Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 92043 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 460(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92043 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 460(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
No matter how many times his aunt and uncle had tried to force him to conform, to cut his hair and wear a yarmulke like his cousins, he’d never allowed it—often resorting to screaming fights to get his way. He still wasn’t sure if it had been instinctual to hold on to his identity or because he was grieving for his mother and that was one thing they’d had together.
He’d loved those moments with his mom. Watching her put on her makeup and eventually getting up the courage to ask her to do his. The first time she’d rouged his cheeks he’d felt like a princess and the way she’d smiled at him—it was like he was her entire life. Her everything.
Z put the tube of lipstick down and rubbed at his sternum and the empty ache that had suddenly appeared. He didn’t usually dwell on his past and he tried his best not to think of his mother. She was long dead. Her passing had changed his life, changed him. Hardened him.
Probably in a way that she would have hated to see.
But circumstances weren’t in their control. In the end, nothing had been, which was why he’d finally left the relative safety of that dreadful house to brave the streets on his own. Freedom.
Control. It was worth everything to Z and he’d do anything to hold on to it.
With a sigh, he shut down his memories, fluffed his hair and turned to his friends, shaking off the melancholy because he had a job to do.
“Do we have a plan for the second set?” He eyed Tam who was applying black mascara to his lashes.
“I was thinking ‘Bad Girls’ and ‘Girl Gone Wild.’”
“Shit, it’s been ages since we did that routine. I don’t know if I remember all the steps.” Lirim stood with his honey-colored hair fanned around his shoulders. For once, he wasn’t dressed in Technicolor but wore navy blue leggings and a harness similar to Z’s. “Could we do a more recent set?”
“I guess, sure. How about ‘Work Bitch’ and ‘Slut Like You’?”
“I can’t wear these heels for that choreo. There’s not enough support,” Z said, trying not to let his annoyance show. Hell, it hadn’t been that long since they’d run through “Girl Gone Wild.” Lirim’s forgetfulness was probably just another symptom of drug use. If it was so bad he was forgetting steps, it was already too late.
He didn’t have time to deal with his friends’ problems on top of his own. His stomach rumbled again and this time Ansel lifted an eyebrow.
“Someone forget to eat today?”
Z turned his back on his friend. “Busy fucking day. I’ll grab a bite later.”
“No wonder you’re so pissed. You’re hangry.”
Despite himself, Z’s lip tipped up. He shook his head, feeling the soft ends of his hair brush his lower back. “Nutcase.”
Ansel laughed and handed him a granola bar. “Shove this in your pie-hole before you explode.”
Z didn’t even retort. He just snatched the gift and scarfed it down.
“Okay, girls. We’re going to rock this shit and show that fucker what we’re really worth,” Ansel said, drawing them into their routine pre-show circle.
“Yes.” Tam nodded.
Z took Lirim’s outstretched hand and squeezed. “We are hot as hell tonight. There’s no way we won’t kill it.”
Lirim met his eyes and smiled. “Love you.”
“Love you too, bitch.”
With that, they took the stage to roaring applause.
In the dim light, as the first drum beat out its rhythm, Z focused on the crowd, searching for the one he’d single out and focus on that night. When his gaze zeroed in on a pair of familiar hazel eyes, his heart kicked against his ribs.
Even when the spotlights came on and blinded him, and the music blared so loud he heard nothing but the techno-throb, he danced for those eyes.
There was no one else in the room.
* * *
“Yo, dude,” Raoul shouted to be heard over the music. “I thought you’d drowned in a sea of naked bodies. What took you so long?”
“Sorry.” All thoughts of potential drug deals evaporated from Connelly’s mind at the first sight of Azariah onstage.
“Tell me you see what I see. That’s him, right?”
Connelly couldn’t speak so he nodded instead. Yes. Azariah, dressed in the tightest fucking shorts and the sexiest fucking heels, was onstage. Dancing.
No, not just dancing. Those boys—and they were definitely male because their outfits left nothing to the imagination—were working it. They were hypnotizing and erotic as all hell.
He couldn’t think about anything else right then. Processing the vision was taking all of his brain power.
As soon as his eyes had collided with Azariah’s, he’d gotten hard. Pushing through the crowd with drinks in both hands had been a challenge, especially when wandering palms kept brushing his throbbing junk accidentally—on purpose.
He set both glasses on the table and slid onto his stool, but his eyes were clinging to Azariah’s slender body as he echoed each pulse in the music with a hard-hitting thrust that zinged through Connelly’s blood like a ricocheting bullet.