Red Velvet Flavor Binge: The Idle Pleasures Of These Days

[bookblather]

Title: The Idle Pleasures Of These Days
Main Story: In the Heart
Flavors, Toppings, Extras: Red velvet flavor binge, brownie, hot fudge, butterscotch, caramel, malt (kaity's easter egg: Howard: *looks at caller ID* Oh look, I'm going to have sex tonight.//Penny: His right hand is calling him?), cookie crumbs (of Family).
Word Count: 5326
Rating: R, for much swearing and graphic discussion of sex.
Summary: Bradley Spitzer has it made.
Notes: Internet blinked JUST as I was ready to post, so this is late. Sorry about that. Malt challenge, hot fudge, title is from Richard III.
WARNING: Drug use, objectification of women, violent death, perjoratives, dubious consent (mentioned only), general terrible-personness.


5. roar of the crowd

If there was one thing that everyone agreed on, it was that Bradley Spitzer had it made.

Seriously, his life was great. From the very beginning, he knew that he was loved in that smug sort of way that only a very few children have. His mother got him anything he wanted, from the latest video-game system to a BMW when he turned sixteen. Presents for birthdays, presents for Christmas, presents for good grades and holidays and "because mother saw it and knew you would like it."

Oh, Mother. Brad rather pitied her. She was just so pathetic in her domestic round, the way she kept the house clean and cooked ever more complicated meals and begged so sweetly for one second of his father's notice. Brad couldn't really blame Father for ignoring her, when she was just so... grating.

Father, though. Father was cool. He had a cool job and a cool car and a hot secretary with legs up to her boobs. He'd sign Brad out of school in the middle of the day, bring him to work, show him all the stuff he was doing, and then they'd both take off and go cruising in his red Ferrari, whistling at the girls and having a great time.

Brad loved his father. Someday, he decided, he'd be just that cool.

His friends thought he was that cool already. It was the BMW, and the good clothes, and top-notch gaming systems and the girlfriends. Brad, blessed with good genes and an abundance of charm, could get the hottest girl around just by crooking his finger. And he did. Often.

Why not, after all? They looked good on his arm and better in his bed. If he got bored with them fast, well, that wasn't exactly his problem, was it? They should learn some new tricks if they wanted to keep a man. His charming smile and deep blue eyes could get him a new girl faster than they could breathe.

Better to dump them before they became bitchy and clingy, anyway. No girl was ever going to tie him down.

1. break a leg

He saw her for the first time across a crowded dance club. Ridiculously cliché, that, but useful as hell. Anyway, he certainly didn't meet her eyes and fall in love at first sight.

Lust now... that was more like it.

And why wouldn't he lust after her? She was fucking hot. Legs to her chin, tits out to here, a prim and proper posture that made him want to make her lose it. He could already see her in his bed, legs up, breasts bouncing.

His pants tightened at the thought, and he smiled. Oh, yes. He'd have her by the end of the night.

His wingman, Mitchell Ungrodt, turned to say something, and grinned at the expression in his eyes. "Gonna get laid tonight?"

Brad grinned back at him. "Definitely. You see the redhead at the bar?"

Mitchell looked over, and whistled low under his breath. "Shit, yeah. Nice piece of ass. She kinda looks like the stuck-up virgin type, though. You know, the kind that won't put out unless you buy her dinner first?"

Brad looked back at her. She was bending over now, her head close to the woman beside her. He admired the view down her shirt for a minute, then said, "Trust me, Mitch. She'll put out for me."

His friend arched an eyebrow. "You wanna put money on that?"

"Why the hell not?" Brad laughed. He loved a challenge. "Ten bucks says I nail her by the end of the night."

"You're on," Mitchell said, and leaned back against the table. "Go ahead. This I gotta see."

Brad grinned at him, then put on his best charming smile and wound his way through the crowd, patting asses and shoulders as their owners caught his fancy. When he reached the bar, he put his hand on the back of her chair and leaned in.

"Hi," he said. "My name's Bradley Spitzer, and I couldn't help noticing that you are absolutely stunning."

She smiled up at him, delighted.

Ten bucks, in the bag.

2. the green room

It was surprisingly easy to coax her into bed.

Not that Brad had doubted he'd be able to do it. She was just the kind who needed a good fucking. It was just that he'd expected it to take longer. But Gail Hirschfeld had either had too much to drink or she needed a good fucking more than he'd expected, because he hadn't been talking to her for more than an hour or so before she leaned over, took his hand and whispered seductively, "You wanna blow this joint?"

