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)
Eventually, Azariah continued, “He inspired me when I really needed inspiration. On the Road was my bible when I finally grew the balls to leave the house I grew up in.”
Connelly wondered at the phrasing. Why didn’t he just say home?
“I would recite his words at night when it got so cold I couldn’t sleep for the shivering, huddled in a flimsy cardboard box with nothing but the week-old newspapers and my switchblade. Jack kept my mind straight. ‘The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars,’” Z quoted.
Even though Connelly was still stuck on the image of a young Azariah freezing in a box, the quote struck his chest. “That is pretty epic.” It explained so much of the explosiveness that was Azariah Hayes, the broodiness and the poetry of his spirit. No wonder he’d been drawn to Kerouac.
“Right?” The wistfulness in Azariah’s tone made Connelly long to see his face.
Would those dark eyes swirl like they had that afternoon? Would they be sparkling? He closed his eyes, trying to imagine.
“‘Nothing behind me, everything ahead of me, as is ever so on the road.’”
“A good motto for life,” Connelly said.
Azariah didn’t say anything and Connelly was content to let the moment last, thinking maybe he was lost in his own memories, maybe Azariah was recalling something he’d forgotten, something necessary. Maybe he was trying to understand why he’d shared so much with a man he barely knew.
In the quiet, the screech of the subway brakes signaled another stop. The swoosh of the doors was echoed by the rumble of tired voices until finally the distinct sound of raindrops hitting pavement carried through the phone.
“Fuck, it’s raining,” Azariah said. “I’m gonna run for it. Call you back.”
And the line was disconnected.
* * *
Z shook off the rain like a dog as soon as he entered his apartment. The cold droplets splattered to the ground but their loss didn’t do much to relieve the chill that had set in. A nice hot shower would though. He slipped off his heels and cursed, they were his favorite red pumps.
Stupid rain.
Stupid him for not checking the weather before leaving the club.
Stupid Landon for stealing the umbrella.
He ripped paper towels off the roll on the counter and dabbed at the patent leather, praying to the shoe gods that they wouldn’t be ruined. There was no way he could afford another pair. These were Shoes of Prey, peep-toe platforms, and they’d cost him $150 on sale at Nordstrom’s. He’d saved for months to afford them. Now, even if he found knock-offs he had higher priorities—like eating and keeping a roof over his head.
Fucking Landon.
When he was satisfied he’d removed all the water and grit from his beauties, he stuffed some paper towels inside and resigned himself to the tedious process of drying waterlogged designer shoes.
It was almost 4 a.m. Damn, he hadn’t realized it was so late. Maybe he should skip the shower and call Hot Fudge back just to say good-night. That’d be the merciful thing to do. Unlike Z, Connelly actually had to wake up early and needed his sleep.
He put his cell on the dresser and pulled his T-shirt off. It stank like The Vibe—sweat, cigarettes and desperation, the same as every night of his life since they’d started dancing there. Why did it bother him more tonight than it ever had before?
The conversations with Connelly had begun to shift his perception of reality. Thoughts of his mother were so much closer to the surface than they’d been in years. He could practically feel her hands running through his hair as she braided it, and smell her intoxicating perfume as if she were standing right behind him.
He hadn’t thought about his years on the streets in so long he’d forgotten there was a time between leaving his aunt and uncle’s house and the Prism Center, an LGBTQ shelter for homeless youth where he met the boys, his adopted family. A time when he’d been alone.
A shudder shook his body and Z pushed those thoughts aside.
A shower. Then he’d call the crazy detective back just to say good night. And then he’d sleep.
Proper rest would set things right and when he woke in the morning, everything would look exactly like it did yesterday.
He washed quickly and the hot spray did its job thawing him. When he slid into bed he was cozy in his pajama pants and a clean T-shirt. All the lights were off so the phone’s glow blinded him as he dialed and when he put it to his ear, he was plunged into darkness again.