Change of Plans
IBIZA
The bass had been rearranging Nico’s internal organs for three hours.
Someone had taken over a section of the terrace with tequila, salt, sliced limes, and a complete disregard for whichever poor bastard would be cleaning the place after sunrise. Bodies crowded around the low tables, slick with sweat and spilled alcohol, half-dressed in the particular Ibiza uniform that required several thousand euros to look this close to naked. A girl Nico remembered being introduced to as someone’s cousin was kneeling on the sofa while one of his friends poured tequila into the hollow above her collarbone. There was cocaine on a mirrored tray beside a bowl of limes. A champagne bottle had ended up in the pool twenty minutes ago. Nobody had bothered retrieving it.
Nico was having a fucking marvelous time.
He had lost track of how many people were technically with them. Fifteen? Twenty? More had attached themselves over the evening, friends of friends, two DJs, three women from Madrid, a footballer, an Italian whose name had escaped him completely but who kept supplying everyone with cigarettes, and a spectacularly drunk American who had spent the last hour insisting she could beat any European man at shots.
Now she was somewhere behind him yelling about something while he had his mouth on Sofia.
Sofia had been staying at another hotel when he met her four days ago. She had complained over breakfast that hers was boring, Nico had told her to move, and by dinner her luggage was in his suite.
Problems were occasionally that simple.
She was fun. Beautiful, filthy-minded, completely uninterested in pretending she wanted anything serious from him, and capable of staying awake through schedules that would have killed a less committed woman. They had swum at four in the morning, eaten lobster in bed, taken a boat to Formentera because somebody mentioned it over lunch, missed dinner reservations because they were fucking around upstairs, made new reservations somewhere better, and continued.
No emotional autopsy required.
Nico liked pleasure. This had never struck him as a particularly sophisticated character defect.
He liked good alcohol. He liked being high when the night suited it. He liked sex very much. He liked waking up somewhere beautiful with no immediate obligation beyond deciding whether to swim before lunch. Access made life more entertaining, and he had been born with more access than most governments.
He knew that.
He also intended to enjoy it.
There were limits somewhere. Nico had met them before. He knew the difference between spending a week behaving obscenely and becoming the sort of person whose friends started using phrases such as we’re worried about you. He had no interest in ruining his health, career, family relationships, or face for the sake of another chemical sunrise.
Everything was fun until it wasn’t.
Tonight remained firmly on the fun side.
Someone grabbed him by the shoulder.
“Nico.”
He turned and found Elena, one of Sofia’s friends, holding a shot glass between two fingers.
“No.”
“You said yes.”
“I say many things to beautiful women. Very few of them constitute binding agreements.”
“You said if I won, you’d kiss me.”
Sofia, still tucked against his side, burst out laughing. “You did.”
Nico looked at her. “Whose side are you on?”
“Mine.”
Elena had beaten him at some idiotic drinking game he barely remembered participating in.
“All right,” he said. “Come collect your prize.”
Elena laughed before grabbing his shirt and kissing him.
The surrounding idiots reacted like people who had been drinking since lunch and desperately needed every event to become a spectacle. Somebody slapped the table. Somebody else began chanting his name, which was embarrassing for everybody involved.
Nico put a hand at Elena's waist and kissed her back properly, mostly because doing anything halfway under these circumstances seemed miserly. She tasted of lime and tequila. Sofia cheered beside them, then reached over and pushed Elena’s hair out of Nico’s face because apparently she had appointed herself production assistant.
He broke the kiss laughing.
Sofia leaned into his ear. “You should take both of us home.”
Now, there were statements a gentleman ought to consider carefully before responding.
Nico had never suffered from an excess of gentlemanly hesitation.
“I was already planning to.”
Sofia bit his lower lip.
Elena heard him and laughed against his shoulder.
There were worse lives.
Someone began another countdown across the terrace.
“Ten!”
Nico had no idea what they were counting toward.
“Nine!”
