“I can’t make it up, Richard.” I lean forward for my glass of scotch while he throws back his head and laughs. “I mean, when I saw my mom and the priest walking toward the bathroom… Christ.” Shaking my head, I lean back in the leather chair. My mentor stands and walks to his desk, retrieving a box of Cuban cigars. “Well, I’m happy for Jett.” He hands me one and steps over to open his French doors, which leads to his manicured backyard. Sunlight reflects off the pool, and the giant inflatable pink flamingo in it slowly glides to the edge.
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