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)
And I watched his arrival from up here.
The resulting flood of camera flashes looked like a little lightning storm from twenty stories high. The paparazzi that used to follow him around has practically tripled in size now, it seems. Yard Line was very popular a year ago, but now it’s a complete global smash hit.
Being with Logan feels like it was an eternity ago.
But it also feels so fresh it’s like an open wound.
I’m still standing up here ten minutes after the paparazzi flashes have stopped.
I don’t know how it’s possible to feel numb and wired at the same time, but my body is managing it right now.
I don’t know what to feel. Like I just took a still-wet canvas and mixed all the paints together into a murky mess, and I can’t tell what’s what inside me.
You’re really there.
Just down there, twenty stories away.
Maybe even closer, if you’re already upstairs.
The thought gives me goosebumps.
The easy part, after Logan left, was confirming that I’m not straight.
The difficult part was testing the theory. Or not being able to. I hit up gay bars and clubs and I appreciated the way other men looked. They certainly seemed into me, too, and my ego was disgustingly inflated.
I met a young redheaded guy who said I was so hot that he wanted me to put a collar on him and keep him as a pet. On another night, I met a wealthy Portuguese businessman who offered to fly me out to Europe for a week of no-strings sex, which I politely declined. I even saw a guy who used to be a Bellwood bar regular, who asked me if I wanted to take a ride on his handlebar mustache.
All of it was flattering.
And I’m sure I could have even enjoyed hooking up with some of those men, but every time I got close, I went cold and backed out.
Not because they were men.
Because they weren’t him.
My brother told me I’d get over Logan within a few weeks. Well, it’s been over 52 weeks now, and I still have dreams about his cock, or his tight hole I never fucked, or the way his back muscles flexed when I was behind him, watching him come.
Or his eyes. Those are the worst dreams.
I got a taste of him and it reared up a stubborn feeling inside me, and now I’m apparently the greediest bisexual on planet fucking Earth because I only want to fuck a man I can’t have.
And I don’t want to feel anything about that.
I pace back and forth on the rooftop. I pull out my phone, shooting off a text to my brother.
Chase
Any customers come in while I’m on my break?
Julian
A few.
Regulars, or…?
You’re making it way too obvious that you’re asking about Logan Stone.
Rude.
But I’m right.
He’s as famous as the fucking Beatles now anyway. I might be a distant memory for him.
And the answer is no, by the way. He hasn’t come in.
The low buzz of the big neon sign across the street fills the air. The orangey glow saturates everything around me like someone took a fat watercolor brush and dabbed it onto this rooftop. I look back down toward the city, wishing I had a canvas or my sketchpad.
That’s what that night was.
What that entire three weeks was… until it wasn’t.
Neon-drenched. Alive with color.
I’ve painted this cityscape view many times since then, with color exploding through the sky. I’ve even photographed it with my film camera, etching this exact viewpoint into my brain.
I step all the way up to the edge again.
The wind blows hard as I peer over, looking at the sheer drop. My legs feel like jelly looking that far down.
It isn’t really as fun when Logan’s not here to act all worried about me.
“Fuck this,” I say into the air, stepping away from the edge fast as I make a decision.
He needs to know that I’ve gotten better.
I don’t haunt this city like I used to, drinking on the job and having no goddamn clue about my future. When Logan found me, I was still hollow, only just learning how to heal, living my life minute to minute and turning to alcohol because it made it so much easier to pretend I didn’t care.
But I do care.
And I’m not afraid to anymore.
It would be easy to say that quitting drinking helped me with my art, but it’s the opposite.
My art has been saving me.
The more I got back into painting, the less I drank, until one day I woke up and realized it had been months since I’d had a tequila.
Over the last year, I’ve channeled all of my misplaced energy into my paintings. My father used to tell me “art ain’t worth shit,” but fuck him. Years ago, one of my exes told me I was talentless, but fuck her, too.