Possibly another bottle being opened. Possibly someone jumping into the pool. Possibly a minor crime.
“Eight!”
Sofia climbed into his lap.
That answered at least one question.
She hooked an arm around his neck and kissed him as he nearly spilled the drink still in his hand. He set it blindly on the table before somebody ended up wearing vodka.
“Seven!”
Her tongue slid into his mouth. Nico caught her waist, feeling warm skin beneath his palm where her top had ridden up.
“Six!”
She took his hand and shoved it beneath the loose edge of her blouse.
Well.
That was persuasive.
Nico grinned into her mouth.
Sofia pulled back just far enough to look at him, pupils blown wide, lipstick ruined. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“Liar.”
“Keep going.”
She laughed and kissed him again.
Around them, the countdown dissolved into shouting. Nico stopped caring what happened at zero. Sofia was grinding against him and it made concentration an unreasonable request, one hand tangled in his hair while Elena sat beside them tracing lazy fingers along his thigh.
His body had made its opinion of the evening’s next activity extremely clear.
He wanted out of the club.
Immediately.
Preferably with both women.
His phone vibrated in his pocket.
Nico ignored it.
Sofia’s mouth moved to his ear. “Let’s leave.”
“Yes.”
“I’m so fucking horny.”
Christ.
He tightened his grip on her waist.
“Then stop wasting time talking to me.”
She laughed against his neck and kissed beneath his jaw.
The phone vibrated again.
For fuck’s sake.
Nico reached into his pocket mostly intending to silence the thing until morning.
The screen made him pause.
Camille.
He frowned.
His sister never called.
Camille communicated through DMs, photographs, voice notes she expected him to listen to at twice the normal speed, and occasional screenshots sent without context. Phone calls belonged to birthdays, logistical emergencies, and their mother deciding everyone needed to coordinate something unbearable.
Three missed calls.
In a row.
Nico glanced at the time and realized it was around ten in the evening in New York.
That was wrong.
Not necessarily catastrophic. Still, three calls.
Sofia was kissing his neck now, working lower while her hips moved against him. Nico’s attention fractured rather spectacularly.
Jesus fucking Christ.
He slid his phone into his hand but didn’t answer yet.
Sofia caught his earlobe between her teeth.
Elena leaned close. “Are we leaving?”
Nico looked between them.
Sofia’s blouse was still crooked from where she had shoved his hand beneath it. Elena’s lipstick was smeared. Both were watching him with expressions that suggested the next hour could become extremely enjoyable.
His phone rang again.
Camille.
Four.
Something cold slipped through the alcohol.
Nico swore under his breath and pulled his hand away from Sofia.
“I need to take this.”
She stared at him, breathless. “What? Now?”
“Unfortunately.”
Sofia glanced at the phone. “Girlfriend?”
Nico gave her a look. “Please. Sister.”
Then he got to his feet and walked out of the bar.
Nico walked until the music stopped feeling physical.
That required more distance than expected. Even outside the main terrace, the bass kept following him through the hotel grounds, vibrating through stone and glass and somebody’s aggressively landscaped hedge. He passed a couple kissing against a wall, a man arguing into his phone in French, and two women sharing a cigarette beside the valet stand. Nobody paid him much attention. Ibiza had very generous standards for public behavior.
His phone started ringing again.
Camille.
Persistent little shit.
Nico took a cigarette from the pack in his pocket instead of answering. He cupped a hand around the lighter, got it going on the second try, inhaled deeply, and let the smoke sit in his lungs for a moment.
The cocaine had him pleasantly sharp around the edges. The alcohol had softened everything else. Together they had produced that excellent temporary state where every idea seemed actionable and every bad decision came with flattering lighting.
The phone continued ringing.
“All right, all right,” he muttered, taking another drag before accepting the call. “Yo.”
Camille didn’t bother with hello.
“Where in the godforsaken world are you?”
Nico smiled around the cigarette.
