Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 112917 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 565(@200wpm)___ 452(@250wpm)___ 376(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 112917 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 565(@200wpm)___ 452(@250wpm)___ 376(@300wpm)
“The money was too good,” I suggested.
“Understandable. I met a guy in Colorado once who said the ski resorts pay for shit, and I can’t imagine there’s a market for professional biathletes.”
Landry was right. But that put us right back into speculating about Bear’s sexuality without any actual information, a situation I’d been in for a full year already. More thinking on this topic would only drive me nuts.
I sighed, and Landry frowned as he levered himself up onto his elbows in the bed.
“You’re upset tonight. Gonna tell me what’s up, baby cakes?”
I thought about the spot on my shoulder, the faded target now hidden under what could only be described as a logo for a solar-powered anger management program. I found I didn’t want to tell Landry about it. Though there wasn’t much non-Bear stuff I didn’t share with my brotherhood, I knew if I told Landry about the targets, he’d quickly tell the others. They’d drop their modeling contracts and their business consulting plans, their charity work and their horse breeding programs—all the things they loved—to come to my aid.
They’d worry.
And there was no need for it. Not when we didn’t know whether the stamps were really a threat. Not when I already had Bear keeping me safe.
“Stressed about going home,” I said, because that was also kind of true.
Landry’s perfect forehead creased in confusion. “You love going to Barlo and seeing your gran.”
I shrugged and turned to face him, punching the pillow under my head until it was more comfortable. “I do. But it’s different now. When I go back, everyone wants to see me, which is great. I love seeing everyone. But it’s also…”
Hard to put into words.
“High pressure?” he suggested. When I nodded, he peered at me. “You know you can say no to things, right? You don’t have to visit everyone’s store downtown just because they ask you to.”
“I know. But it brings in a ton of extra business when I do. Shop owners like to take photos and put them up and, like, post on social media and stuff. It makes a huge difference to their bottom line.”
Landry reached out and straightened a lock of my hair. He was so careful about his own look it sometimes drove him nuts that I didn’t give a shit about mine. “You’re not responsible for the whole world, Zane. I know it feels like that sometimes, but it’s okay to simply go home to visit Gran and hide away at her place. You’re allowed to have privacy, you know.”
“It’s not that big a deal. I’m just… tired. I’m sure I’ll rally in the morning.”
He tugged the strand of hair he’d straightened. “You could always take Gran somewhere else. Get away from all the expectations on you when you go back to Barlo.”
I laughed. “Like where? She hates to leave town, and she loves to show me off at home.”
Landry grinned. “She’s one proud granny. Her sweet baby boy is a Yale graduate and ‘a big fancy star like if Travis Tritt and Elvis Presley had a baby,’” he teased, using an exaggerated old-lady Southern accent.
“You suck at accents,” I said with a laugh. “You can’t even do a proper English one right, and your dad’s British. Which part of England are you from, again?”
He made a noncommittal noise. “You wouldn’t have heard of it.”
Landry didn’t talk much about his childhood in England, and I figured it was because he was embarrassed to have grown up poor. I understood this better than anyone—I didn’t much like talking about my early years, either.
Dev, Landry, and I had all gotten a free ride to Yale, but Dev at least had enjoyed a fairly middle-class stability. I, on the other hand, had grown up entirely dependent on government assistance. I’d been the kind of poor that meant special paperwork each year to get free lunch, help with internet access and computers so I could do my homework, and furtive trips to the “clothes closet” behind the teacher’s lounge at school to shop from my classmates’ old cast-offs.
Landry had shown up our first year wearing thrift-store clothes and using the same kind of laptop I’d gotten through the school store with my scholarship computer allowance. Like me, he hadn’t gone home over the breaks, which made sense given the cost of flying back to England. And though we never discussed it outright, I’d always had a soft spot for Landry because of this. I assumed it was one of the reasons he seemed to look out for me, too.
Landry flopped back on the bed again with his hands on his chest. “My point is, you need a place of your own. Not your house in Malibu,” he added before I could remind him of that very thing. “That’s nothing but a high-priced crash pad for when you’re recording in LA, and you know it.”