Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 97417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 487(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 487(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
“No,” Lirim said. It was the first word he’d uttered all day. “We’re worried about you, Ansel.”
“Jesus, I’m fine. Why don’t you all start worrying about your own damn selves. I don’t need mothering now any more than I did six years ago.”
“Right, so you’re going to tell us that you’re not doing your damnedest to sabotage your life with booze? That you didn’t fuck Mr. Tall, Dark, and Scrumptious the other night? And that it didn’t make you want something you think you can’t have?”
Z was making far too much sense. His words hit a nerve Ansel hadn’t realized was exposed and he flinched.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”
“What the fuck do you know about it?”
“Not a damn thing. But I wonder, are you so fucked up that being happy scares you so much you go running into the bottle? You keep pushing all the good stuff away, babe, and you’ll end up broken and alone. You’ve been there once already, do you really want to go back?”
Something ugly slithered inside his chest at Z’s words and the truth behind them. No, Ansel didn’t want to go back to where he’d been six years ago. But what was he supposed to do? Start believing in the impossible? Shit, that was Ange’s territory, not his.
He was a realist.
But then he remembered how Ray had saved him, how he’d found the Prism Center, how he’d met the Boyz. All those good things, they were real. They happened. They weren’t just dreams Ansel had conjured up to keep himself warm at night. Maybe. Just maybe, Fitch could be real too.
What was the harm in trying? It wasn’t like he had that much to lose.
* * *
Ansel had always considered himself overconfident to the point of cocky. He strutted around in his high heels and bright colors like he was a fucking pop diva. He didn’t give a fuck what people said to him or what they thought. He’d learned from a goddamn ex-Navy SEAL how to defend himself. He wasn’t afraid anymore. At least, he hadn’t thought he was. But maybe his real fears had only scurried deeper into the depths, like roaches avoiding the light.
He’d avoided Fitch’s calls and ignored the messages, but each time his phone beeped with the little reminder, his determination weakened. Who knew what might happen if he answered the phone? Seeing Fitch didn’t mean he had to get his heart broken. Hell, he was already broken. His family had tossed him aside because he hadn’t fit their mold of the perfect son. Nothing would ever hurt more than that, and yet he’d survived. You might even say he’d thrived. It had been a struggle at first, but he’d managed to find people who cared.
Not everyone looked at him and judged him worthless.
So late Thursday night, buzzing because one of his regulars had paid for shots, and wet from the shower, Ansel sat on his bed with his knees tucked under his chin, and finally listened to Fitch’s messages.
His wet hair dripped down his naked back, but it wasn’t the chill that gave him goose bumps. It was the sound of Fitch’s voice, defeated, hopeless. It killed him that he’d made Fitch feel like that. Somehow, in the past few days, guilt and regret had become the two emotions he was most familiar with. After years of thinking only about himself, it was odd to be semi-responsible for someone else’s happiness.
Odd, and also a little thrilling.
Ange’s words echoed in his mind and combined with the new, unusual warmth of having a relationship with his brother. It made believing in the impossible suddenly not so farfetched. If his brother could come back into his life so smoothly, maybe happily-ever-after wasn’t such a long shot.
Ansel closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and called Fitch.
“Hey, Angel.” Apparently Fitch’s voice still had the power to set him on fire, though it was gruffer than he remembered.
“Sorry, did I wake you?”
A grunt and some muffled movement. “It’s okay, nice to finally hear your voice.”
Ansel swallowed past the regret lodged in his throat.
“So, um, how have you been?”
Fitch hummed. “Haven’t been struck by lightning.”
“Were you expecting to be?” Ansel lowered his legs and leaned his head against the wall at his back.
“Not really, but sitting through church service next to my parents on Sunday was more bracing than I’d anticipated.”
Ansel smiled in the darkness, but didn’t reply.
“What about you?”
“Also not struck by lightning.”
Fitch’s chuckle was deep and comforting. Some of the tension in Ansel’s gut released.
“What’s new in the exciting life of Ansel fucking Becke?”
Ansel sighed. “Do you want the long answer or the short version?”
“I’ve got nothing else to do tonight but talk to you.”
It wasn’t really an answer, but he figured Fitch wanted to hear whatever he wanted to tell him.
“Remember how you asked about my brother the other day?”