“I missed you too.”
Silence.
She was listening.
He knew exactly what she was listening for.
“Nico,” she said slowly. “Are you fucking high right now?”
He looked out toward the road. Headlights slipped past beyond the palms. Somewhere behind him, the crowd erupted again, probably because someone had taken their top off or broken something expensive.
“Also drunk, if that makes things better.”
“NICOLAS.”
He laughed.
There was something deeply satisfying about making his sister use his full name. She only did it when she wanted to throttle him, which meant he’d successfully annoyed her through several thousand kilometers and an ocean.
A modest achievement, but his evening had already been productive.
He dragged on the cigarette again, then heard something underneath Camille’s irritation.
Tension.
That changed things.
His smile disappeared.
“Did someone die?”
“No.”
“Sick? Mom? Dad?”
“They’re fine.”
“Then what?”
Camille exhaled into the phone.
“Dad wants you home.”
Nico stopped moving.
Not I want you home. Not Mom asked if you were coming back. Not when are you back in New York?
Dad wants you home.
His father was perfectly capable of contacting him directly. Nico had a phone. His father possessed one too, along with a secretary, an assistant, another assistant whose purpose Nico had never fully understood, and enough people around him to locate the fucking Pope during Easter Mass.
Sending Camille meant something.
Nico flicked ash onto the pavement.
“What happened?”
Another pause.
Longer this time.
He already disliked it.
“I’d rather not tell you on the phone,” Camille said. “Dad wants you tomorrow.”
Nico glanced down at his watch.
He did the arithmetic automatically.
Tomorrow was possible.
Tomorrow was always possible when one was willing to throw enough money and aviation fuel.
He could get a flight out within hours. Maybe sooner. Ibiza to New York was irritating rather than difficult. His body would hate him. He would arrive looking reasonably human if somebody found him a shower, clean clothes, enough water, and several hours to sleep horizontally.
He took another drag.
Or he could hang up.
That was also available.
He could walk back inside, find Sofia exactly where he’d left her, put his hands under that blouse again, collect Elena on the way out, and spend the rest of the night doing things considerably more appealing than crossing the Atlantic because his father had issued a summons through Camille.
He was twenty-eight.
A functioning adult by most legal definitions.
Nobody could order him home.
“Nicolas.”
“Still here.”
“Dad is expecting you.”
Expecting.
His father loved that word without ever needing to say it himself.
Entire rooms somehow understood what Étienne Beaumont expected of them.
Nico looked back toward the building. Through the glass he could see fragments of the party, bodies shifting beneath violet light. Sofia would still be there. He could picture her mouth. Her thighs around him. Elena laughing when he kissed her. The suite afterward, clothes on the floor, room service abandoned outside the door until morning.
Very persuasive imagery.
“Fine,” he said. “I’ll catch a plane.”
Silence.
Then Camille exploded.
“A PLANE?”
Nico pulled the phone slightly away from his ear.
“Jesus Christ.”
“WHERE ARE YOU?”
He started laughing again.
“Camille.”
“If you’re in fucking Ibiza right now, I swear to God I’m going to murder you myself. Nico, are you in Ibiza?”
He took another drag.
She knew him too well.
“Bye, Cams.”
“You absolute piece of shit, don’t you dare hang up.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“NICO.”
He ended the call.
For several seconds he stood there smoking, phone loose in one hand, trying to decide whether he had just made an unnecessarily responsible choice under chemically compromised circumstances.
The party surged behind him.
He could still go back.
He had agreed to catch a plane. Agreements made while drunk had an extensive history of reinterpretation. His father hadn’t even called him personally. Camille had refused to explain what was happening. The rational response might actually be to demand further information before dismantling an excellent holiday over a family mystery.
Yes.
That sounded respectable.
Go back inside. Stay another few hours. Sleep until noon. Call home after breakfast. Discover everyone had become hysterical over some board issue or family dinner or vaguely aristocratic obligation involving people Nico had successfully avoided since Christmas.
