Preston walked the two blocks from the subway terminal at a brisk pace. Despite rushing, as he headed toward Martin Enterprises, his steel-grey eyes scanned the sidewalk; inadvertently searching...Preston's father, Truman Martin, always sternly suggested Pres use their driver to commute from the estate to the family company. However, taking the subway made Pres feel more connected and down-to-Earth. Actually, if it were up to Preston, he would be living in a loft in the South Loop area instead of the south wing of the Martin family's manor.
Having lived in his own Gold Coast condo six years ago, Preston was not a stranger to independence—at not least simulated "independence" at any rate...That was when the trouble started. Pres lived carefree using his family trust as a means of support. An acquaintance at one of the weekend parties Preston threw introduced him to a variety of "recreational" drugs. The next thing Pres knew; he was being rolled into the ER—followed by a stint in a treatment facility. After his release from the clinic, Preston's father insisted that Pres move back into the primary family home. That is as long as Preston wanted to retain access to his trust. Pres had always had a bit of a wild streak. Living back at home would allow Truman to keep a close watch on his son.
Not wanting to be an embarrassment to the family name—or tabloid fodder, Pres agreed. After all, Pres was the namesake of his beloved grandfather, the founder of Martin Enterprises.
Now 32 years old, Preston was a model son—aside from the occasional office assistant fuck. But he needed to release built-up tension once in a blue moon. Who could fault him for that? Still Truman's demands persisted, directing the company and Preston's life.
Making his way across the lobby, Pres selected the "Up" button on the elevator. Michael McLaughlin walked up to wait for the elevator beside Preston.
"Hey Mike, how is it going?"
