in, one hand fisted through her hair, the other warm and surprisingly rough against the bare skin of her back, lifting her slightly off her feet. Her own hands clutch at his shoulders, hanging on for dear life, because whatever other image Kent Crawford-Tate might present to the world, he definitely doesn’t kiss like a placid gentleman.

They break off the kiss only to breathe, and she has trouble opening her eyes, thinking or feeling anything other than the press of his fingers against her skin and the taste of champagne on his tongue. Maybe underneath the courteous facade he presents lies a shark, after all, because he doesn’t seem to have any inclination of letting her go now that she’s in his grasp. She tilts her head back, hair coming loose and spilling over her back and his hands, as his mouth traces a path from her jaw down the length of her neck, licking and nipping. Despite her
best efforts to keep quiet, a moan escapes from between her lips, but he covers them again with his before anyone might hear.

Her hands are wandering now, too, fingers tangling in his surprisingly soft hair, nails tracing the nape of his neck to induce a shiver to work its way through his body. His hands roam up and down the length of her back, squeezing down on her hips for a moment before snaking back up to gently cup her face. Her legs are giving way beneath her, and she’s being held up by a combination of his arms and the railing behind her back, and this could have continued on indefinitely, until the two of them were perhaps truly in flagrante delicto, but the sound of someone clearing his throat jerks them apart like a bucketful of icy water.

“What the fuck are you doing to my sister?!”

**

Jesse knows, objectively, that it is not outside of the realm of possibility for his fuckwit colleagues to attempt to make a move on Meredith. After all, she has just that mix of All-American-Sweetheart prettiness coupled with a charming personality and a genuine sort of sweetness that managed to survive everything they’d been through as kids and teenagers, and moreover, dirtbag banker types were little better than piranhas in a feeding frenzy with a drop of blood in the water when it came to pretty girls. He had fully expected to have to threaten to throw someone or another off a cliff into shark-infested waters. However, of all the people present who might have posed a threat, Mr. Supposedly-Prim and Proper himself was not whom he would have anticipated. And yet, when he’d walked up to that deck, the first thing that he’d seen was his good friend’s hands on Meredith’s ass and his tongue down her throat. He’d actually had to blink twice to make sure it wasn’t some sort of horrifying oceanic mirage. And then he’d barreled forward, fists clenched.

Meredith, whose lipstick is damningly smudged and whose hair is in a wild, hand-tousled tangle, refuses to move from Kent’s side, and is indeed half-shielding Jesse’s supposed friend from him. “I kissed him first, Jess, so don’t you dare do anything to him!”

“He could have said no,” Jesse snarls. “That would be the gentlemanly thing to do, not to mention, you bastard, she’s my fucking sister! What the hell made you think that it’s okay to just treat her like some booty call?”

“I never thought of her as a booty call, and you should not refer to your sister as such.” Kent is an expert at the stern, reproachful voice, and that he busts it out in a moment such as this infuriates Jesse even further.

“Should you really be talking about my sister and booty calls at all, ever, considering the fact that had I arrived ten minutes later you’d probably be fucking her against the damned railing? I would have thought you of all people would have had some respect! Goddamn, I thought we were friends!”

“And you two are friends!” Meredith pipes up, her voice as angry as Jesse’s. “Don’t you dare use me as some type of excuse to drop someone who has always been good to you, helped you out, and is genuinely one of the most decent men I’ve ever met. Let me be very clear. I kissed Kent. He kissed me back. We’re both consenting adults and you have no damn right to tell either of us to do shit!”

Jesse opens his mouth to tell her that he has every right in the world to say whatever the hell he damn well pleased when it came to the two of them, but Kent clears his throat, and, to Jesse’s discerning eyes, steers Meredith gently away from where she’s defensively standing in front of him. “Let’s go talk somewhere in private,” he says to Jesse in a placating way.

“Oh HELL no, you guys are NOT about to go off somewhere and get into a scuffle over me and not even include me in the discussion!” Meredith clearly has no intention of going off without a fight. “I am the topic of conversation, I have a right to be there!”

