Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 82543 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 413(@200wpm)___ 330(@250wpm)___ 275(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82543 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 413(@200wpm)___ 330(@250wpm)___ 275(@300wpm)
“Are you going to invite me in?”
Where my art is drying and can’t be broken again, or I’m fucked? Nope.
“Why don’t we go out for an early dinner?” I try to step past him, but he doesn’t let me, and then he pushes his way into my apartment anyway.
I hold my breath while I wait for him to do the math, but when I close the door and he turns on me, something tells me he’s already been given the answer.
“Really, Levingston?”
I cringe at my full name. It’s not that it’s a terrible name—okay, it’s a horrible name—but Levingston Vanderbilt is everything wrong with the Vanderbilt family. We carry on the family names to honor our ancestors who hoarded money to set us up for life where we have the luxury of choosing to work if we wanted to or live off the wealth we didn’t earn. My name represents more than pretension. It represents greed, and I hate it.
“Is this about the kiss?” I ask because I still don’t know how much my father knows, but I’m hoping it’s only the viral kiss.
“It’s about art school.”
Well, fuck. “Ah. That.” I rub the back of my neck. “How did you—”
Maybe, once upon a time, this is where Dad would throw down a newspaper in front of me to be dramatic. Shoving his phone at me doesn’t have the same effect.
On his screen, there’s an article about the kiss, and right there in black and white: NFL hopeful Peyton Miller kisses art student Levi Vanderbilt.
“They, uh, got my name fast.”
“It’s everywhere.” Dad grabs his phone back. “What happened to putting your head down while you’re out here? You said you were going to study law and live on the West Coast and not ruffle any feathers back home.”
Uh, no, that’s what he told me to do all because I like dick. “I’m allowed to be gay so long as no one in your inner circle in Chicago finds out about it, right?”
“We had a deal.”
“We did. But it was a shitty deal.”
He points a finger in my face. “Don’t use that language with me. We raised you better than that.”
I want to scream he didn’t raise me at all. Housekeepers and nannies did. But this is already bad enough. “You also raised me to be straight, and look how that turned out,” I say instead. Which, in hindsight, isn’t much better.
“You’re coming back to Chicago with me. Go and pack your things.” Dad crosses his arms. His word is always final.
But I’m not going to stand for it. Not this time. “No.”
“What did you just say?”
“I’m not going back to Chicago. I’m not going to law school. I’m not doing any of it.”
A confident smile crosses Dad’s lips. “Good luck paying for tuition when I cancel all your credit cards and stop paying for this apartment.”
I try not to let my worry show. I’m good for this year’s tuition. I paid it in full at the beginning of the semester. But this apartment … food, normal living expenses … I can’t cover it all if he cuts me off.
“You’ve got until the morning to change your mind and come back with me. I’ve chartered a jet, and we leave at 9:00 a.m. sharp.”
Because God forbid he fly commercial.
Dad lets himself out. I close the door behind him and slump against it.
I won’t be on that tarmac tomorrow, that’s for sure, but making it another two and a half years without my trust fund is going to be a struggle.
There’s no way I’d qualify for financial aid when I’m a Vanderbilt. I could look into student loans, but I’m not sure how they work.
Which really only leaves me with one option, and I don’t like my chances.
I’m going to have to get a job.
That’s not a daunting idea or anything. It’s not like I’ve had everything handed to me—sometimes literally on a silver platter—and I know how to do nothing for myself. Oh, wait. It’s exactly like that.
I go straight to my bag and pull out my laptop on the kitchen counter to search the FU forums for any jobs on campus. With my undergrad from Harvard being in political science, I might be able to get a TA position. Though, I know they tend to go to other students doing their postgrad programs. Plus, I don’t think it pays well.
I go on to Craigslist, and hey, I could go to some rando’s house who’s looking to lick another dude’s feet for an hour. That’s an easy couple of hundred bucks. It should be okay because the ad says, “Nothing gay.” That’s how you know they’re legit and not going to drug you and sell your organs.
The longer I search, the more I begin to think I’ll be on that tarmac tomorrow, leaving California and everything I’ve only begun to create here. My freedom is slipping away with every second that ticks by.