Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 109038 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 545(@200wpm)___ 436(@250wpm)___ 363(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109038 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 545(@200wpm)___ 436(@250wpm)___ 363(@300wpm)
Logan’s PR manager lets us know that the vast majority of posts about Logan today are centered on the positive aspects of masculine sexuality, and that the general public sees the photoshoot as tasteful and empowering.
I even check my email to see that there was at least one photography studio in the city who apparently didn’t search my name online last night, because they responded to me saying that I could come in for a meeting.
It’s nothing fancy, and probably not something that would pay a bunch. They do architectural photography for a historical society, and one of their longtime employees just retired, leaving an open spot.
But it’s something.
Before Logan and I leave for the red-eye flight to LA, I stop by the Bellwood lounge to see Julian.
I pass David on the way in, but I just give him a polite wave.
Julian is behind the bar refilling a beer tap when I sit down across from him.
“I’m sorry,” I tell him simply.
He looks up at me and his eyes look tired. “I’m sorry, too, Chase. I heard what happened and I tried to call you so many times.”
I frown. “It wasn’t you?”
“What?”
“You didn’t try to get me fired?”
“Of course I didn’t, Chase. It had to be someone else in the kitchen. I would never fucking do that to you.”
Relief floods me.
I cross back behind the bar even though I know I’m not allowed to.
I wrap my arms around my brother in a hug, and I can’t even remember the last time I hugged him.
“Logan and I made it official,” I tell him. “I’m not going to fucking lie to you about my life, and I’m not going to run and hide. You can hate the choices I make all you want, but he’s my boyfriend now, so you can’t hate him.”
“I don’t hate anyone. I just worry about you like you’re my fucking child, Chase, and I have to learn to let you live.”
I puff out a laugh. “Yeah. You do.”
He laughs too, sighing as we finally pull apart. “Doesn’t mean I’m not going to call you on your shit sometimes. Also, your photoshoot turned out incredible, by the way.”
I nod. “Damn right, it did.”
His eyes search my face. “Were you okay today? Really?”
“No. I wasn’t,” I say, telling him the complete truth. “I feel like I’m running on fumes right now, and my eyes still ache from crying, but… I’m going to be okay.”
He squeezes my shoulder. “Good.”
As I’m leaving, I turn back to say one last thing. “Also, don’t freak when I don’t come home tonight. I’m going to LA with Logan for the weekend. My boyfriend.”
Jules gives me a salute. “Lucky fuck.”
“I really am lucky, aren’t I?”
Earlier today, I couldn’t have imagined saying that. But the world has a funny way of surprising you.
And Logan Stone has a way of making anything better when he’s around.
LA is nothing like I thought it would be. The palm trees look like I expected, but Logan’s house is so much better than what I’d pictured.
It’s not a modern glass museum on the corner of a hill.
It’s a classic Spanish-style gorgeous home, and while it does have an amazing view of the city below, it almost feels like a tropical retreat in his backyard. There’s a small pool, a hot tub, and so many beautiful, lush green plants that surround the edges of the yard.
When I meet his parents, I see exactly why Logan turned out the way he did.
We eat at the formal dining table and they’re as polite as an English king and queen would be, asking me questions about what it was like growing up in the suburbs outside New York, and showing interest in my artwork, too.
When I show them one I did of a wolf painted in acid yellow with pink highlights, Logan’s mother lets out a hoot, then a polite laugh.
“Well, that’s an angry looking fellow!” she says, and I can’t help but smile.
“Here. Maybe you’ll like this one.”
I show her a painting I did of a Luna moth, where I kept the colors slightly more muted, though there are plenty of neon touches throughout its wings.
“Well, that’s lovely,” she says. “It’s just like the one on your arm.”
“Let me show you something, Chase,” Logan’s father says, taking out his phone. After a few moments, he finally locates what he was looking for, showing me. “Found this just the other day, deep in a file cabinet. Logan did this when he was… oh, ten? Eleven?”
He shows me a picture of a drawing. It’s clearly done by a kid, and the style is rudimentary, but the end result is so charming that it doesn’t matter.
Logan drew two people on a green hill, looking out at a sunset.
“Eleven years old, and he was already looking for love,” his mom says.