What Jesse considers a bratty little sister fit clearly charms Kent in some sort of way, because he smiles, and not the bland company smile, either. He has the overweening nerve to tuck a strand of her hair behind her cheek, and in blatant disregard of Jesse’s outraged presence, whispers something in her ear. Whatever he says, though, does make her back off. At least by a single step.

“If you’re not back by five minutes, or if I spot anything even vaguely resembling a bruise, I’m calling the coast guard. Or, better yet, I will find a way to get your hated scary lawyer guy on my side and sic him on you. And then I will make every bit of your life a living hell.” Threat in place, Meredith gives Kent’s hand a squeeze before letting him go with an almost-bashful smile. If she’d been any more obvious, she’d look like the heart-eyes emoji come to life, Jesse thinks in disgust.

But Kent crosses over to him, shoulders back and head held high as though prepared to deal with whatever consequences might come of his actions, and that doesn’t reassure him much, either. They don’t move far-- the vast majority of the party is going strong on the other deck, but find a quiet corner out of earshot of everyone else.

Kent breaks the tense silence first. “If you must punch me, I understand. You can get it over with and I won’t say a word to her.”

“She’ll know. She always does. But-- my sister! Really? Of all the girls-- why Mere?”

Kent doesn’t say anything in response for a few seconds, and when he speaks again, it’s about something that Jesse thinks is completely irrelevant at first. “Do you remember last year’s Christmas party at my parents’?”

“Yeah, so?” That had been a drive out of the city and into the heart of old-money Greenwich, Connecticut. The Crawford-Tate ancestral mansion lay on an ocean of manicured lawn dusted with snow, all white columns and iron-gray stone, and everything from the crystal chandelier in the foyer to the heavy bone china and silver on the dinner table screamed immense wealth and understated class. Jesse had met Kent’s parents, who had both been stately but kind in that somewhat detached but elegant way of noblesse oblige, as well as Kent’s sister and brother-in-law. Kent’s sister, Una, was perhaps two or three years his junior, and had announced during that dinner that she was pregnant with her first child, much to the excitement of everyone present.

Kent takes a deep breath, stares out at the water. “Did I ever tell you how my sister and brother-in-law got together?”

“No, but what does that have to do with anything?”

“My brother-in-law, Matthew Clark, was my best friend. Still is, really. We attended the same all-boys’ private high school, then shared a dorm at Yale. He lost his parents very young to a car accident and lived with his grandmother, who ran in the same circles as my parents, and you know, as boys, neither of us made too much of it. He’d go home to his grandmother during holidays, I’d go home to my parents, and that was that, at least up until he turned twenty.”

“Oh?” Despite his best efforts, Jesse finds himself drawn into this story.

“Mrs. Clark got sick. She had a stroke, and during the attack, fell and broke her hip, slipping on icy pavement. She was hospitalized just before our winter break, and of course, Matt was devastated. His grandmother had raised him since he was five. I didn’t want him to have to spend the break in the hospital, so I invited him over to my place. At the time, Una was eighteen, a senior in high school, and they met for the first time that break. According to the both of them, though I was completely oblivious at the time, they fell in love at first sight.”

“That doesn’t happen in real life.”

“Well… they’ve been together for ten years, married for five, and just had a kid less than a month ago, so you tell them that. Anyway, after break, Matt of course spent every available moment either in the hospital with his grandmother or, after she was finally released, visiting her in the home she’d been placed in. Unbeknownst to me at the time, Una had taken to keeping him company, and spent a lot of time with him when Mrs. Clark passed away just a few months later. They grew closer, though no one knew about it, and by the time spring break had rolled around that term and he came home with me again, she was sneaking into his guest room at night. Somehow, he managed-- and chose-- to keep this from me at the time. Probably because I would never have looked at him as someone who’d be interested in my sister. But he sure surprised the hell out of us when he appeared at her graduation with an armload of red roses and his mother’s ring. I thought it was some type of joke, at first, almost up until they truly got engaged after he’d finished undergrad, then married after she’d done the same.”

