Kota stared at the last message from Elliot, the pun about "tennis balls" hanging there like a limp attempt at seduction. He shook his head, a mix of annoyance and exhaustion washing over him. The day had been a nonstop barrage of Hawthorne insanity from the twins' relentless advances to Beckett's cult ramblings. His thumb hovered over the keyboard, debating whether to fire back a final shutdown or just ghost. But before he could decide, the phone buzzed again. Beckett this time.
Beckett: Affirmative on the elevated domicile. Lease secured for Unit 11D. Initial artifacts en route: seven amethyst clusters for sacral chakra alignment, three obsidian blades for grounding rituals, and one vial of consecrated sandalwood oil for lubrication during congress. Your presence is required for the inaugural attunement. Prepare by abstaining from self-gratification for 48 hours; seminal potency must peak.
Kota groaned aloud, rubbing his eyes. This kid didn't quit. The clinical detachment made it all the more bizarre—like Beckett was planning a science experiment, not a "sex cult" meetup. He typed back quickly, hoping to end it.
Kota: Dude, I said weekends only. And no more details. I'm trying to sleep.
Beckett: Sleep is a suboptimal state for energetic exchange, but necessary for corporeal restoration. Dream of crystalline insertions; it will prime your subconscious. Query: preferred orifice for initial deposition? Anal for root chakra, oral for throat.
Kota: STOP. Goodnight.
He set the phone on silent, but it vibrated anyway—Elliot again.
Elliot: Ignoring me? Rude. Here's a goodnight gift.
An attachment loaded: a selfie of Elliot in bed, shirtless, freckled chest on display, hand trailing down toward his waistband with a coy grin. The caption: "Thinking of you. Sweet dreams, monster."
Kota deleted it immediately, heat creeping up his neck despite himself. He flipped the phone face-down on the nightstand, but it buzzed twice more—Beckett with a diagram of "chakra alignments during penetration," then Elliot with a voice note of soft moans and whispers about "needing that stretch again." He powered the device off entirely, tossing it into his drawer. The room fell silent, the faint hum of the air conditioner the only sound. His mind raced through the day's absurdities: the mansion's opulence, the twins' competitive lust, Beckett's bite and basement weirdness, the lies to Khalil. Exhaustion finally pulled him under, dreams fragmented with images of jiggling asses, crystal rituals, and his dad's looming suspicion.
He woke to a shadow falling across his face, the room brighter than expected with morning light filtering through the blinds. Blinking groggily, Kota focused on the figure towering over his bed: Khalil, grinning ear to ear, arms crossed like he'd just won the lottery. The expression was rare—Khalil's default was stern caution, not this beaming pride. Kota's heart jolted; for a split second, he thought he'd been caught, the phone's messages somehow exposed.
"Morning, son!" Khalil boomed, voice echoing in the small room. "Rise and shine! Time to hit that job site. Can't be late on your... what, second day? Third? Show those boys what real work looks like."
Kota sat up slowly, rubbing sleep from his eyes, brain scrambling to catch up. Job site? The fake construction gig—he'd spun that lie yesterday to cover the late arrival and bite mark. Shit. "Dad... I have school today. Can't miss classes."
Khalil laughed, a deep belly rumble that shook his broad frame. He clapped Kota on the shoulder hard enough to jostle him. "School? Boy, it's Saturday! No school, dummy. Weekend's for buildingliterally. Get your ass up, shower, eat. I'll make eggs. And hey, I was thinking—I could drive you there. Meet the foreman, shake his hand, make sure they're treating you right. I don't even know which site it is. Downtown? Bayou side? Spill it."
Panic spiked in Kota's chest. Drive him? Meet the foreman? There was no site, no foreman—just a web of bullshit unraveling by the second. He forced a casual laugh, swinging his legs over the bed's edge. "Nah, Dad, I'm good. I can take the bus. It's... uh, not far. Don't want to bother you on your day off."
Khalil's grin didn't falter, but his eyes sharpened with that familiar scrutiny. "Bother? Nonsense. Father-son bonding. Plus, I can give pointers—show you how to spot shoddy rebar or mix concrete right. Come on, where's the site?"
Kota stood, stretching to buy time. "Really, it's fine. I got it. Bus is easier."
