Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 105080 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 525(@200wpm)___ 420(@250wpm)___ 350(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105080 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 525(@200wpm)___ 420(@250wpm)___ 350(@300wpm)
Another few minutes passed before I could reply. My hands were still trembling, and my heart was trying to punch through my chest. Fuck, I hated how weak I felt. Eventually, I typed: I said it then and I’ll say it again, I like my steak to be dead when I eat it. It’s me. I’m letting you know it’s me. Christ, why was I doing this? Why was I messaging with him rather than pretending he didn’t exist? Is this a hostage situation? My sunglasses?
LOL. No, but listen. I’d really like to get these glasses to you, but I want to make sure everything is legit. These are pricey, and I don’t want to send them to just anyone. Is there a way we can video chat or something? I swear I’m not a stalker or crazy fan.
My pulse skyrocketed, and I tossed the phone again.
My leg was bouncing up and down, electric pulses shooting through it. I couldn’t keep it still. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,” I whispered.
I wanted to block him. Forget he existed. Go on with my life where it felt safe, where no one would figure out my secret. I didn’t want to be the first gay, active, professional football player. I just wanted to play. Hell, I didn’t even know if I could ever let myself actually be gay. It was like this abstract piece of my identity, one I knew was there but couldn’t make out. I’d been hiding it, denying it to myself for so long, I didn’t know any other way.
But it was also…fuck, it was also killing me. I wanted someone to know, like maybe that would make it so it wasn’t so distorted inside me, so I wasn’t alone.
I shoved my phone under my pillow, as if that would change anything, as if it were some great hiding place from the pretend reporters skulking around my house.
My feet automatically carried me to my home gym. Some of Elias’s equipment was in the corner. We liked to work out together sometimes. I ignored it, went to the treadmill, and ran until sweat burned my eyes and my muscles felt like they were disintegrating, and then I ran some more. When my heart nearly burst, I cooled down and went back to my room. Showered. Changed. Sat on my bed. Grabbed my phone. Looked at the message.
Nothing had changed. It was still there, only now there was one more.
I didn’t mean to push. If you don’t want the sunglasses back, just don’t reply. No harm, no foul. You’ll never hear from me again (though I can’t imagine why anyone would want it that way). I was smiling. Goddamn it, this cocky, conceited man made me smile. I was around confident guys every day of my life. I played football, for fuck’s sake, but none of them made me smile the way he did. If you want, let me know how we can chat face-to-face so you can get your glasses back.
I sat there staring at my phone for an eternity. When Elias got home, I shoved it under my pillow again, went out to the living room for a few minutes, and told my brother I wasn’t feeling well. He’d been at Mom’s, he said, and I nodded, told him I loved him and was going to bed early, then locked myself in my room again.
I sat on my bed in the dark.
Looked at Weston’s page. He was from California.
At three in the morning, I turned on the bedside lamp, picked up my phone again, and clicked on the message. I finally replied.
I messaged only so I could make sure he didn’t think I was gay, I told myself.
It was a lie.
Chapter Six
Weston
I had never watched my social media accounts like I did that night. Hours had passed, and I didn’t expect Anson to message. I’d pushed too hard, something I’d been known to do, but Christ, I couldn’t stop thinking about him. Maybe I was off base and he was straight. Maybe he just wasn’t out publicly, but his friends and family knew. Hell, maybe he had a boyfriend. But if not, if he didn’t have anyone, I didn’t want Anson to think he was alone. I knew that pain all too well.
But I also didn’t feel comfortable being open with him until I could see his face. What if it was an agent or PR person who ran his account? Even if he had responded properly to the steak comment.
It was a few minutes after midnight when the message came through.
What’s your number?
I scrambled into an upright position from where I’d been leaning back in my desk chair at home. Jesus, this was quite possibly the stupidest thing I had ever done, and I’d done a whole lot of dumb shit. Dumb shit was usually fun, even though it got me into trouble, which I should be steering clear of. There wasn’t a chance in hell I was steering clear of Anson, though.