Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 83195 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83195 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Which I’m not entirely sure I disagree with.
I can’t stop thinking about my conversation with my brother about London. I never thought about going elsewhere, and I love living in New York, but it bugs me that he thinks I’m lonely. But maybe that’s just the big brother in him coming out.
I’ve been tossing and turning all night in my bed, unable to stop thinking about what I want in my future. I came here to go as far as possible in my career, but I became stagnant in my current position at some point. Now that I’m not working at the bar, I should start networking and auditioning elsewhere like I’d promised myself.
It took me two years to get this spot in the theater company, so how much longer would it take for me to obtain anything else?
Rapid banging on my door has me shooting up in bed. What the fuck? It’s two in the morning.
I’m scared for my fucking life until his voice comes through the door.
“Lena!” Alek calls my name.
I flop back to the bed, contemplating getting up.
“Lena, I know you can hear me.”
I roll my eyes. My brother mentioned the bad-boy types he had to shoo off, so I bet he’d be beside himself that I’m letting someone like Alek into my home. Then again, he did purchase every furnishing in it.
Pushing off my blankets, I climb out of bed and make my way to the door. When I open it, there is Alek with a busted eye and blood dripping from his hand.
“Oh my god, what happened?” I ask, pulling him inside. I notice the cut on his shoulder. It doesn’t look deep, but I’m not a fucking doctor. Blood is usually a bad thing.
Panic tightens its hold on me. He’s going to be okay, right?
I usher him onto one of my kitchen stools and quickly go through my shelves to find the first aid kit.
“Take off your shirt so I can see how bad it is. Why didn’t you go to the hospital, you idiot?” I lecture. Alek’s patched me up before, so I know for certain he’d be able to help himself or find someone far more capable than me. He doesn’t say anything and just watches me. “Does it hurt?”
“Yes.”
“Where?” The only injury I can see is his shoulder, but what if there’s a cut somewhere else? Or worse, a gunshot?
He leans in and kisses me, soft and tender. My thoughts short-circuit as I’m taken in by him. He pulls back, and I’m still stunned.
“Feels better now,” he says with a slow smirk. I want to hit his chest and talk some sense into him.
“This isn’t a joke, Aleksandr. You’re bleeding,” I scold, and I’m taken aback by how much my voice trembles.
“I wasn’t joking. But if I were… at least I’d die a happy man.”
I choke on a laugh. “That’s not funny.”
But he smiles like he’s been holding out just to see me laugh.
“Anyone can fix this for you Alek, why are you here?” I boldly ask.
“I thought if I was bleeding, surely, you’d let me in,” he confesses. His hand cups my cheek, and my breath falters. “I had to see you. You were the first person who came to mind, and I wound up here.”
I want to clutch his words to my heart. Hold them as truth. But I find myself fighting the tension instead. I shake my head and undo his shirt, pulling it off him. He has a cut on his upper arm, and blood is dribbling down to his gloves.
“Can I take them off?” I ask, nodding to the gloves. He looks at them and slowly nods. I reach for his gloves and take them off one by one, careful with each movement as I do so. “How did this happen?”
“Men came for Cinita at the hospital.” I freeze at his words. “I showed them the way out.” His gaze falls to my hands, which are now touching his bare one where I took the gloves off.
It’s scary how easily he can say things like this. Yet I’m mesmerized by his immaculate, beautiful hands.
“Does it hurt to touch others?” I whisper. “Is that why you wear these?” I put the glove to the side.
“No, I just don’t want to touch people. Why would I? Have you seen what people do? How easy it is for them to bleed?” he says with disgust, as if they’re filthy. I feel like it’s true but that he also uses it to cover up something far more wounded than his arm.
“It doesn’t look deep, but you need to see someone who can handle this, Alek. I’m not a doctor,” I say, still surprised that he came here in the first place.
“I wanted to see you,” he says sincerely. “Even on death’s door.”