Oh, he wanted to blow something, all right. Maybe he could talk her into a handjob in the cab.

He didn't say that, though. He just smiled at her and said, "I'd go anywhere with you," in his best sincere voice. She laughed, hopped off her bar stool, waved goodbye to her Asian friend and tugged him after her out of the bar.

He didn't get a handjob in the cab, as it turned out. But he hadn't taken more than two steps inside her apartment when she whirled, pinned him against the door, and kissed him.

Her bedroom was entirely decorated in shades of green-- to match her eyes, he guessed, although if she thought her eyes were anything better than a kind of muddy shade then she was dreaming. Not that it mattered; he wasn't there for her eyes, he was there for the tits she'd just revealed. Perfect tits, too, round and firm and perky. She squealed nicely when he pinched her nipple, too.

She was imperious as hell when they finally made it to the bed, ordering him to do this and that. It was kind of new for Brad, but to his surprise, he found he kind of liked it. It was interesting, and nice, not to have to guess what she liked in bed. He could just fuck her and be done with it.

Judging from the noises she made, and the scream she let out when she finally came, she thought he was doing a great job.

Brad grinned, and slapped her ass, getting another squeal for his pains. Oh, yeah. Ten bucks in the bag.

7. leading lady

Brad woke up to the smell of bacon. He rolled out of the rumpled bed, followed his nose to the kitchen and found that Gail had made breakfast. Well, fucking A, he'd lucked right the hell out-- gorgeous, a wildcat in bed, and a good cook to boot. Maybe he'd have to keep this one.

He posed himself artfully in the doorway of her bedroom, one arm above his head, the other on his hip, and deployed his best charming smile when she turned around. "Good morning, babe," he said. "That breakfast I smell?"

She smiled back at him, teeth flashing through red-bitten lips, and looked him up and down, speculatively. He hadn't bothered to put on boxers, and he felt his cock thicken just a bit as she looked at it. "It is," she said. "Bacon and eggs. I hope you like meat."

He let his smile widen to something a lot more toothy. "Oh, baby, I am a carnivore."

She giggled, not the least bit self-conscious, and giggled again when he came up behind her, put his arms around her waist and bit gently at her neck, growling. "Careful," she ordered him, mock-sternly. "I'm cooking here. Wouldn't want to get grease on you."

"No," he said, with a sigh, and released her. He did indulge himself by slapping that perfect ass one more time. "Let me know when you're done cooking, babe. I'm gonna go catch a shower."

"Okay," she said. "Don't use all the hot water."

He paused in the doorway. "What if I do? Will you punish me?" He leered.

She raised an eyebrow, looking suddenly rather speculative. "I could spank you," she said, tapping her chin. "Would you like that?"

"Fuck yes, babe," he said, his cock hardening further. . "Why don't you turn the stove off and come shower with me?"

To his surprise, she hesitated, looking between him and the pan. "I don't know. I shouldn't."

Brad spread his arms. Now that he'd thought about it, he really wanted to fuck her in the shower. "Come on, babe!" he said, expansively. "Live a little. Come take a shower with me."

She bit her lip, then shrugged, turned the stove off, and walked towards him, hips swaying. "Lead the way, then."
Fuck. He really would have to keep this one.

At least for a while.

10. treading the boards

Kind of a shame that he got bored so fast, honestly, because Gail was more fun that he'd expected, even based off that first night. Must be what Mitchell had always called the librarian effect-- the more starched-up and sexless a woman had to be in her workaday life, the more wild and uninhibited she was likely to be in bed. Damn if Gail didn't bear that out.

Then again, was it really his fault that she was so boring out of bed? She was just so prim and proper, no sense of fun at all. Wouldn't go out on weeknights, wouldn't get drunk, wouldn't fuck him in public. But she cooked great, just like his mother, and she was really awesome in bed, all wild eyes and hot mouth and tumbling red hair. Fucking her was a pleasure, and Brad could not have said that about all of his girlfriends.

Mitchell considered the situation, sucking down a slug of beer while he did. Finally, he said, "Wow. That's a tough one, all right. You sure you can't dump her and just keep fucking her on the side? Some girls will let you do that."

