Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 123873 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 619(@200wpm)___ 495(@250wpm)___ 413(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 123873 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 619(@200wpm)___ 495(@250wpm)___ 413(@300wpm)
Something itched down his spine, though—itched like terrible little biting things, a feeling of something touching him without touch. Watching. A gaze so heavy in intent it made itself a presence all its own, and Brendan knew before he looked up who he would find.
Oliver Newcomb lounged in the director’s chair, a stack full of printouts in his lap, one plucked up in his fingers—but he wasn’t reading it. He watched Brendan over the top of the page, his empty blue eyes cold and shining with something hard. Something ugly.
Brendan met the promise in those eyes head-on, holding Newcomb’s gaze without flinching, without moving at all, something purposeful and cold solidifying inside him.
Look long. Look hard, he thought. Remember my face. Because if you ever go near him again…
This face will be the last fucking thing you see.
l
FOR THE THIRD TIME, CILLIAN stood outside Brendan’s apartment door and fidgeted.
Because he thought Brendan just might be getting sick of him already.
He’d just…been so withdrawn lately. They hadn’t gone out recently, so when Cillian came over every night—when had it become a habit every night?—they ended up doing readings for a few hours before Brendan walked him down to Maxwell and the waiting car with a dutiful kiss at the door. That was all that needed to happen, just enough to keep up appearances, so why…
Why was it eating at Cillian?
They weren’t dating for real. Brendan didn’t owe him time, affection, nothing; he was already giving him enough, planning to give more, although the more Brendan’s eyes glazed over each night the more Cillian thought more might never happen when he’d just feel like he was pushing himself on Brendan to gratify his own needs. Every time Brendan so much as glanced at him in that dark, penetrating way Cillian twisted up all hot and hungry inside, while Brendan remained just as far out of reach as ever, even his kisses a matter of practicality.
It's just a means to an end, he’d said. Who I am as a man isn’t any of your business.
Every night they spent together, every kiss, every promise in parting lips and grasping hands that said soon…
It was just part of the strategy.
Maybe Cillian should go home tonight. Give Brendan a little space. Finally call his mother back before she burst a vessel.
Stop getting himself so worked up over nothing.
Except right on cue, the intercom crackled. “…I thought we weren’t doing this anymore. The door’s open.”
Cillian closed his eyes, rocked forward, and thudded his head against the door.
He thought he might actually be falling for Brendan Lau. For these little glimpses into his life, into his real self, that were so much more compelling than even his magnetic presence on screen; those little bits of humanity and heart underneath the smoldering, intensely sensual stares and arrogant devil-may-care attitude.
The problem was that humanity and heart were both attached to a complete arsehole.
An arsehole who’d never see Cillian as anything but a problem to be solved.
Stop. Getting. Attached.
When Cillian pushed the door open, Brendan was just setting dinner down on the coffee table, casual and relaxed in a tight gray V-necked t-shirt and jeans; the news played on mute on the TV taking up ridiculous amounts of space across from the couch.
Cillian toed out of his boots, watching Brendan curiously. “I thought you were pretty fussy about eating at the table.”
“Never describe me as fussy again.” Brendan dropped himself down onto the sofa and snagged the remote, pointing it at the TV and freezing the playback, then patted the sofa at his side. “I’m just tired tonight. Sit. Eat.”
Hesitantly, Cillian settled on the sofa, pulling his legs up to sit cross-legged and reaching for the plate Brendan had set out for him. Asparagus tips and marinated cube steak tonight, both grilled to perfection; Brendan made even cooking seem effortless, and it made Cillian realize:
Brendan was accustomed to taking care of himself. Solving problems in his life without hesitating and waffling; doing what needed to be done. He was settled in himself, wholly self-sufficient, while Cillian was still figuring out things most people sorted by the end of their teenage years, staring at the world outside of his home like a wide-eyed child with no idea what he was doing.
No wonder Brendan was getting sick of Cillian.
Cillian was getting sick of himself.
“No,” Brendan said into the silence between them. Without looking up from his plate, eating one-handed, Brendan thudded his script lightly against the side of his head. “Stop that. You look like someone just ate your puppy. I have a rule against silent moping. Tell me what’s wrong so if it’s me, I can fix it, and if it’s not then I can listen.”
Cillian bristled. “What if it’s private and I don’t want to talk to you about it?”
“That’s fine, but there’s a three strikes rule in this house, too.” Brendan dropped the battered, torn script between them and slouched back to prop his bare feet against the edge of the coffee table, then speared a bite of asparagus and pointed it at Cillian. “You only get three exceptions to the no moping rule.”