Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 80774 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 404(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80774 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 404(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
I knew he was beautiful the first time I saw him, felt my heart race and my stomach flip, but when I started looking at him the way a guy shouldn’t look at his brother’s boyfriend—or hell, even his best friend—it gave me another reason to hate him and myself.
“I’m going to smoke a cigarette. Do you want one?” I ask, pulling the pack from my pocket and lighting one.
“I don’t smoke.”
“Of course you don’t.”
He sighs, turns around, and rubs a hand over his face in frustration. “What are you doing here?”
“Considering it’s my gallery, I figure that should be a question I ask you.”
He frowns, his brows pulling together in a familiar way. “Yours? Your parents didn’t tell me—”
“Probably because they don’t know.” I take a drag of the cigarette, then sit on the ground, leaning against the wall. Ask me if I’m shocked he talks to them more than I do. Mom tries, though. She tries more than Dad.
“This place is yours? I don’t understand.”
“You’re smarter than that. You know what I’m saying. I moved here. I bought a gallery. Surprise. We’re neighbors.”
He closes his eyes like I’ve exhausted him already, then does the last thing I expect—walks over and sits beside me. “Abbie would want to know.”
“You’re not Ellis. I don’t need you to lecture me on how to be a better son.” My brother did it all the time, did it until the day he died. Other than not being good at football, Ellis was perfect—the perfect son, man, friend, brother, boyfriend. He tried to mold me into that too, tried to instruct me and change me. Why can’t you listen to Dad? Can’t you just try to play? Why do you talk back? Sneak out? Maybe you’d like football if you gave it a chance. If I had your talent…
But he hadn’t, much to his and my father’s chagrin. If I could have given it to him, I would have.
“I’m not trying to be your brother.”
Well, that’s probably good, as I spent my teen years both hating and wanting him. I really am a terrible brother.
“You can see the stars tonight,” I say instead of responding, then ball up my suit jacket and lie down, using it as a pillow. “Sometimes I play connect the dots.” I smoke with one hand, using the other to point to the sky and draw pictures. “You can create anything with stars.” I’m almost afraid to look at Hunter, afraid to see his confusion or annoyance at me being me. Drawing pictures in the sky is a Lucas thing—not an Ellis or Hunter thing. It’s one of those weird things about me they don’t get. “I’ll make a football for you,” I tease, drawing one.
“I don’t only care about football,” he snaps.
“I didn’t say you did.”
“It’s what you were insinuating.”
“We might not be brothers, but we fight like it.” I stop drawing, unsure why I’m up here with him at all. Why I didn’t walk away, because we both know that spending time with me is the last thing he wants. “Cigarettes and stars. The only thing missing to make this a perfect night is an orgasm,” I say, wanting to get a reaction.
“Jesus, Lucas.”
I risk looking at him. “What? You can’t pretend to be so innocent and pure anymore. I’ve seen the stories.”
They’ve surprised me. Not the women—I knew Hunter’s bisexual—but that he’s been caught out with them, that there are stories about his hookups and wild nights out in a way that never happened when he was with Ellis. That surprised me. Everything about him and Ellis had always been so wholesome. Two boys who love football become best friends, then fall into a relationship. High school sweethearts who go to college together, then move to LA together when one is drafted to play professional football. Everything about them had been perfect. A fairy tale.
“Fuck off, Lucas. I don’t even know why I try with you.”
Hunter changes position to stand, making guilt tackle me…guilt, and a part of me that doesn’t want him to go because Hunter has always fascinated me. I’ve always struggled to keep my eyes off my brother’s boyfriend, which just proves the kind of person I am. “I’m a dick,” I say. We both know it’s true.
Hunter sighs and sits down again. There’s a weariness to him he didn’t use to carry, a sadness surrounding him that doesn’t feel right. You don’t see it in interviews, don’t see it online or when he’s playing, but I’m drowning in it now. Hunter is supposed to be the boy next door—perfectly neat brown hair, blue eyes, a flawless smile and teeth after braces when he was younger. He looks like the guy who would play a superhero everyone loves.
“You’re right. I’m not the man I was with him. He would expect better of me.”