Total pages in book: 148
Estimated words: 147734 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 739(@200wpm)___ 591(@250wpm)___ 492(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 147734 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 739(@200wpm)___ 591(@250wpm)___ 492(@300wpm)
Then when is the time?
Tonight. I’ll have to make him say he’ll move. While I’m fine with being in a secret relationship, I can’t take these weekend rendezvous any longer.
Even Cy noticed I’m grumpiest on Sunday evenings. And yes, Cy knows about where I disappear to every weekend. He stopped nagging, though, seeming kind of busy lately, and that has everything to do with the “ghost” from his past that he’s been looking everywhere for.
And if I’m correct, that ghost is a nerdy-looking man in his early thirties who I caught Cy stalking in the local library. When I asked him about it, Cy just smiled maniacally, which is bad news for the dude. Great news for me, though, because Cy has little time to nag me, and he seems to have lost hope that I’ll give up on Vaughn. I could be ninety and knocking on Satan’s door and would probably not stop pursuing him.
Despite everything in my past, Vaughn is the only person who makes me like myself when I’m with him. He accepts me exactly as I am, and somehow, I make him laugh. The perpetual grump who once glared at me for sport now smiles and laughs more than anyone else around me.
I did that is all I can think when he bursts out laughing about some random thing I say or do.
I like to think he’s himself in my presence as well. Only difference is that he’ll always be more guarded around me.
When I arrive at the house’s front door, I’m humming while removing my helmet. The afternoon air blows through my hair as I check my phone since this is around the time he’ll text me that he’s taking off.
I grin when I find the text, but it soon drops when I read it.
Mishka
Can’t make it this weekend. I have to attend the opening of a private art gallery with my parents. Sorry for the late notice.
Me
Are you serious right now? You already only come around on weekends, and now you can’t make it?
I come around EVERY weekend, Yulian. One won’t kill you. Besides, all the traveling is depleting my energy.
Will I be seeing you once a month now?
I didn’t say that. I’m just pointing out that I’m flying too much.
You wouldn’t have to fly too much if you’d just switched schools, but you won’t do that, because, even now, you’re still putting fucking distance between us.
It’s just this weekend, okay?
Not okay. Come over, or I’ll do something you won’t like. Like calling my contacts who have the time for me.
Threaten me with other people again, and I’m ending this arrangement. Are we clear? Don’t be childish.
Yulian…don’t piss me off. Answer me.
You might have gotten the idea that I’ll let you do whatever the fuck you want because I like you and want you and have an incurable crush on you, but I’m not a toy you can discard whenever you wish.
When the fuck did I say you were a toy? Are you picking a fight on purpose?
Yulian…don’t shut me out like this. It’s just a weekend. I promise. I’ll make it up to you, okay, baby?
It’s not just about a weekend.
It never was.
Since Vaughn wasn’t able to make it, I caught a plane. A private jet—Cy’s, to be more specific—and that’s how I found myself in New York City.
More accurately, at the gallery opening Vaughn talked about.
Listen, I don’t know how Cy got the details or even procured me an invitation, but he’s a bro’s bro and a genius, which is all that matters.
It’s how he got me an invitation to that restaurant opening where I saw Vaughn again, too. Cy is just a man of many talents. And hackers. Pretty sure he dabbles in that stuff occasionally as well. As he likes to say—technological information is power.
So to the opening I went, I guess.
Not sure who the hell decided canvases with random brush vomit deserve worship, but here I am, glass in hand, surrounded by silent nodders pretending this shit makes sense.
The gallery smells like old money and synthetic roses. The walls are white enough to bleach your soul, and the lighting’s so dramatic, it resembles one of Dad’s torture chambers. A red canvas splattered with what looks like mud gets a slow hum of appreciation from some silver-haired man beside me.
My gaze is searching the crowd, and that’s when I see him. While this isn’t my world and never will be, it’s definitely his.
Vaughn.
He stands before a massive painting I hadn’t even noticed, as if the oxygen itself bends toward him. One hand in his pocket, his jaw set in quiet disdain, his tux sculpted perfectly over his frame. His hair is neat, his eyes locked on the canvas with the same razor focus he gives people when deciding where they belong on his chessboard.