Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 123873 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 619(@200wpm)___ 495(@250wpm)___ 413(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 123873 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 619(@200wpm)___ 495(@250wpm)___ 413(@300wpm)
And, sitting perched on Brendan’s sofa, Cillian thudded his forehead against the script in his hands again and again and again while Brendan paced the living area, glowering down at his own script.
“It’s something about the way you say this line,” Brendan muttered. “I can’t put my finger on it, but it’s lacking force.”
“…I’ve said it ninety different ways and you’re still not happy,” Cillian groaned, closing his eyes. “There’s nothing wrong with the way I’m saying it. It’s not even an important line. No one’s going to remember if I sounded a little quieter on it.”
“You will. And it should matter to you if you’re doing things right.”
His fingers clenched on the script. He tilted his head back, keeping his eyes closed. “Is it right, or is it just your way? I’m reading Richard the way I feel is right, Brendan. That’s right for me.” Fuck—why was he even here? Cillian threw his script down on the sofa and stood. “Nevermind. I’m done rehearsing for tonight. I’m tired. I’m going home.”
Brendan froze mid-stride, blinking at him. “Cillian?”
“…what. No. No, it’s nothing, I…” Cillian turned away, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Nevermind.”
What had he been expecting?
After they’d fucked, suddenly…
What?
Why had he even been looking forward to this all day? They weren’t dating for real. And Brendan was, right now, pointedly reminding him of the exact nature of their relationship, and why the fuck wasn’t Cillian satisfied with that?
Means to an end.
He trudged toward the entryway. But Brendan’s voice followed him, drawing closer. “No, not nevermind. You’re upset with me. Upset enough that you’re leaving. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing! I just…”
Stopping, Cillian clenched his fist, staring at the door, just standing there in the middle of the loft floor, feeling completely bereft.
“Look,” he said tightly. He couldn’t turn to look at Brendan or he might—he didn’t know. Get too messy, and then Brendan would put him in his place and remind him this was about convenience. “It’s been a shite day. Newcomb’s been up my ass all day, and every time I hear his voice I want to cave his face in with a two by four. I get that we’re not really a thing, but I was looking forward to relaxing a little tonight anyway. Only now you’re up my ass, too, and you won’t let me fucking do the part my own way because you’re caught up in your way of doing it.” He swallowed, his breaths coming rough, his fingers curling into knots. “You treat me as if I’m inferior to you all the time. And I fucking hate it.”
Now to get it over with.
A stern lecture, a bit of sarcasm, Captain Arsehole the Untouchable, never rattled by fucking anything.
Instead only silence. The faintest sound of Brendan’s bare feet on the laminated concrete.
And then Brendan stepped in front of Cillian, and simply offered him one hand.
Cillian stared at that hand. Then searched Brendan’s face, but there was nothing there but that same quiet regard, so fucking unreadable, unbothered.
But that hand said something else.
That hand said stay, and talk to me.
Cillian looked away sharply, but after a moment he slid his hand into Brendan’s. Warm fingers curled around his, and he let Brendan lead him on halting, shuffling steps back to the sofa. When Brendan sat down, Cillian did too, albeit a bit sulkily, keeping his eyes on his knees—but in his peripheral vision he could just barely catch motion, rhythm in tandem with the soft stroke of Brendan’s thumb over the side of his hand.
Brendan remained silent for several long moments, before starting, “You’re not inferior to me.” Where that impenetrable face said nothing…that deep voice murmured of chagrin. “You’re inexperienced. That’s all. I was, too. All I had was talent and a daydream, just like you—and you have a hell of a lot of talent.”
When Brendan squeezed his hand, Cillian looked up, watching him warily, his breaths hovering in the back of his throat. Brendan…wasn’t going to tell him to suck it up?
Deep brown eyes met his, before Brendan smiled ruefully. “You’re right. I got caught up in my way of doing things. And I forgot that everyone starts somewhere, and has to find their own way. A little guidance here and there doesn’t hurt, if you need it. But not just…taking over and trying to force you to follow the exact same path I did.” He exhaled roughly. “That I meant well doesn’t matter. What matters is I treated you poorly, and I made you feel inadequate.” Warm fingers tightened, reassuring. “I’m sorry. And I’m sorry for not noticing how upset you were today.”
“Oh,” Cillian said faintly.
…well, now he just felt silly.
“Oh…?”
“I…uh. I wasn’t expecting you to apologize.” He smiled weakly. “It’s not like we’re really boyfriends. You don’t…have to deal with my moods.”
“Friends listen to each other, too,” Brendan pointed out softly.