Jesse stares at Kent, dumbfounded. “So you mean to say that your little sister hooked up with your best friend and you’re okay with it? Is that what you’re trying to tell me? That you know exactly what I’m feeling right now and you chose to put your hands on Mere anyway?!”

Kent lets out a rueful laugh. “Not precisely. I do know what you’re going through, yes. And trust me, when I did find out, I was fit to be tied. I did punch Matt, right in front of Una, as a matter of fact. She screamed bloody murder and keyed my car and honestly I think I got off easy.”

“Your sister keyed your car?” Jesse remembers Una, who is small and spritely, with Kent’s platinum-blonde hair and without Kent’s Resting Bitch Face. She could only have been more chipper and bubbly had she been an actual Disney Princess cavorting with bluebirds and bunny rabbits and unicorns pooping rainbows.

“She did indeed, and then she told me that if I felt as though I had to choose between my friend and my sister, then I didn’t deserve either of them. And… I got to thinking. Certainly, if anyone I knew deserved my sister’s love, it was Matt. And if any girl was worthy of him, it was Una. So eventually, I came around.”

“And you’re telling me this because you… and Mere…”

“I’m attracted to your sister.” Kent says baldly, without any mincing of words or prevaricating. “She seems to reciprocate those feelings, and I will probably ask her out, and perhaps pursue a relationship with her. I can’t make any predictions on how this may end up, but I can promise you that I will never hurt her on purpose, or treat her with disrespect. I do value your friendship as well, though if you choose to withdraw it because I decided to date Meredith, I will respect your feelings. I would be sorry, of course. But I don’t think it’d stop me from dating her.”

It is precisely the polite yet firm sort of declaration-- almost an ultimatum-- that one would expect a class act who grew up with the playground-beating-worthy moniker of Kent Montague Crawford-Tate III to give, and Jesse grimaces. His anger is mostly evaporated, but the lingering malcontent is harder to shake. “So you mean to say that someday in the distant future, there is a slight possibility that I might also become your brother-in-law?”

The mention of marriage, even in an indirect, hinted way, should have sent Kent running for the hills. That he doesn’t, and only chuckles, gives Jesse far too much of an idea just how attracted his friend must be to his sister, after all. “Well, if that day comes, at least I can say that I’m friends with both my brothers-in-law. Even if they can be dicks.”

“Ugh.” Jesse shudders at the sheer sentimentality of that idea. “I suppose I’ll have to let you live, if only for the fact that Mere would do something far worse than keying a car. But hurt her, and all bets are off, and I will have to end you.”

“If I hurt her, knowingly and deliberately, I wouldn’t even resist.”

And if that wasn’t the sloppiest statement of all, Jesse didn’t know what was. He doesn’t bro-hug Kent or shake his hand, but he punches his friend-- still his friend, after all-- in the shoulder, not hard enough to bruise, and the gesture serves a multitude of purposes. Truce tentatively attained, he steps back, watches Kent walk-- fairly quickly-- back to Meredith, take her hands, pull her close. And then he quickly makes the decision to walk away before he can see anything graphic and traumatizing again.

**

Much to Jesse’s relief, Meredith did return to their shared cabin that night as opposed to absconding off to Kent’s. She gushed a little about how she would never have expected someone like him to even notice someone like her, so as much as Jesse wanted not to talk about it ever again, he had to put a stop to that and explain to her that nothing she did or was made her inferior in any way to Kent, or anyone else on the boat. Of course, just for the sin of being annoying and hooking up with his friend, Jesse deliberately coughed, tossed and turned, and pretended to snore for a good hour before Meredith hissed at him to stop being a jerk and go the fuck to sleep like a decent human being.

And so it was that the next morning, when the boat docked at the pier, he was slightly groggy and nursing a cup of coffee. He’d found Renee and woefully told her the whole story, and she, having never gone through the sibling struggle, had simply laughed and told him he was likely being over-dramatic.

