Total pages in book: 37
Estimated words: 35281 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 176(@200wpm)___ 141(@250wpm)___ 118(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 35281 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 176(@200wpm)___ 141(@250wpm)___ 118(@300wpm)
I screenshot it and text it to Ren. That shit freaks me out. People will run with it, and then what? What the hell happens?
Me: Make this go away.
Ren: What?
Me: This gay bullshit!
Ren: You’re having a drink at a bar. There’s nothing gay about that. You okay?
Me: When I kick Devon’s ass, there’ll be something wrong with that!
Ren: Xavi, calm your shit. Who is Devon?
Me: The guy in the picture.
Ren: The bartender? There’s a million pictures every day of celebrities propped on a bar, Xavi. Why are you freaking out? Stop self-medicating on pills. It’s making you paranoid.
Whatever, man.
I storm out of the bathroom and down the hallway to the alley around the back of the building. As soon as I’m free of the suffocating confines of the club, I suck in gulps of air.
I’m going to beat Devon’s ass.
Punch his pretty boy face in.
Fuck, I’m a dick.
It’s not his fault.
I’m losing my goddamn mind.
My phone buzzes, and I swipe it open to find a text from Blaine. Blaine? When the hell did I get his number and put it in my phone?
Blaine: Ren says you’re having a meltdown.
What the fuck?
Me: Some guy just tried to make out with me in the bathroom. I’m going to kill him. Oops, probably better not to admit that to a damn cop.
Blaine: You’re not going to touch him.
Anger explodes inside me. I kick the dumpster, letting loose a roar of frustration.
Me: You’re not in charge of me!
Blaine: Stop being a brat and listen. You’re going to sit your ass down right now and wait for me.
Heat chases away the anger, licking at my balls like a horny bitch.
Me: Fuck you.
Blaine: Don’t say things you can’t handle.
I blink in shock.
Me: I’m not into men, asshole.
Blaine: And I’m not in the mood to deal with your shit, boy, but here we are.
Me: You’re really coming here? To do what? Handcuff me?
Blaine: For as much as you throw that in my face, I’m starting to think you want it.
Me: Fuck you.
Blaine: Keep it up, boy. Keep it the fuck up.
My cock jolts at his words. It’s certainly up all right.
Me: I don’t need you to come solve my problems.
Blaine: You sure as hell can’t handle them on your own. Address. Now.
God, he’s bossy as fuck. I want to fight him on this, but mostly, I want to get the hell out of here. If I go back in there, I’m going to punch Devon and ruin everyone’s night. I already ruined last night. I sure as hell don’t want to make a habit of this.
Defeated, I give him the name of the club and tell him I’m sitting in front of the dumpster. Like trash. How fucking appropriate. I lean against the metal and pull out my Zippo.
Flick. Burn.
Flick. Burn.
I open and close the lighter, staring at the flame. In the dark, alone, with the fucking Calvary on its way, it flames brighter and hotter. I pinch the orange flame with my thumb and finger, hissing at the sting. Snapping the lighter closed, I lick my wounded fingers.
I can’t believe I just told a cop where I’m at. I’m wasted, fucked up on E, and pissed as hell—and I gave him directions to come to me. If that’s not the definition of stupid, I don’t know what is. If Lex were here, he’d thump me in the head and call me a dumb shit.
Fuck.
Why Lex?
Why’d you have to leave me?
You were my best friend.
My chest aches. Would we have stayed best friends, or would it have evolved into more? If Lex would have kissed me, would I have let him?
I don’t like analyzing that shit. It’s in the past, and it doesn’t matter. He’s fucking dead. I can be gayer than a bucket of rainbows, but it still won’t raise him from the dead so I can lock lips with him.
Aching pain radiates inside me, killing the only parts left living. One day, I’m afraid it’ll consume me altogether. I don’t know what happens then. It’s fucking terrifying.
Needing a break from my inner turmoil, I flip open my Zippo again.
Flick. Burn.
The flame sizzles my arm hair as I hold it against my forearm. It hurts, but steals my focus. All my thoughts and emotions are erased as I harness the pain and get high from it. When I can’t take it anymore, I close the lighter and lay on the gravel. The world spins around me, so I close my eyes. My forearm throbs, and I let it beat through me like the cadence of Riley’s drums. In my head, I make up lyrics for it. Move around the words attached to feelings and string them up in a pattern. No longer chaos inside, but music. A song. A reason. My deep voice rumbles as I hum along the notes forming.