Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 67518 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 338(@200wpm)___ 270(@250wpm)___ 225(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67518 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 338(@200wpm)___ 270(@250wpm)___ 225(@300wpm)
If Fuyoung has assumed her deceased sister’s alias, fine by me. Against my better judgment, I tell a story too. “I’ve no idea what got into Suyoung. While we danced, we talked about Graham. Suyoung asked what types of things he likes. When I returned, Luxury, you’d left the lounge.”
“Really?” Her tone reeks of sarcasm.
“Yes.” I’m unwavering. Bollocks. What possessed Graham to turn into a turncoat. I gave that wanker the sign that Suyoung was an assassin the second she sat her scrawny arse down tonight.
I commence with the groveling, prepared to lay it on thick. “Little One, allow me to take you back to the hotel. I’ll draw you a warm bath.”
When I swoop down to pick her up, she pops my arm. Bloody bruises my ego.
“Let me tell you something, my Uncle Red’s favorite saying is ‘I was born at night, but not last night.’ ” She chuckles softly to herself. “I should probably tell you that good dick doesn’t make you walk on water.”
Fuck me.
Her tone vaults with emotion. “If this is how you see me, young and dumb, then this is where I leave you.”
Without waiting for a response, Luxury struts to the edge of the curb. There’s an unspoken belief that I’m the one who’s been released. I’ll allow it for the time being.
Silently I hail a taxi, and I give the driver more than enough cash to get her home safely.
“Until I see you again,” I tell Luxury as I hold the back door open.
Luxury snubs my hand while sliding inside. The yellow cab zips down the street and out of sight. Even though it is useless, I travel back toward the alley. It’s empty—no Siamese Twin.
Fuyoung’s adept at playing games. Lethal games. Nevertheless, the bloke they call my father christened me Victor for a reason.
15
LUXURY
Day Twelve
Victor was the first man to walk this earth who truly saw me.
Now, we all know there’s truth within that beautiful lie.
For a matter of five seconds, I felt like he saw me.
For all his life, I imagine he envisions himself a king walking this earth. As if the world were his pedestal. He dissected my insecurities. We shared a moment while I spoke of Momma. The manipulative bastard bent me to his will.
While Victor invades my thoughts, I bristle in the frigid early morning, dressed in hot pink yoga tights, an oversized t-shirt, and Nikes. I drowned myself in happy colors to kick down the murky mood overshadowing me. It doesn’t work, though, as I diagnose my own dysfunction.
Our first date was a disaster.
“The sex saved it, though,” I murmur.
Who am I kidding?
I burrowed into Victor’s lap, and he wormed his way into my heart. Well, Luxxie, you put your faith in the wrong man.
I told him every intimate detail of my life and received a lump of coal in return. But I’ll be damned if I didn’t treasure that lump of coal as if it would transform into diamonds.
Conversion takes a million years, Luxxie, I tell myself.
I glance around Brooklyn, the raw creativity of it all, and realize I passed by my favorite flowers. Every morning, a Sicilian prunes her flowers to perfection, right outside the window of her fire escape. I’ve made a habit of waving when she’s around, but I’ve never not stopped to reflect over her begonias.
“I hate Victor,” I gripe, wrapping my arms around myself, strolling on. At the next block, I focus on a mural in protest of brutality.
All of two seconds.
I condemn myself for feeling invisible in Victor’s arms while we strolled through the club. Women’s eyes would follow. They were all a swarm of moths to a single flame. An all-consuming flame, simmering without any regard for anybody else’s feelings.
I stop abruptly, almost walking into on-coming traffic. A dark SUV speeds off, offering a scathing beep. And I laugh at the reality of it all.
He said he was saving me from a bicyclist. I would rather . . .
My thought process twists back around, and I focus on last night. I considered the yellow-polka dot pajamas. But those PJs are reserved for heartbreak, and to be honest, Graham had the shortest end of the crummy ass stick.
My cellphone buzzes as I near the stretch of brownstones where I attend yoga, successfully yanking me from mental torture.
I fake a cheerful, “Hey!”
Aliyah huffs, “I have an emergency.”
“No, you’re not calling me for a shoulder to lean on, Aliyah,” I stop in my tracks. “If it’s not a five-fire alarm, you should be in yoga pants, saying you’re five minutes late to our sesh.”
“That’s today?”
“Yes, yoga today. Apparently, you’re not coming. But if you’re turning a new leaf, waking early, I expect you on time tomorrow to clean the shop.”
“Hey, hey, hey, I didn’t call to get reprimanded by my boss.”
“Um-hum, what’s the problem?”