Brad shook his head, annoyed, because that would really have been perfect. "Not Gail," he said. She wasn't here tonight-- fucking A, it was Thursday already, what the fuck could she possibly have to do on a Friday?-- so he felt free to air his grievances. "It's all or nothing."

"This is the same chick who fucked you after knowing you for, what, two hours?" Mitchell asked, incredulously.

"Fucking right?" Brad snorted. "You'd think she'd get off that high horse of hers, but no. It was a momentary aberration," he mimicked, voice going high. "I don't usually do that kind of thing. God."

"Maybe it's time to move on anyway," Mitchell said. "You've been with her, what, a whole year now? That's more than enough if she isn't going to be reasonable."

"Yeah, maybe." Brad thought about it for a moment, and decided the possibility was attractive. Still... "I'm really going to miss fucking her."

"Yeah, well," Mitchell said, "we all make sacrifices."

15. back end of a horse

"We need to talk," Gail said.

Brad barely kept himself from rolling his eyes. Women always said that when they wanted to discuss things like 'marriage' and 'where is this relationship going.' Well, he knew what he'd say if she asked him that; he'd say "nowhere, and by the way I'm breaking up with you. Let's have one last fuck for old times' sake."

Probably not exactly like that, though.

He assumed his concerned face and looked at her. "Yeah? About what?"

Gail took a deep breath, and clasped her hands tightly in front of her. "I'm pregnant," she said.

For a moment, his brain shorted out. "The fuck you are."

Her eyes narrowed, just a little. "I am," she said. "About six weeks. I just got the results of the blood test confirmed."

Oh, fuck no. Fuck that. Like fuck was he going to let her trap him. "Then abort the fucking thing," he said. "Christ. Like I need a baby."

Her head came back as if he'd slapped her-- as if he would; he did not hit women-- and she sucked in a breath. "No," she said. "I will not get an abortion. I want this baby."

"Yeah?" he demanded. "Well, I fucking don't. Let me tell you something, bitch, if you think you're going to trap me by getting pregnant then you've got another think coming."

"Excuse me?"

"Yeah, that's right," he snarled, getting more and more angry the more he thought about it. This was how his mother had snared his father, by faking a pregnancy to force him into marrying her. Damned if he was going to let any whore bitch do the same thing to him. Hell, she might not even be pregnant! If she was, it probably wasn't his anyway. "I'm not going to fucking marry you so you can just drop that idea right now."

Gail had gone white, her eyes very round. She took a deep breath, closed those eyes, then opened them again and pinned him with a glare the likes of which he had never seen. "Fuck you," she said, turned around, and walked away.

3. "alas, poor ....."

"Bitch," Mitchell said. "Wow. She really thought she was going to get away with that?"

"I know!" God, it was such a relief to be around someone who understood. "It was like... I don't know, like she thought I wouldn't have seen this a thousand times before."

Mitchell shook his head in wonderment. "Women," he said, dismissively. "They'll try anything to keep a man. She must've guessed you were going to dump her. Got desperate."

"Fucking whore," Brad said. He shook his head. "Almost enough to put you off women forever."

"Heaven forbid," Mitchell said. "I like tits too much."

He did have a point there. Brad finished off his beer, wiped his mouth, and swung around on his barstool to survey the bar. "Lotta hotties here tonight," he observed.

"You should fuck one," Mitchell said. "Let her catch you if you want. Show her who's boss."

Brad rolled his eyes. "No, fuck that. We're done unless she fucking grovels, man, and even then I'm not wasting much more time on her." He contemplated the girls, particularly a leggy blonde over in the corner with a great rack. "Fucking somebody does sound really good, though."

Mitchell nudged him. "Go do it, then! You just said you were going to dump her anyway, so it's not like it's cheating."

"All right," Brad said. "All right, I will." He gave his bottle to Mitchell, got off the stool, and straightened his shirt. "Catch you later."

"Later," Mitchell said, and ordered another beer of his own.

13. in the spotlight

There was a knocking on his door bright and early the next morning.

Cruelly early, since Brad had a pounding hangover. He was beginning to regret not staying at the blonde's last night-- but then again, considering that he couldn't remember her name, maybe it was a good thing he'd gone home.

She hadn't been that good a fuck anyway.

The knocking thundered against his skull again, and he shuffled his way to the door, yawning and running his hands through his hair. He had boxers on, because flashing his neighbors might get him evicted. And that was probably all it was. Some neighbor bitching about how late he got in or how loud his music was. Assholes. Someday he'd move to a better building.

