Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 97417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 487(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 487(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
He didn’t deserve happiness because he was abnormal.
He was damaged.
* * *
Ansel didn’t know how long he sat on the cold concrete step of the subway entrance. His mother had long ago hung up with a final heart-shattering warning, but he hadn’t moved. He still held on to the railing, his fingernails digging into his palms. Someone had stolen his phone, and though a part of him had wanted to chase the bastard down, he was still too lost and unfocused to do anything but shout.
The sun set and the sounds around him slowly changed from rush hour traffic to early evening gridlock and then into the semi-quiet of night. It wasn’t until his legs grew numb that he finally made himself move. In a daze, he rode the subway to his usual stop and drifted to the shop on the corner. It was late when he finally bought a bottle of tequila and a pack of Camels. Before he’d even left the shop he’d already downed a third of the liquor. He was peeling off the plastic of the cigarettes when a guy in a baseball cap brushed passed him.
“Hey, beautiful, need help with that?”
He blinked at the lighter the guy held up and pushed the cigarette between his lips. The first lungful choked the crap out of him and he coughed.
The stranger chuckled and sidled up next to him. Ansel didn’t pay attention as he leaned against the brick wall and lifted the tequila to his lips.
Numb. Numb. Numb.
He didn’t want to feel. He needed his bandage, the oblivion. He needed to forget, again. He closed his eyes and fought another sob when he remembered pieces of his mother’s lecture. No more Lars, just as well. He was really no good for his brother anyway. He was no good for anyone. It’d be better if he just fucking accepted that and finally gave up. As he took another mouthful of burning alcohol, his friends’ faces floated into his mind, but he shut them down too. No more memories, no more hope, just the endless darkness that booze provided.
He didn’t deserve them. He didn’t deserve happiness.
“Whoa, girl. Take it easy.”
He looked at Baseball Cap sideways and took another drink. He wasn’t in the mood to teach this fucker about gender stereotypes. Christ, he’d just gotten his soul crushed by his own fucking mother because he liked what he liked. He could not deal with more bullshit.
“Okay, you’re on a mission, I guess. That’s cool.”
Couldn’t the asshole see he was in pain? Did he have to paint Fuck Off on his forehead? His mascara had, without a doubt, run down his cheeks from all the crying, and half of his lipstick was on the palm of his hand. He was a disaster.
Almost half the bottle was gone now. He should probably start heading toward his apartment if he wanted a chance at passing out in his own bed.
He took one step away from the wall and wobbled.
Slowly then, because he wasn’t drunk enough yet to subject his feet to the disgusting crud on the pavement. He took another crooked step.
“You need some help?” Baseball Cap asked with a steadying hold at the small of his back.
The guy was tall. Not quite as tall as Ansel, but tall enough so it’d be easy for them to kiss, even wearing his platform heels. He tilted his head to study the stranger’s face, not that he’d remember it. His goal was to get so plastered he’d forget his own name and everything else that happened today. The stranger smiled and edged closer. Yep, he knew that look—the hey-baby-let’s-fuck look was real familiar.
For a beat he debated shoving the stranger away. Fitch’s warm brown eyes floated in his mind and with that image a flood of memories came at him. Fitch’s indulgent smile, the way he seemed to know what Ansel needed even before Ansel did, the strength in his body, the strength of his heart. God, Fitch had such a fucking good heart. He didn’t need Ansel’s issues on top of everything else, on top of worrying about his dad. No, Fitch was way too fucking good for him. Best to murder the hope of a happy ending with a six-foot bullet to the groin.
He licked his lips and leaned into the guy. An invitation. A promise. Yeah, he knew how to play this game.
It was so easy he could do it while chugging tequila and sucking down a cigarette.
He didn’t even need to talk, which was good, because he didn’t think he could form words anymore. He waved his hand in the general direction of his apartment.
Baseball Cap smiled. “Well, all right, beautiful. Let’s go.”
The walk was slow, but Ansel was too busy swallowing his pain with equal amounts of booze and nicotine to notice. He listened with half an ear as the guy told him about touring the city, seeing all the sights, and getting a kick out of everything. But really, who the fuck cared? Not him. He was focused on polishing off the bottle in his hand so he could toss it. His hands were starting to get too heavy to keep the grip. He’d flicked his first smoke about half a mile back and was now sucking on his second.