Khalil nodded slowly, still smiling but with a hint of reluctance. "Alright, alright. Independent man. I like it. But don't slack—work hard, stay strong. And remember: pics. Send 'em. Form, site, all that."
"Yeah, Dad. Pics. Got it."
Kota escaped to the bathroom, locking the door and leaning against it with a sigh. The mirror reflected his disheveled state: bedhead, dark circles, the bite mark fading to a faint bruise. He showered quickly, hot water scalding away the grogginess but not the anxiety. Construction site—how the hell was he going to fake that? Pics? He'd need something real, or Khalil would sniff out the lie in seconds. Dressed in jeans and a plain tee (nothing too clean for "work"), he wolfed down the eggs Khalil had plated, nodding through another lecture on "real men's labor" versus the "soft world out there."
"Alright, heading out," Kota said, grabbing his backpack for show. Khalil followed him to the door, clapping his back again.
"Work hard, son. Pics!"
"Yes, Dad."
The door shut behind him with a click, and Kota bolted—sprinting down the hallway toward the elevator, heart pounding. No plan, no site, just desperation. He jabbed the call button repeatedly, pacing as the ancient lift groaned upward. Grabbing the phone from his pocket, he scrolled to Theo's number (saved from yesterday's chaos) and hit call. It rang twice before Theo picked up, voice breathless like he'd been running too.
"Kota? Hey! I was just thinking about you. Last night was—"
"Theo, shut up. I need help. Big time." Kota glanced over his shoulder, half-expecting Khalil to burst out and demand the site address.
Theo's tone shifted instantly, concern lacing his words. "What's wrong? You sound panicked. Is it Beckett? He texted me about some unit in your building—"
"No, worse. Well, related. How rich is your family? Like, exactly?"
Theo hesitated, a soft laugh bubbling up. "Uh... why? I don't like bragging. We're... modest, really."
"Theo, cut the humble shit. I need numbers. Assets, net worth—all of it."
Another pause, Theo's voice dropping like he was glancing around. "Okay, fine. Modest by our standards. Total company net worth is about $102.5 million, with around 300 million in assets spread across real estate, investments, and the family trusts. But that's not even top 100 if you account for the interconnected families like the Maldues, Hellermards—"
"Enough!" Kota cut him off, the elevator doors finally dinging open. He stepped inside, hitting the lobby button. "That's insane. You're loaded. Listen—I lied to my dad yesterday to cover for being late after... you know, your place. Told him I had a fake construction job. Manual labor, after school, to explain the time and... the bite mark from Beckett."
Theo gasped audibly. "A fake job? Oh god, Kota—that's risky. Your dad's super strict, right? What'd he say?"
"He bought it. Hugged me, gave me his old phone for 'work updates.' But now it's Saturday, and he thinks I'm heading to the site. Wants pics of my 'form,' the crew, everything. If I don't deliver, he'll know it's bullshit. I need a real site to fake it at—somewhere I can show up, snap photos, pretend."
Theo went silent for a beat, then: "Shit. Okay, panicking a little here. Plans... uh, we could stage something? Like, find an abandoned lot, dress up some friends as workers? No, that's dumb—your dad would spot fakes. Or... buy a hard hat and pose in our garage? No, too clean. Wait—my dad's a big funder for the construction on Chester Mall in the eastside. Huge project—retail revamp, condos, the works. He's poured millions in. I could ask him if you could 'work' there—pretend, I mean. Shadow a crew, snap pics, make it look legit."
Kota's relief surged, the elevator creaking downward. "Yes! Chester Mall—that's perfect. Not too far. I can bus there, get some shots, head home before he suspects. Call him now?"
Theo hummed thoughtfully. "Happy you're on board, but... I need to call Dad first. He's picky about favors, doesn't like mixing family with business unless it's airtight. Give me a sec to pitch it. Hang tight?"
Kota sighed, leaning against the elevator wall as it jolted to a stop. "Fine. But hurry—I'm panicking here. Waiting in the lobby."
The doors opened, but he stayed inside, jabbing the close button repeatedly. Panic clawed at him: what if Theo's dad said no? What if Khalil called the "site"? The elevator hummed idly, trapping him in limbo as he waited for the callback.