He swung the door open, and had barely enough tie to recognize Gail before she hit him solidly in the jaw.

The blow was hard and unexpected enough to knock him on his ass. He felt at his jaw and stared up at her, shocked.

"Bitch," he got out, finally, "what the fuck do you think you're doing?"

"Don't call me a bitch," Gail said. He moved to get up and she snapped, "And don't get up!"

"Listen," he began.

"No, you fucking listen," she snarled.

Something in her voice terrified the hell out of him, so he shut up and listened, feeling his eyes widen in his face a little more with every word..

"You are this baby's father," she said, every word cold and clipped. "I don't give a damn whether you want to be or not, you are. I won't cut you out of its life because of what's between us. But you and me, we're done. You get no more chances."

"I don't want..." he started.

"Shut up," she said. "I don't care what you want. You are this baby's father. I won't deprive it of a father. And neither will you. Do you understand me? Don't speak," she added, when he opened his mouth. "Just nod. Yes or no."

He nodded.

"Good," she snarled. Then she turned on her heel and slammed the door behind her.

12. five minute call

His phone rang.

Brad, who was in the middle of a brunette at the time, ignored it. It was probably Gail, and like fuck was he going to talk to her after the way she'd screamed at him the last time. She was fat as a cow right now and compensating by being even more of a fucking bitch than usual. Like she had any right to his time or attention any more.

The phone kept ringing, insistently, call after call until the brunette sighed, shoved him off her, and said, "Just answer your fucking phone already."

He sighed, and said, "I don't want to talk to her. She's the bitch from hell."

The brunette rolled her eyes. "Answer the phone," she said. "And then leave it off the hook." She smiled, seductively, and licked her lips. "You want me to blow you while you're talking to her?"

"Fuck yes," Brad said, suddenly a lot more interested in answering the phone. He picked up the handset, said, "Hello?" and groaned when the brunette's mouth enclosed his cock.

"...hello?" said a disapproving female voice he didn't know.

"Who the hell are you?" he asked, reaching out with his free hand and cupping the back of the brunette's head.

"Kim Mulcahey," the woman said. "We've never met. You should be grateful for that."

Whatever the fuck that meant. The brunette did something clever with her tongue, and he groaned again, bucking up into her mouth. "Whatever," he said. "Just tell me what you want and get it over with. I'm busy."

She muttered something like "I'm sure you are," and then said, more distinctly, "Gail's in labor. She's at Downtown Hospital. Get your ass down here now." Then she hung up.

Well, to hell with that. Stand meekly by Gail's bed and get sworn at, or stay right here and come into a hot brunette's mouth? Like that was ever a choice.

The brunette lifted her mouth off his cock and wiped her hand across her lips. "What was that about?" she asked.

"Nothing important," he said. "Keep sucking."

6. smell of the .....

The baby was ugly as fuck.

A girl, Gail said. Which only made sense-- of course she'd have a fucking girl. Another thing to scream and cry at him, to cling and beg and be needy. This one wouldn't even have the redeeming value of being fuckable for another eighteen years or so.

"Isn't she beautiful?" Gail asked, breathily, like his father had talked about cars. "I can't believe it. She's amazing."

Brad grunted, hoping that conveyed similar amazement, because fucked if he had the energy to argue with Gail right now. "It's nice," he said. "Are we done here?"

Gail lifted her head and looked at him, her eyes very level and cold. "No," she said. "This is your daughter, and you are going to learn to take care of her."

Hah. Like hell. He snorted and pulled out his cigarettes. "It's your kid," he said, pointedly. "I never fucking wanted it, remember? You take care of it."

Gail snatched the cigarettes away from him, box and all, and without even looking tossed them out the open window of her apartment.

"You bitch!" he yelped, and dove for the window, but it was too late, they were gone. "What the fuck did you do that for?"

"If you ever," she said, levelly, "attempt to smoke around Ivy again, I will throw you out the window. Are we clear."

"Crystal," he muttered, looking mournfully out at the cigarettes lying on the street. Some bum would probably run off with them before he got away from Gail. "Bitch."

She ignored him, leaning down into the crib to pick up the baby and coo nauseatingly at it. "First," she said to him, her sharp tones a stabbing contrast to the way she spoke to the baby, "I'm going to show you how to change a baby."

