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)
He was listening to the radio and one of the songs they’d played at the club the other night came on. Immediately his mind conjured the image of Azariah in his costume—those heels, that black halter, the way sweat had gathered between his pecs. Not to mention the sound of his voice while he masturbated on the phone. Before Connelly knew what he was doing, he’d picked up his phone and dialed.
It rang five times and abruptly ended. Not even voice mail that time.
Well, fuck.
He did his best to ignore the disappointment sinking in his gut. He should be used to being dumped, but this time felt different than all the rest. This time it mattered.
He put his phone on the passenger’s seat and concentrated on driving the rest of the way to his sister’s place.
He couldn’t let it end this way. If for no other reason than to set his mind at ease, he’d talk to Azariah tonight, even if he had to corner him at his apartment again.
When he got off the exit he’d managed to calm down enough that his Boy Scout mask was back in place. But then he pulled into Janie’s drive and everything erupted.
Her ex’s beat-up truck was parked at an odd angle behind Janie’s little station wagon, and John was pounding on his sister’s front door.
Connelly jumped out of his car and slammed the door. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
John spun at the sound of his voice. “Back off.” His words were slurred and his head wobbled.
“You’re drunk.” Connelly didn’t bother disguising his hatred.
“Bitch, let me in!” John shouted through the wood and rattled the handle. By then Connelly had vaulted up the four steps that led to Janie’s front porch and grabbed John’s shirt, spinning him away from the door.
“You want to leave quietly or do you want me to call this in?” Connelly asked. He shouldn’t even give the bastard a choice. This was a clear violation of John’s probation and would be proof of his instability when Janie went to court, but he didn’t have time for the drama today. He’d avoid the scene if he could help it.
“Don’t touch me, you fuckin’ queer.” John pushed and moved to swing a fist toward Connelly’s face.
It was easy enough to lean back so John only swiped at air.
“If that’s your choice.” Connelly punched him in the gut. As John doubled over moaning, Connelly called out, “Janie, call the cops.”
* * *
Get your ass to the club or I’ll have Fitch come and drag you there.
Z scowled at Ansel’s text and rolled over on the bed. He’d been locked in his apartment avoiding all civilization for as long as possible. He ignored Connelly’s calls. He blocked out the landlady’s knocking. He didn’t even move when a fire alarm went off.
He couldn’t face his problems. So he’d faded into a gloomy cave of his own making where reality couldn’t touch him, but it was an illusion. Every time a potential new roommate didn’t work out, every time he passed on an apartment because the rent was too high or the neighborhood wasn’t gay-friendly enough, the real world invaded.
His phone buzzed with another text. I’m not bluffing.
Goddamn it. Why couldn’t Ansel leave him to wallow in his misery? He groaned and sat up. His room was a fucking mess. He’d thrown the crutches against the wall in a fit of frustration and knocked the lamp off his dresser. Both were still where they’d landed and Z couldn’t work up enough energy to care.
Fuck off, he texted back. It was the first contact he’d made since Sunday morning.
I’m calling Fitch.
Z groaned and was tempted to throw his phone like he had the crutches.
Fine. You win.
Ansel sent a smiley emoticon along with his next message. See you in an hour.
The threat was clear. If he wasn’t at the club by then, Fitch would be kicking down his door. With a grunt, he stood and hobbled over to where he’d tossed his pants. His ankle ached as he pulled them on. He’d taken the small brace off to sleep but it was still wrapped with layers of bandage that kept it stable and protected. He dug through the pile on the floor until he found his favorite T-shirt—a modern representation of cat eyeliner and the words War Paint scrawled underneath.
When he was dressed, he picked up the crutches and maneuvered through the mess to his nightstand. His pain pills were there and a stale glass of water. He took them with a grimace.
He wouldn’t bother with anything else, though he did at least brush his hair. He felt like shit and a part of him want to look like shit too. A sort of screw-you to his friend for forcing him out into daylight when all he wanted to do was hide. He grabbed his bag and his keys and left the apartment. Mrs. Duncan tried calling after him about the rent, but he pretended he couldn’t hear her with his earbuds. He caught the bus and arrived at The Vibe before Ansel had a chance to text him again.