“None of this is my fault,” Jesse grouses as he chugs the coffee black, without his usual four creams and six sugars. It is bitter and disgusting but serves its purpose and matches his dark mood. “I did not do anything to deserve any of this.”

“Kent’s a decent guy. I’ve known him since he started at my dad’s firm and he’s always struck me as a dependable, honourable sort. Doesn’t gamble, doesn’t do drugs, doesn’t cheat on his taxes, or talk down to waitstaff, or any of the other typical problems I’ve seen plague others in this business and lifestyle. And speaking of-- here he comes. Do I need to send out an SOS to the coast guard or will you two behave?”

“I’ll behave. Zimmerman’s up on deck, too. I’d say nice of him to finally join us but I’d be lying. He’s doing the creepy staring thing towards the pier like there’s something there we mere mortals can’t see.”

Kent walks over then, also giving Zimmerman a bilious look. In a show of decency, he doesn’t mention Meredith at all to Jesse, perhaps understanding that with the new parameters of their relationship, it would be improper at best and infuriating at worst. “He’s staring awfully hard at the pier, isn’t he?” He nods in the direction of Zimmerman, who is thankfully paying them no mind. “Oh, well, there are a few people waiting there, I suppose. I recognize some of them. Oh, look, there’s Megan.”

Megan Conner, their formidable Human Resources Director, is indeed standing at the pier, looking quite objectively fabulous in a mint-green sleeveless blouse and white capris. She is talking to another woman whom Jesse does not recognize, petite and delicate-featured, with a bob of blue-black hair. Kent, though, frowns and stares hard, then scratches his head.

“That’s Dr. Alice Marshall-- she was my sister’s ob-gyn during her pregnancy. Works at the same hospital as Matt. Really nice lady. What in the world is she doing here?”

They get their answer a moment later, when the boat comes to a stop, and with a speed rivaling that of a gazelle being chased by a lion, Zimmerman clears two decks, the gang-plank, and the several yards of ground between the edge of the pier and where the pretty doctor is standing. The man whom they’d always considered a holy terror and possibly a demon catches the woman up in a gentle but barely-appropriate-for-polite-company embrace and kisses her in that hungry, yearning way of a man deeply in love. By the time they finally come up for air, the rest of the group has disembarked, including a flabbergasted Jesse and Kent.

“Wha-- you--- she--- What the Flying Dutchman fuck just happened!?” It is not the most dignified or intelligent statement that Jesse has ever made, but he can’t wrap his mind around what he’d just witnessed. Kent seems stunned into horrified silence.

Zimmerman still has both arms around the dark-haired woman, whom, up close, is very pretty indeed, with a shy smile and big blue eyes. He spares the barest indifferent once-over at the two of them. “Alice, these are some of the people who work for the firm. Gentlemen, this is my wife. Who just found out that she’s pregnant. I’ll be taking some time off in seven months.” This last bit is directed at Megan, who simply nods. “Make sure these money-grubbing imbeciles don’t get sued while I’m gone, because I will be unreachable for phone calls, emails, texts, smoke signals, and SOS flares in Morse code, no matter how many of these troglodytes hop aboard the Struggle Bus in my absence.”

Jesse doesn’t even register the blatant insult and continues to stare at Zimmerman and the woman who did not look at all terrified of being held so close in the arms of a man who could be a card-carrying John Grisham villain. “You’re married?! Since when??”

Zimmerman spares him a single supercilious glance. “I suppose you must not recall how I took off three months two years ago.”

“You didn’t tell us anything! We didn’t get invited or hear about it or…”

“Because we’re not friends?” Zimmerman gives Jesse a what-the-fuck look. “We just tolerate each other at work. We literally have nothing to talk about unless your ass is in a sling over something or another, and then I’m generally too annoyed at your stupidity to want to do anything but fix the problem and move on with our lives.” Clearly, he’s done with the conversation, because he turns back to his wife, kisses her again before walking away without a backward glance, still with an arm wrapped around her slim shoulders. Jesse looks helplessly from Megan, who seems to be trying not to laugh, to Kent, who is goggling after Zimmerman and his wife like he’d just witnessed the murder of every truth he’d ever held to be self-evident.