"You mean wiping its ass?" He snorted.

"Get over here," she said. There was no compromise in her voice.

Fuck. How the fuck had he missed that Gail could be like this?

He went.

11. exit stage left

He was so done with this fatherhood bullshit.

Really, it was beyond ridiculous that he'd stayed this long. He had no idea why he'd done it. It wasn't as if his parents were putting any pressure on him-- they didn't even know about the brat, and he had no intention of telling him. Hell, his father would probably applaud him for getting out while the getting was good, because seriously, fuck this fatherhood bullshit.

Maybe if it had been a boy, he'd have been a bit more interested. But a girl? No way. No interest, no redeeming value, nothing. She was almost a year old, and still no sign of being at all worth his time.

So he'd bought a Greyhound ticket for California, packed his shit, and broke his least. He'd had a nice night out drinking and a final fuck in the bathroom of a bar, sauntering away with the girl panting against the sink. He'd said goodbye to Mitchell, but nobody else, because he didn't really have any other friends in New York, or at least nobody who'd sympathized with him over the bullshit Gail had dragged him into.

Not that it mattered. He was on the bus now, and gone for good. The bitch would never find him. He'd never have to pay child support for a brat that probably wasn't even his. And he'd never again have to go anywhere near a diaper.

There was a gorgeous black-haired girl in the row across from his, a book in her lap and a dreamy expression on her face. Brad smiled.

He'd never go near a diaper again. But a nice pair of tits, now...

He crossed the row and sat down next to her. "Hi," he said, when she looked at him, smiling his most charming smile. "My name's Bradley Spitzer, and I couldn't help noticing that you are absolutely stunning."

She giggled, blushed, and looked down at her lap.

He smiled.

Fuck Gail, seriously.

8. red carpet

He fucked the black-haired girl in a motel in Nevada, and after that, there was nothing he couldn't do. He rolled down to LA, starred in a couple of commercials, reveled in the pussy that came his way after that. He tried heroin and dropped it almost immediately, because it fucked up his body too badly, and he wasn't about to wreck his best asset. Marijuana was fucking awesome, though, as was coke in small quantities. He felt so fucking good on coke, like he could conquer the fucking world.

Then he got a phone call in the middle of the night, from his mother, who was sobbing too hard to speak.

"Your father," she said, and his insides went cold.

He caught a flight home the very next day, for the funeral. His father had been driving his beloved Ferrari down the road, when a semi came out of fucking nowhere and t-boned the car. He'd died instantly, and so had the girl in the passenger's seat. The police told Brad in strict confidence that it looked like she'd been giving him head when they died, and that they'd run a red light before hitting the semi.

Which was all a fucking lie. Not that getting head while blasting down a highway didn't sound fucking awesome, but it was also fucking stupid and his father wouldn't have done that. Surely. His father was smart. His father was cool.

His father was dead.

The carpet in the church was the red of blood. His mother sobbed hysterically beside him until Brad felt like slapping the shit out of her. And his father lay in the coffin, the closed coffin, because there was only so much they could do.

Everything went downhill after that.

The girls kept getting pregnant. The coke didn't work anymore. The commercials stopped coming. Sure, he had pots of money-- his father had been a very rich man-- but money didn't buy as much as it used to.

And on a cold winter night in a diner somewhere in Montana, Brad realized that he was lonely.

14. making an entrance

When he thought about it, he was actually pretty sure that Ivy really was his. She looked way too much like her bitch of a mother for him to be totally comfortable, but she had his blue eyes, and his crooked, charming smile. So maybe she was his kid after all. Maybe he was a father.

Huh.

It wasn't too bad a feeling, after all.

He smiled shyly at her, let her talk for most of it. He stammered out a kind of apology, the best one he could make without actually apologizing, because he still didn't think he'd done anything wrong with regards to Gail. Maybe he'd fucked up by Ivy, though, so he said sorry for that, told her how much he wanted to be in her life, and to his surprise he really, genuinely meant it.

And then. And then.

"I appreciate that you're related to me and all," Ivy said, "but I've already got a father."

He frowned, confused. "I don't understand."

"I've already got a father," Ivy said, again.

Which didn't make any sense, and he said so. He was her father; she couldn't have any more. It was one to a person.
"Fatherhood is not just a blood relation," Ivy said, her voice suddenly tense. "It's an emotional bond, which I'd say--"

Exactly! "But I want to build that bond--" he said, earnestly.

