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)
He didn’t get physical with me until just before high school.
When I told him I was kicked off the flag football team that he signed me up for, the summer before freshman year, he shoved me in the short hallway of our house. I hit the wall, my shoulder knocking against a framed picture of our family smiling at Coney Island. It fell, shattering on the floor.
My gut reaction was to laugh. Even at fourteen, I saw the bitter irony of our happy family photo getting ruined because my father couldn’t handle his son disliking sports.
But when I couldn’t bite back my laughter, he doubled down and gave me bruises on my ribs that lasted until fall. My behavior had made him look bad, he said. Who gets kicked off a flag football team? There was something wrong with me.
When I was little he called it “tough love.” Then I quickly got old enough to know it was just his own misplaced rage.
I realize my thoughts have turned to the past again as Julian comes back out from the back, carrying freshly washed dishes and plopping the rack behind the bar.
I pick up pint glass after pint glass, using a clean cloth to wipe each until it’s spotless.
You’d approve, Scotch guy.
Neat and orderly.
I narrow my eyes, looking out at the city block outside, all stone and concrete.
“I need to fuck someone,” I tell Julian.
“TMI.”
“I’ll go crazy if I don’t. I can’t believe she was cheating on me.”
“So find someone to fuck at the party,” Julian says. “Maybe a guy who isn’t a hotel guest, so you can get your weird sudden gay boner out of your system?”
“I don’t have a gay boner. I just like screwing with Scotch guy. It’s fun.”
“All the more reason you need to fuck somebody else, then.”
I don’t like it when I don’t have someone around.
I like having a girl in my bed next to me, and I like having someone that I can run my hands along, who wants to be touched just as much as I do. I thrive on physical touch. I need it.
When I go without it, the shadows start to feel like they’re closing in on me.
That’s not a place I’m willing to go ever again.
CHAPTER 3
LOGAN
On my second day at the Bellwood hotel, I run into the bartender in the back alley.
I exit the back door expecting a barrage of paparazzi, but instead, I look over and see him.
He’s leaning on the exterior brick wall with one boot pressed up on it behind him. He must be on a break from work, because he’s wearing the uniform.
Two silver necklaces rest against his collarbone between the undone buttons on his black shirt, and the sleeves are rolled up along his forearms. The inked edge of one of his tattoos peeks out from one sleeve again, but I can’t figure out what it is.
His arms are crossed, and when my eyes find their way to his gaze, he’s already staring at me.
“Evening,” I tell him.
He gives me a little nod. “Does four-thirty count as the evening?”
His eyes are so green. Like vivid jewels, this close up. The heat of the afternoon sun is just starting to dissipate, but suddenly it feels too hot out here.
“If you’re asking if I’ve already had something to drink, the answer is yes,” I offer him, because I have nothing to hide. “Guilty as charged. But I don’t usually drink this early.”
“You were drinking in the bar at two yesterday.”
I lift an eyebrow at him. “I get the sense I’m being judged again. Is that a new part of your job description? Shame the customers for their horrible life choices?”
He uncrosses his arms, then reaches into his pocket and pulls out a thin metal flask, shaking it at me. I watch as he unscrews the cap and tips it back on his lips.
“That was my second shot of tequila tonight,” he tells me, “so if you think I’m shaming you for having that Scotch, then I guess we’re both bad.”
A protective instinct surges inside me.
He’s too young to be tossing back tequila that easily, right before his work shift, like he’s an old pro at it.
And is he even allowed to be drinking while working in that ritzy hotel bar?
But my cock has a mind of its own, and doesn’t have the urge to fix everything like my brain does.
My dick sees a red flag and says yes, please, where can I sign up?
“Cheers to that,” I tell him. “We’re both bad.”
He holds my gaze for a while longer, and I see something behind his eyes that I wish I could decipher.
I can’t even blame drunkenness, because I only had one glass, but I already want him.
He brings the flask to his lips and takes another shot without ceremony.