Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 105679 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 528(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105679 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 528(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
“Thanks again for the rental,” he says.
I leave the building and walk through the city as night falls, taking pictures on my phone as I go. Just like I did in Copenhagen, where I spent the summer with my parents and my brothers and sisters. Too bad it’s not raining in San Francisco. Nothing makes for a great black and white photo like a rain-soaked street. A puddle. A shop with a closed sign in the window.
But as I glance up at the night sky there’s not a raindrop in sight. Shame.
Then I realize I’m lamenting the weather as I haunt Fillmore Street, looking like a fucking tourist, snapping random photos of shops and shit to pass the time. As I turn the corner, I thumb through them. These slice-of-life shots are, objectively, excellent. Well, of course they are. I took them. I don’t believe in doing anything half-assed. Hockey, school, sex, handiwork, partying—a man should go all in or not fucking go at all.
But my photography hobby doesn’t excite me like it used to.
Maybe because you have a career you like, you asshole.
Oh good, now I’m talking to myself. Shaking my head, I put my phone away and circle all the way back to the building that houses the restaurant-slash-bar I bought a few months ago. The elevator whisks me up. I was here last night, but my father always said it’s a good idea to check on your investments. Plus, employees move a little faster, work a little harder when the boss is around.
I push open the door and find the place is bustling with energy. There’s a sense that things could happen here—deals, dates, hookups. With an open kitchen and a full bar, the vibe is modern and sleek, but the wall is lined with quirky caricatures of a big dog—lounging at a table, chatting with a canine bartender, bustling through an eatery holding plates on its paws.
After I greet the hostess, I weave through the crowds. Mere seconds later, I spot Yasmine, the manager, marching my way, determination in her eyes. She reaches me and arches a skeptical brow. “You don’t trust us,” she says, teasing.
That’s not it. “I just like to know what’s going on.”
“Or maybe you have nothing better to do,” she says pointedly, and ouch. She can’t know how true that feels lately.
But I won’t let on, and I flash my party boy smile. “Please. My nights are packed.”
The bartender catches her eye, and Yasmine takes off. She has plenty to do. I cruise through the tables, heading to the patio, parking my elbows on the edge of the balcony to gaze at the city.
Yasmine’s too damn right, and it pisses me off. I’m the team captain, the bar owner, and an amateur photographer. I can count friends across the world, and here in town, but I’m still lonely. Have been for the last several months. Ever since things…ended.
Not that anyone can tell.
But with hockey having started up once more and my friend in town again, I can throw myself into the game and ignore the feeling that something’s missing.
I know how to put on a good face. I’m the good-time guy, after all. And maybe with one of my former teammates, Ryker Samuels, just traded to our cross-town rivals a few days ago, I can see about a girl I’ve been curious about since the end of last season.
His sister.
Didn’t she move into his apartment when he moved out a year or so ago? A handful of hockey players bought in that building, and I’m pretty sure she took over her brother’s place. I saw her around a few times, but she was with some jackass who wore fedoras. Never liked that guy.
The thought of her gives me a plan for the rest of the night. I head to the place I call home, a mile away, and settle into the endless living room with its expansive view of the bay and pour myself a glass of scotch.
With the drink in hand, I conduct a little recon to see what she’s up to these days. Like whether she’s finally kicked that asshole to the curb.
4
I LIKE YOUR DICK
Ivy
The struggle is real.
Do I write about sustainable fashion for my first newsletter post? Or talk about DIY trends in a video for social? Mostly, though, what the hell do I call this brand-new venture?
I groan as I set my laptop on the table while Roxy finishes breakfast in the tiny kitchen. “I didn’t think I’d be flying solo so soon,” I say to my Chihuahua-Beagle mix, but she’s enrapt in her morning devotional to kibble.
Grabbing a hair tie from the coffee table, I loop my long hair into a messy bun as I talk to my dog’s butt. “Was I supposed to be doing my own newsletter thing on the side sooner? As insurance and all for the backstabbing?”