To his utter shock, she went right on talking over him. "--I'd say you don't have. And if you're going to make a parental rights argument, I'm twenty-eight and a full legal adult, and besides Dad adopted me when I was five so they'd be his anyway."

For a moment the world spun on its axis.

4. the final curtain

"He adopted you?" he asked, stunned. "But I'm your father."

She said something about being involved that he ignored, in favor of slowly rising anger. Gail. This was all Gail's fault. She'd taken his little girl and any chance he had of a family away from him, all out of spite. "That bitch," he said.

"Excuse me?"

"You're my daughter," he told Ivy, damn near lecturing. "Mine. Nobody else has any rights to you." Nobody did. God damn it, she was his kid!

"You weren't around," Ivy said. "The state decided that was abandonment, so they took your paternal rights and gave them to my dad. Them's the breaks. Do you actually want to talk about the future or just bitch about stuff that's your fault?"

That stung for a moment before he realized it was just her hurt and anger talking. Poor kid. He really had fucked up where she was concerned. "Of course, I understand," he said, earnestly. "Look, I know your mother must have been very angry, and I know she wanted to hurt me, but please, Ivy, you don't have to keep it up. I always loved you, no matter what happened between the two of us."

And he had. Somewhere. Even if he hadn't really been thinking about it.

"Uh-huh," Ivy said. "I'm sure. Since you were so demonstrative and all that."

He ignored that. "I just want you to know that it's all right. I forgive you. I know you can't help what your mother and her new... friend have told you." And he was definitely going to have words with them.

Especially the "friend."

Ivy folded her arms on the table and leaned over them, smiling very sweetly at him. "Listen very closely," she said, "because I'm only going to say this once more. You are not my father. If you want to be in my life, we can talk about it, but that is not under discussion."

He gave her his best charming smile. "Now, Ivy, I'm sure you're just upset, and once you think about it..."

She cut him off. "You. Are not. My father. Nathan Kendall is my father. You're... I don't know. A sperm donor."

What the fuck? Sperm donor? He narrowed his eyes at her. "I never..."

"And the more you harp on this," she added, "the less likely I am to let you in my life. So's you know."

God. Fucking Gail just couldn't help passing on the bitchiness, could she? "Ivy, I..." He pinched the bridge of his nose, and sighed. "Ivy. You're my daughter, no matter what anyone says. Some things are just natural. I don't see why you don't understand that."

She stared at him for a moment, then said, "All right, we're done here. Please feel free to fuck off and die."

"What?" he asked, not quite comprehending. She couldn't mean...

She could, apparently, because she was getting up and marching away. "I said we're done," she threw over her shoulder, "and you can just walk right back out of my life. I'd say it's been nice knowing you, but I'd be lying."

A blonde hottie hopped up from the bar and followed her out the door, and Brad sat back, stunned.

Well, so much for that. Guess she wasn't his daughter after all. No child of his would have been that much of a bitch to her father.

He sighed, and fought a strong urge to cry.

9. the fourth wall

He was dying, and he knew it.

Too much coke in the last dose, maybe, or too much alcohol, or something impure mixed in with both of them-- not like it fucking mattered, he was ODing and he couldn't even call for help. Too many people partying around him, too much noise. No one could hear him. Probably no one could even see him.

The fizz was too much. He was dying.

Not that he really wanted to stay alive. What the fuck was life for, anyway? The girls passed him by. The money trickled away. Walls grew up where doors had once been. His looks were fading and he couldn't get them back, his charming smile weakening in its power.

It was all Gail's fault. That bitch and her bitch daughter had fucked up his life. Hell, he wouldn't be surprised if they'd had something to do with his father's death, somehow. Maybe word of the way he'd almost gotten trapped got back to his father-- Mitchell, maybe, Mitchell knew his folks. Maybe it had broken his father's heart. Maybe he'd been speeding to get his mind off it.

She'd killed his father and ruined his whole life. Fucking bitch.

Well, karma was a real bitch. She'd get hers, some day. That was his only real regret, that in the seven years since he'd last seen Ivy, he'd never gotten the chance to go back and show her, her and her bitch brat, what it meant to cross Bradley Spitzer.

He closed his eyes, felt the bass line thumping through the floor. Now he never would.

"It isn't fair," he murmured, and died.