Too Late to Call Me Home

After I was kicked out of the house, my sister, Nicole Thompson, and I met at a nightclub five years later.

She was the VIP client who spent millions to celebrate Michael West's, her godbrother's, birthday, while I was the male host in the hype team.

We didn't talk to each other the whole time until she saw me chugging two bottles of whiskey for a 500 dollar tip.

When she saw my pallid face, she questioned coldly and unhappily, "You'd rather do this disgusting job than come home and apologize? Jack, you really are unbelievable!"

I just smiled indifferently and held out my hand to her.

"500 bucks. Cash or Venmo?"

Times had moved on, and I no longer wished to bring up past grudges.

However, the 500 dollars I had just earned was just enough for me to pay the balance due for my cremation urn.

Drinking for Money

The VIP room was completely silent. Everyone was looking at me with different expressions.

Eventually, someone among the crowd burst out laughing first.

Nicole, sitting on the sofa, instantly turned grim with embarrassment when she heard the laughter.

After all, 500 dollars barely even covered the breakfast for people of her status.

Yet, I had subserviently chugged two bottles of whiskey in a row for it.

"Nicole has been waiting for you to come home. Yet, you're here doing this kind of job? Aren't you disgusted?" Michael mocked me.

When I heard him, I glanced at him and retorted, "What's so disgusting about making money through drinking? It's not like I'm whoring myself out."

He sneered dismissively, "You're so short of money, huh? Then, you can drink two more bottles. I'll add another 500 to your tip."

As soon as he finished speaking, the onlookers began to shout boisterously.

"Drink up! Since Michael added 500, I'll do the same!"

"Me too! I'll add 1,000!"

I didn't hesitate to reach out and grab another bottle of whiskey.

Suddenly, the door to the VIP room swung open. The manager, who had learned of the commotion, entered with an obsequious look.

"Ms. Thompson, did he do something wrong?" he asked Nicole in a fawning manner after pushing me aside. "Please don't be angry. He's dumb, so if—"

"Are you going to drink for him?" Nicole interrupted him coldly, her eyes narrowing ominously.

The manager broke out in a cold sweat. He didn't want to stand up for me, but he was also afraid that he would be in trouble if I drank myself to death. Therefore, he had no choice but to force a smile and reason with her. "No normal person could drink this much alcohol."

"Get lost if you're not going to drink!"

Nicole frowned in frustration, took out 100,000 in cash from her bag, and threw it at the manager.

"Jack can't leave tonight. I'll put your nightclub out of business if you keep getting in my way!"

The manager hurriedly stuffed the money into his pocket, his face beaming with joy. I could tell right then that he could barely give a whit about me. He simply thanked Nicole and strode away.

Once again, all eyes turned to me.

"What's wrong? You don't want the money anymore?" Nicole sneered.

I walked over expressionlessly, grabbed a bottle of whiskey, and downed it in one gulp.

However, my stomach was already twisting in knots after having already downed two bottles. Frankly, the liquid felt like knives sliding down my gullet.

So, I drank this bottle of whiskey very slowly, which drew a lot of ridicule.

Nicole's face turned increasingly stormy.

As I finished one bottle and staggered to get another, she abruptly grabbed my wrist.

"Are you out of your mind, Jack?"

"I want money."

I pulled my hand away, grabbed the whiskey, and poured it into my mouth.

Actually, I had thought it through. Since the lighting in the VIP room was dim, I would pretend I couldn't hold the bottle properly while I was drinking and spill some. No one would notice anyway.

Unfortunately, someone slapped me hard across the face just as I took a sip.

I was stunned by the blow, and the bottle in my hand fell to the ground and shattered.

Nicole snarled, "Are you really going to debase yourself like this for money? Stop drinking! I won't give you a single penny even if you drink yourself to your death!"

As the alcohol took effect, I started seeing psychedelic patterns.

That voice, buried deep in my heart for five years, seemed to echo in my ears suddenly.

'I can't believe you actually sold Mom's belongings for money! Haven't I provided you with everything you need? Why don't you just sell yourself? Get out of here! You're not my brother anymore!'