Completely possible.
He pictured Sofia again.
That did not help his attempt at objective analysis.
He could practically feel her hips moving against him.
Jesus.
The sensible decision currently had tits and was waiting inside.
Nico smoked half the cigarette in two drags.
He knew his family.
Camille called him almost never. Four calls meant she had been told to get him. Refusing to explain meant she either genuinely couldn’t or had decided the explanation would be worse delivered while he was high outside a club in Ibiza.
And Dad wanted him tomorrow.
His father could be dramatic in exactly zero circumstances.
That was the irritating part.
If Camille had called crying, Nico could have dismissed half of it as Camille being Camille. If his mother had called, there would have been twelve additional details and several unrelated complaints before anybody reached the point.
His father had sent a sentence.
Come home.
Nico stared at the cigarette glowing between his fingers.
“Fuck this.”
He called the car service first.
That part took less than a minute. He gave them his location, told them he needed to be at the airport, and ended the call before the driver could offer any unnecessary politeness.
Then he called the hotel.
The concierge answered on the second ring and greeted him by name.
“Mr. Arden.”
“Hi. Change of plans. I’m leaving tonight.”
There was a tiny pause while the man recalibrated an entire set of arrangements without allowing surprise into his voice.
One of Nico’s favorite qualities in hotel staff.
“Certainly, sir.”
“I need someone to pack my things. Only mine. Anything that clearly belongs to Sofia stays where it is.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And tell her the room is paid through Friday. She doesn’t need to leave because I’m leaving.”
He could already imagine Sofia’s response when she found out he’d disappeared halfway through an extremely promising night.
Probably irritation.
Possibly profanity.
Fair.
Nico had done worse to better people.
“Have someone bring my passport to the airport,” he continued. “And clothes. Fresh clothes. Something I can change into on the plane that doesn’t smell like a nightclub.”
“Of course.”
He looked down at himself.
White linen shirt, open too far down the chest, tequila stain near one cuff. There was lipstick on the collar that definitely hadn’t come from one woman. His trousers had acquired something sticky near the knee. He didn’t want to investigate.
“Actually, bring two sets.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And shoes.”
“Certainly.”
“Nothing heroic. I need to look respectable when I land, not seduce customs.”
The concierge gave the polite little laugh of someone professionally forbidden from suggesting that Nico looked capable of doing both simultaneously.
“Understood.”
“And book me to New York.”
Another pause.
“Commercial, sir?”
Nico frowned.
“No.”
The question offended him more than it should have.
Commercial.
Tonight.
In his current condition.
He could think of few experiences less appealing than dragging himself through an airport terminal with several hundred strangers, queuing for security, sitting in a lounge full of men taking conference calls, then spending hours unable to smoke while somebody’s child kicked the back of his seat.
He had money specifically so certain problems could stop being problems.
“Private,” he said. “Whatever gets me there fastest. If Ibiza can’t get me direct tonight, reposition something. Palma, Barcelona, Madrid, I don’t care. Sort it out.”
“Of course, Mr. Arden.”
“Text me the departure time.”
“Will do.”
He hung up.
There.
Done.
A small army of people would now rearrange his life while he stood outside smoking.
Sometimes wealth was deeply fucking useful.
He finished the cigarette and crushed it beneath his shoe.
The whole decision had taken perhaps four minutes.
Four minutes ago he’d had Sofia grinding on his lap with her hand in his hair and Elena discussing joining them. Now someone was packing his suitcase while another person found him an aircraft capable of carrying his hungover carcass across the Atlantic.
The drugs were still humming pleasantly through him. He was still drunk. He was still painfully aware that somewhere nearby were two gorgeous women who had expected him naked within the hour.
And now he was going to an airport.
What a fucking downgrade.
His car pulled around the drive.
Nico watched it approach and rubbed a hand over his face.
Dad had better have a spectacular reason.
