Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 87904 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 440(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87904 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 440(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
Now Colin’s trying to put his arms around me and I’m reaching for the bottle of vodka nearby, opening it and bringing it straight to my lips.
How many times can your boyfriend cheat on you before you realize he doesn’t really love you at all? Tonight was Colin’s strike three, but I know he’s probably fucked more guys that I never knew about.
Vodka dribbles down my chin as I lower the bottle. I don’t know how much I’ve chugged. Many shots’ worth, at least.
“I saw you with him,” I mutter, and Colin just laughs at me.
“You’re blacked out again, Hardy,” he says. I’m not, but I hope to be soon. Colin never calls me my real name. I’m always just “Hardy.” My dad never called me Liam, either. “Your mom picked a pansy-ass name for a pansy-ass kid,” Dad liked to say. He only ever called me L.
“I saw you getting blown. By a blonde guy. At Inferno,” I tell Colin clearly before taking another swig from the bottle, the liquor burning in my throat.
Colin just blinks. “Oh. It was nothing, babe. He owed me from the past. Besides, you get fucked by other porn stars all the time.”
That’s always Colin’s excuse. I’m a porn star, so I can’t want a real relationship. I’m a porn star, so it’s okay for him to cheat. Colin used to be someone I related to, someone who had grown up with a family just as fucked up as mine.
We were both broken, searching for anything that would make us feel whole again.
But he didn’t really care about me at all. I’d heard him call the guy in the bathroom “babe,” too.
“Give me some of that,” he says, grabbing the bottle from me and swigging. Most of our fights are fueled by alcohol.
“I’m leaving you,” I say. My voice trembles a little.
“Sure you are, babe,” he says, taking the bottle with him out to the backyard and getting on the inflatable pool raft. This is my house, but he does whatever he wants here.
I try to unclench my jaw and realize that my teeth are chattering like they used to when my parents were having one of the big fights—the ones where my mom would throw dishes and my dad would make threats. The fights got worse when Dad found out I was gay. He blamed Mom for it. She said it wasn’t her fault that their son was fucked up in the head.
I push the thoughts of my childhood out of my head. I stumble up the stairs into the bedroom, packing my backpack as quickly as I can. I’m already sloppy.
Bandit’s sleeping in the corner, cozy on the big new dog bed I got for him last week.
“We’ve gotta go, B,” I tell him. He yawns, licking his front paw lazily.
I have to dial Katie four times before she picks up, her voice groggy and thick with sleep.
“Liam, it’s four in the morning—”
“I need help,” I say.
Katie has no idea I’m drowning.
“Liam…”
“I… I need you to come pick me and Bandit up. I’m leaving Colin. I have to leave.” I can hear the panic rising in my voice and my cheeks grow hot with embarrassment, even now. I know this is all my fault, and I’m ashamed even asking for help.
“I’ll be there in ten,” Katie says kindly, more alert now. She hangs up.
Katie’s been telling me to leave him for months. Maybe she’s proud of me, I think. I can feel a lump forming in the back of my throat.
I look out the window of the second-floor room and see Colin down there on the pool raft, singing to himself off-key. He pulls a bag out of his pocket, taking another bump of coke off his pinky finger. He’s careless, and the bag falls into the pool, white powder blooming out beside him. He starts shouting.
“Fuck! Fuck, that’s three hundred fucking dollars!” I know he’s going to somehow find a way to blame me for this.
I sway in place, my world going dim at the edges. The room is spinning now, and I back away from the window.
I get on my knees and Bandit curls up next to me, gently licking the back of my hand. His paws are so big. He’s still a six-month old puppy. Animals weren’t allowed in our house growing up. Too dirty. Too unpredictable. Kind of like me. But I’d wanted a Husky since I was eight years old, and finally, now, I have one. And I love him.
The last thing I remember before I black out is the gentle, almost sympathetic whine that Bandit lets out when my head hits the floor.
“S’okay, boy. It’s gonna be okay,” I mutter as the world goes dark.
The dog had a sock hanging out of his mouth as I walked into my tiny little Amberfield house, shutting the front door behind me.