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)
His mouth was dry like he’d swallowed cotton balls, and his eyes itched like he’d slept in makeup even though he wasn’t wearing any. All he wanted to do was pass out on his couch and forget the past week, but he was buzzing on too much alcohol and sanctimonious resentment. How he’d managed to leave the club without getting into a fight was a wonder. Getting through the whole day without tearing someone—anyone—a new asshole had been a complete miracle. If it hadn’t been for Jae distracting him and not being a total bastard, Z might have done more than just get drunk.
He climbed the stairs one precarious step at a time and with each progression his anger and humiliation bubbled. Even after hours of banter with a stranger, he felt abandoned. Again.
Which was ridiculous. This was nothing like when his mother had died.
He knew the addition of a few new members didn’t mean he’d been discarded. Throughout the day Ansel, Tam and Lirim had told him multiple times that the change was just temporary. But no matter how hard they tried to comfort him, he’d seen Hop and Jae dance. He knew how good they were.
It would be stupid to let them go once Z was healed.
Tonight Hop had worked the crowd right beside the others and they’d loved him. Just as they’d love Jae when he made his debut. It was impossible to deny the spark of new energy he’d seen from Tam during the rehearsal. Especially when he’d been talking to Jae about the song he’d danced to, a K-Pop number with a strong bassline.
New blood. New music. New moves. New dancers.
Maybe that’s what the group ultimately needed in order to thrive. Maybe they’d been stuck in a slump and this was the universe telling them to switch things up.
By the time he reached his door he was gripping the crutches so hard his knuckles whitened. Sweat had started to drip down his neck from the effort it took to climb. Then he tried to unlock the door and the key didn’t fit. He squinted and made another attempt, but it was no use.
The lock was new.
His fucking landlady had changed the fucking locks while he was out. He threw his crutches to the ground. They clattered loudly and echoed in the empty hall, but he didn’t care.
“Fuck!” He didn’t need this. He really didn’t need this.
He turned away from his door and hobbled to the stairs. He didn’t care about his injured ankle and he was drunk enough that the pain was minimal. The fact that it was way past midnight and most of the other residents were fast asleep was also of no concern. They had locked him out of his apartment. Not only was that completely illegal, it was also fucking rude. She couldn’t have waited one more fucking day? Not that he’d have any more money than he did right now, but at least the sun would be out and he’d have options. Options which might have kept him from sleeping on a park bench. What was he supposed to do now? He didn’t have anywhere to go. No one to call. All his belongings—and all his cash—were now locked behind his apartment door.
He made it back down the stairs much faster than he’d climbed them because he wasn’t careful about the noise. The solid thump-thump of his stumbling steps and his grumbling curses sounded like thunder in the silent hall. He reached Mrs. Duncan’s door and pounded his fist against it.
“Give me the fucking key, Mrs. Duncan,” he hollered through the wood.
Silence greeted him so he raised his voice further. “Give me the fucking key. I’m not playing.”
Still nothing. But Z wasn’t discouraged. He kept at it for what must have been ten minutes.
His hand had started throbbing, so he switched to the other, until that ached too. Then he went to kicking his good toe against the frame instead.
“You had no right to change the locks on me.” His throat hurt from shouting. “At least let me get my stuff.”
“You better leave, Mr. Hayes. I’ve called the cops.”
Z scoffed. “Good! You can’t keep me out of the apartment.” On a good day, he’d never talk to her like that, but he was still mostly drunk and flying on a wave of exhaustion and outrage. He had no patience left.
A big hand gripped his shoulder and spun him away from the door roughly. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” asked Mrs. Duncan’s son, Carl. A solid punch landed across Z’s jaw.
Z didn’t answer, he swung. His fist sank into the man’s soft stomach. Carl grunted and doubled over. Behind Z, the door opened a crack.
“Carl? Are you okay?”
“Give me the key.” Z didn’t look at his landlady now. As soon as Carl had shown up he knew it wasn’t her who’d changed the locks. It was exactly the kind of idiotic thing her son would do.