Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 91635 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 367(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91635 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 367(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Schuyler’s voice called after him, indignant and spluttering. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“When babysitting becomes part of your job description, Mr. Schuyler,” Vic tossed over his shoulder, “I’ll let you know. Do enjoy the rest of your evening.”
l
HE MADE IT HOME IN record time, then just stood in the middle of the apartment, staring around at the vast plains of obsidian flooring and just…
Wondering what to do with himself, when he had no idea how to occupy idle time.
It was just before seven; Amani wouldn’t be here for another hour. If he even showed. He might have changed his mind. Backed out of this entire sordidly thrilling little arrangement, blocked Vic’s number, and moved on with his life.
No. He’d at least have texted Vic a No thank you, have a nice life before he did that.
Right?
Vic paced a couple of agitated steps, then strode toward the bed platform, ripping at his suit and throwing it over the bathroom screen. He changed into jeans and a comfortable older button-down, white and worn to aged softness, then sank down on the edge of the bed and stared at the hardcover novel sitting on the nightstand, reading glasses folded on top of it. Brian Jacques, Mossflower, the original library jacketing he’d loved as a child. If not for the twice-weekly unobtrusive presence of the housekeeper, both would probably be filmed in dust.
He glanced at the clock, then propped his back against the headboard, stretched out his legs, propped his reading glasses on his nose, and cracked the book open to page one.
Vic couldn’t remember the last time he’d sat still to just read a book. He was always looking at revenue reports or foreign economic analyses or five-year market projections—over dinner, while he brushed his teeth, as he fell asleep. He’d woken up with one arm draped across his laptop more than once, his neck stiff from passing out half-upright. But as he flicked through pages, sinking into the once-familiar adventures of Martin the Warrior, he realized he missed this. The little flights of fancy, slipping into fiction that didn’t care about profit margins or investor reports when there were ancient swords and tyrannical rulers, talking warrior badgers and hotroot soup.
He smiled to himself as he turned past one of the engraving-style illustrations in the book. When he’d been a little boy, he’d made swords out of old planks and charged all about the family grounds, shouting For Mossflowerrrrrr! He’d upset the kitchen staff stealing aluminum foil to make armor, and had tried to make pies out of ground-up acorns and mud.
But his smile faded, as he paused with his fingertips resting under one line. He remembered his brother, kicking the sword out of his hand, crumpling his armor into silver balls, grinding the acorn pies under his heel until they were just sad little mud splats, his sneering laugh and the way he ruffled Vic’s hair just a little too hard and growled I can’t believe you read that kind of stuff. I guess you like talking mice ‘cause you’re a little rat.
Fuck. Why was he thinking about this right now? He’d packaged all of that up and sealed it away. Old baggage. Nothing he needed to dwell on toni—
The intercom near the elevator buzzed. “Mr. Newcomb?” the front desk receptionist said pleasantly. “Mr. Idrissi is on his way up.”
Vic’s heartbeat rocketed forward, and he dropped the book on the nightstand, tossed his glasses after them, and rolled to his feet. “Thank you,” he called, hoping it would pick up before the receiver cut out, as he raked his fingers through his hair and straightened his shirt and watched the elevator numbers spin through. He still hadn’t really decided, had he? He’d been turning it over and turning it over, but now Amani was here and Vic might say yes or he might say no or Amani might have changed his mind entirely, but the doors were opening and—
The faint lamplight of the apartment fell over the shimmer of silver against dark skin, like stars against night. Amani stepped forward gracefully, his jacket folded over his arm, his body swathed in a loose caftan that had been belted at the waist to turn it into an above-the-knee dress, his slender, shapely, smooth legs bare beneath its hem, the slits up the side flashing an enticing glimpse of naked thigh, skin so lustrous it seemed to shimmer with its own light. Amani himself seemed to shimmer, from the tiny chains of silver woven into his half-coifed hair to the smoky silver shadow glossing his lids, the faint ghost of glitter along slender forearms emerging from the caftan’s draping three-quarter sleeves, silver bangles encircling fragile wrists. Even the caftan was made of a misty, dark, smoky gray fabric, one translucent layer over a darker, more solid one, both subtly glimmering with silver shimmer when they caught the light, the loose neck with its black-edged embroidery falling off one curving shoulder.