“I’d say pinch me, so I can wake up from this nightmare, but I don’t think I could even dream up something this bizarre,” Jesse finally says weakly to Kent. “Even evil soul-sucking ghouls get married and love their wives. It’s like something out of one of those sparkly vampire romances so popular with the teenagers.”

Kent quickly glances around to make sure the evil soul-sucking ghoul is out of earshot, unwilling to incur his wrath, which is certain to be twenty million times worse than the usual if it involved his decidedly-better half. “We should probably just continue avoiding him. It’s what we’re used to, and I’m pretty sure he has no desire to better the acquaintance. Undoubtedly his real friends are other evil lawyers in the same cult all hell-bent on taking over the world.”

All in all, it seems like the best plan of action.

**

The following Monday finds Jesse back to work, ass deep in a tricky IPO and juggling numbers and spreadsheets, well into midday without time to break for lunch. He orders a protein smoothie and a kale chicken Caesar from one of the hippie juice places through Seamless, then buries his attention back in the stock market. He’d almost forgotten about it until there’s a knock on his door, and the gorgeous, chestnut-curled head of one majestic Megan Conner, Hot HR Lady Extraordinaire, pokes in. She’s holding his amazing technicolour smoothie and a take-away bag and gives him the Eyebrow Raise of Amusement.

“Turning over a new leaf, are we? The Seamless guy dropped it off at my desk because of course, it makes no sense for the likes of you to willingly eat kale and--- an ‘Açaí Wheatgrass Blueberry Wellness Blend with Manuka Honey, 2 B-12, 2 Whey’.” She finishes reading off the label on the smoothie and blinks. “Dear God, this drink probably costs more than top shelf at one of those over-priced bars you boys like to frequent.”

“Probably. And no, I’m not turning over a new leaf, I’m making up for eating all the desserts on the boat because I was told by Kent and my sister that doing so makes me a garbage human.”

“Well, stop being a garbage human and then you won’t have to shell out the price of a full surf-and-turf dinner in one drink.” Megan sets his smoothie and salad on the desk. “As if I’d lower myself to this swill. It’s homemade spaghetti and meatballs for me.”

“Oh, God, why must you tease me so?” Jesse laments, giving her the puppy eyes. “Want to trade? Spaghetti and meatballs taste even better the next day, always.”

“No, I absolutely do not want to trade.” Megan shuts down that proposition without preamble. “It’s probably a good thing to work on not being a garbage human if you’re going out later with Renee Harrington, anyway.”

“How did you know that?! You weren’t even on the boat!! I’m pretty sure Harrington himself doesn’t know that!!”

Megan rolls her eyes and tosses her fabulous mane of hair in a way that would make a lesser man weep. “I know everything, young grasshopper. Always have, always will. Did you think Harrington hired me for having nice tits?”

Jesse, who has certainly noticed, admired and ogled the way she’d filled out those prim and tailored work blouses throughout the years, only manages a weak, lame-ass smile. “Um. Of course not. I’m sure he hired you for your talents. Which are magnificent to behold. I mean… yeah.”

He fully expects the HR-appropriate equivalent of a bitch-slap to come his way, but Megan simply rolls her eyes. “Stick to the stock market, buddy. Have a good lunch.”

“So you knew Zimmerman was married-- and not to Ursula the Sea Witch-- and all that, too?!” Jesse demands, but the door shuts behind her before she can reply. “No one ever tells me anything around here!”

He doesn’t sulk for long, though. There is much to be pleased with, even if he is fairly certain that Kent, the sneaky bastard, had dipped out for a lunch date with Meredith and is likely at this very minute plying her with compliments and whatever miniscule game he possessed. His phone chimes with a text message from Renee, and he smiles goofily at nothing in particular.

Six more hours. No big deal. Swigging away at his overpriced smoothie, he cracks his knuckles and turns back to his spreadsheets.