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)
“Out,” Vic said firmly. “Unlike you, some of us have work to do.”
Ash laughed, pushing to his feet and leaning across the desk to thump Vic’s shoulder. “I work. And I should get back to it, or I’ll be in more trouble than I actually want. But it’ll be okay, Vic. You stuck your foot in your mouth. We all do it. Just apologize.”
“If he’ll let me.”
“There is that.” Whistling under his breath, walking with a little swagger like that could hide the persistent limp Ash always tried to conceal—like Vic hadn’t seen him walking like he’d been impaled since they were sixteen—Ash sauntered toward the door. “Later, you uptight asshole.”
“Later, you feckless little shit.”
Ash’s only answer was his laughter, as he let himself out of Vic’s office. Vic eyed his phone a moment longer, then forced himself to set it down and swivel his chair back to his computer screen, focusing on the quarterly reports from his executive team. He had work to do, and couldn’t afford to be even a minute behind.
Why was he so hung up on this, anyway?
l
AMANI WAITED AN ENTIRE WEEK before calling Victor Newcomb, and only because he had no choice.
When that text had first come through from Ash Harrington, Amani had almost deleted it. He didn’t want to talk to someone who thought he could just dump his charity on Amani that way, all just to make himself feel good—and even if Ash had said he was the one reaching out because he didn’t want to cross boundaries and give out Amani’s number, it had still felt like Victor Newcomb was just letting his friend do his dirty work for him.
Amani was not someone to be dumped off on someone else as an obligation.
And he sure as hell wasn’t some rich man’s feel-good pet project.
But when the letter from the NYU finance department came in the mail…he knew what it would say. He knew before even opening it that it would tell him he’d used up the extent of the financial aid available to him at his age, that his scholarship was out of money, that they were taking his mother’s income into account, that there wasn’t even a penny left and he had to pay this amount by that date when the numbers added up to four figures, nearly five, that he just didn’t have. He was already almost halfway through the fall semester, his grades coming back straight As all across the board—and if he had to drop now and start over once he had the money, it would be a waste of effort, of money, of time, of…of everything.
He sank down on the lushly upholstered couch in his family’s living room and leaned forward, pressing his brow to his knees, the paper caught between and cool against his face. He could pick up more hours at the parlor, but that wouldn’t do anything when they were paid by the client, not by hours clocked in, and Amani already had a full client load for what time he could spare around school and homework. He might be able to squeeze in a different part-time job, maybe some kind of register or reception work where he could do homework in between customers, but…
“Amani?” His mother leaned out from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel, then frowned, settling next to him and speaking in low Dariji. “What’s wrong?”
Forcing himself to sit up, he folded the pages quickly so she couldn’t see them, and smiled. “Nothing, Mama. I think I just need a nap. It’s been a long day with midterms coming up.”
“You work too much.” She drew him in close and kissed his forehead. “I’m proud of you. I’m proud to have such an ambitious, talented son. But you need to take care of yourself. Tell me if there’s anything you need. You will, won’t you?”
“Of course.” He hugged her tight, then stood and gently disentangled. “Right now, though, I just need rest. I’ll be down to help make dinner later.”
She only smiled at him fondly, while he turned away, trudging up the stairs and feeling like a complete and utter traitor. He’d just lied to his mother, but what else could he do?
There was nothing she could do to help him. She was stretching herself thin just to pay the bills, and he gave as much as he could from his pay but it just wasn’t enough. If he told her about his tuition…
She’d just work herself down to the bone trying to find the money for him, and he couldn’t let her do that.
Upstairs in his room, he sank down on the edge of his bed and stared at the cello case propped against the wall under the window. He hadn’t touched it in years, save for to meticulously clean it twice a week, polishing the finish and rosining the bow and tightening the adjustment screws. But if he took it out of its case and stroked its strings, he knew it would hum and whisper and sigh and throb for him the way it always had, this living thing murmuring to his touch and responding to him so perfectly, so beautifully.