Official bonus novella to Blood On The Leaves.
A collection of short stories featuring darker and deeper insights into the characters of Blood On The Leaves. Coherent ramblings of life after Kensington for members of the Elite.
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Midnights in New York were always Orson's favourite hour to be in the city. A veil of elegant dusk would cloak the city filled with nothing but scandal and secrecy behind a starless sky- it provided security for making those back-alley deals, hands shaken over arrangements that would never be spoken of again when the sky lightens for the morning. Midnights are when he meets girls he'll never meet again, leaving him with blurry, vivid memories of them taking off their clothes and hundred-dollar bills raining through the air.
In the city true safety lies in learning to embrace the spotlight like a second home and knowing where to run when the world turns its back on you. But after dark, it's all written out: the moon lights the path of the sinners, the myriad of city lights shine a spotlight on the saints, and the rest are left armorless with nothing to do but look on helplessly in fascination.
Orson Calloway believes himself a sinner in wanton of being reformed. He was never made this way. At least that's what he tells himself. His dad is what made him like this, or it's the world around him. It's the only way he could survive.
But the truth is, Orson is the master of the trade. He's a bit too good at this game and just as he likes to lie to himself, he knows deep down everything just bored him. Being reformed bored him. He doesn't want to be a good person.
Simply because he never knew how to.
And of course, all this lying to himself stopped the minute he met Amory. Amory Scout, if that is even her real name.
Looking at her is like looking at a mirror, multiplying by tenfold. She is everything he didn't like about himself, plus a little more. Instead of beating herself up for it, she embraces it. She has perfected it to the point of it being an art form. She parades it, like golden armour. A fucked-up Joan of Arc.
Cunt.
He's fucking terrified of it and maybe, just a little impressed. But also turned on. (He hates how his stupid dumb boy brain works- how does someone that scares the living daylights of him makes his dick hard as well?)
Worst of all, as much as he hates that stupid bitch, she was right.
They were the only two people crazy enough to put up with each other.
-
The FBI never found a lead on who killed Elijah Calloway.
Orson still has a hard time digesting the fact that the man he thought was his father this whole time has been his half-brother. The man whose approval he lusted over and fought for had been his bitter half-brother, drunk on jealousy and greed. His real father, meanwhile, lay shackled to a cage of dementia, his mind was reduced to a crumbling fortress of half-memories and forgotten truths. Behind the fragile old man was a locked vault of answers Orson had been waiting for his whole life.
It all made him cold, jaded and hard- whenever he came close to experiencing a modicum of a normal, peaceful life, it was always ripped away from him.
So that's why he keeps drinking. And contacting his dealers.
