Total pages in book: 171
Estimated words: 170885 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 854(@200wpm)___ 684(@250wpm)___ 570(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 170885 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 854(@200wpm)___ 684(@250wpm)___ 570(@300wpm)
But what I hate the most is what I said because I was so livid.
I’ve never seen Nikolai as angry as when he punched me in the face and then tackled me to the ground.
He looked down at me as if I were a pest he wished to squash beneath his shoe. The switch from flirtation, skin licking to downright violence gave me whiplash.
Then I realized maybe he thought I said he was disgusting for being gay.
I really didn’t mean that.
People being straight, gay, or anything else has never mattered to me. Hell, Eli, Creigh, and Remi’s granddads are the oldest gay people I know, and I’ve always found their bickering with Grandpa Jonathan amusing.
I have nothing against gay people. But the truth remains, I’m straight. I can only be straight.
The reason I said Nikolai was disgusting was because he kept touching me when I repeatedly told him not to.
It was because I felt strange, on fire, and completely out of my skin.
It was because he can effortlessly rip at my control and tear it to shreds as if it was never there in the first place.
He clearly got the hint this time, so…silver linings, I guess.
I glare at the screen, then turn it black, throw my phone in my pocket, and pick up my palette and brush, then whip a few more strokes with red. I don’t even like red. I’m a fan of cool colors, blue and green.
But right now, I can’t help stroking along the lines of yellow with red, giving birth to some orange. Hot, fiery.
Wild.
So fucking wild and everything I’m not.
Art has always been my damnation and salvation. I have no clue what the hell I’d be without sketching and brushing strokes on a blank canvas, but at the same time, the extent it can go to scares the shit out of me.
When I was two, I was doodling small stars anywhere I could reach. The floor, with Mum’s makeup on the walls. On Landon’s forehead, chest, and back while we giggled and hid away from our parents.
Then those stars morphed into sketches of our family, small dogs, and the cutest cats. Now, my artistic style has settled on landscapes. Flowers. Trees. Seas. Gardens.
Fauna.
This is far from a landscape, my brain whispers, getting freaked the fuck out, but I can’t stop.
If I do, I’ll have no other way to cope. I’ll really have to resort to purging that ink from my veins.
Again.
Are you sure seeing the end result of this is safer than purging?
My hand suspends in midair.
The door opens and I startle, my heart lunging in my chest.
Fuck. I forgot to lock the door.
Lan strolls in, completely unruffled, comfortable in his own skin. Despite him being a bastard with not a humane bone in his body, a distant sense of comfort washes over me whenever we’re in the same room.
The sad truth is that seeing Lan’s face is the only way I can see my face looking peaceful.
We’re identical twins, but Lan is a bit more muscular than me. His eyes are meaner, too, and he wears this permanent provoking smirk.
Despite having the same physical image, we’re worlds apart. He’s clinically diagnosed with narcissistic and antisocial personality disorder.
I’m diagnosed with being fucked up.
He’s the charming twin, the one who everyone’s attention flocks toward, the superstar of the King family, and the genius of contemporary art.
He’s everything lumped into one supreme existence.
All my life, I’ve watched him soar and fly toward the sky while I’ve remained stuck underground.
I mentally shake my head. I’m not doing this today.
“What are you doing here?” I ask cautiously. It’s not a secret that Lan and I don’t have the greatest relationship. That happens when the person I always cared about labeled me as ‘Spare Parts’ in his contacts.
He meant it as a joke and I reciprocated it, but it cut something inside me. The illusion that we share a bond, maybe.
“I can’t come to see my brother?” He slides a hand into his pocket and I take note of his black trousers that are folded at the ankles. While we both dress elegantly, we have different styles. I doubt he has any khaki trousers or polo shirts in his wardrobe.
“What do you really want, Lan?”
“You don’t believe I’m here to check on you?” He grins. “I’m hurt, little bro.”
“I’m not your little bro.”
“I happen to be fifteen whole minutes older than you. Deal with it.” He ruffles my hair as if we’re back to being kids, and I knock his hand off.
I don’t want to think of our once-close relationship when I destroyed it with my own hands.
Once upon a time, we slept in the same bed and he told me everything, including details I didn’t care to hear.
Then everything collapsed. My mind included.
“Seriously, what are you doing here?” I ask with more exasperation than I usually show.