Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 74487 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 372(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 248(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74487 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 372(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 248(@300wpm)
* * *
I wonder where Drew is, and whether he came for me tonight. Earlier, I put a note on the glass. On it, I wrote only ‘No.’ I figured that would be clear enough for him, yet cryptic enough that—if seen by someone else’s eyes—wouldn’t rat out our affair. I’m not ready to see Drew. Not ready to accept the fact that he may be involved in a plot to cause me harm.
* * *
I pull my t-shirt over my head and slide my pajama pants off, leaving them both in a pile on the pool deck, standing naked on the edge of the pool. I stare into the ripples of water, the lights constantly changing the color of the water, making the transition from cool to warm, from icy to red-hot. I dive when it is the color of blood, needing to see the color change while underwater, needing to feel transformed, from blood red to relaxation blue. When blue steals over the space, I close my eyes and start my laps.
* * *
I have memorized this pool, every inch of it, my mind and body knowing exactly how many strokes, how many kicks, how many breaths to take before I reach the edge. I swim, then tuck, roll, push, and return the opposite direction. Back.
Forth.
Back.
Forth.
Twenty laps. Thirty laps. Forty laps. I try for fifty, my legs giving out at lap forty-two, my chest aching, arms shaking, strokes slowing until I stop, in the middle of the pool, in the middle of the lap. I roll over and float on my back, keeping my eyes closed, my chest heaving as I fight to slow my gasps.
* * *
When I finally open my eyes, it is to an orchestra of stars—thousands of identical specks. Under them, on my back, I feel so small. Small and tired, my eyes heavy. I right my body, my feet standing, moving sluggishly through the thick water to the steps, my gait quickening as I leave the weight of the water and enter the heat of the night. I ignore my clothes and pull on the slider, shivering slightly when I step into the cool room, my weary arms pulling the door closed and locking it.
* * *
I wrap a towel around my body, and crawl into bed, pulling the comforter over my body and closing my eyes. And finally, without argument, my mind goes to sleep.
* * *
Something is wrong. The first sign came this morning, when Nathan called my room personally and asked me to come to the house. Asked. Physically said the words, ‘Will you come to the house?’ I don’t think the words ‘Will you’ have ever left that gorgeous mouth of his.
* * *
When I walked in, prepared for his hands, his mouth, his cock, Drew and Nathan stood in the kitchen, their eyes on me, watching me closely. An arrangement of flowers sat between them, roses and lilies spilling out of an arrangement that stood four feet high. I walked carefully toward them, my eyes flicking back and forth, trying to read the serious look on their faces.
* * *
“These are for you,” Nathan said stiffly, stepping to the side and gesturing to the flowers.
* * *
I looked at them in confusion, staying in place. “Are we expecting guests?”
* * *
Nathan flinched. “No. I ordered them for you. You like flowers, right?”
* * *
“Yes…” I stare at the flowers, trying to figure out what is going on. “Why?”
* * *
“Is it not big enough?” The tightness in Nathan’s voice causes me to turn, my eyes noting several details at once. His tight grip on the bar stool before him. The intense contact of his blue eyes. The way his polo hugs the muscles of his chest tightly, emphasizing the cut of his build.
* * *
I step forward, approaching the arrangement with trepidation.
* * *
“The flowers are fine. What is their purpose?”
* * *
“I can’t be nice?” he asks shortly.
* * *
I glance from him to Drew, and if the tension in the room was any thicker, we'd all suffocate. I try to laugh, the sound coming out wrong. “Did I do something wrong?” He knows about Drew. He must have found out about Drew.
* * *
He steps forward. “How unhappy are you?” He grips my wrists and pulls, turning me to face him. “Are you unhappy?”
* * *
I bristle, yanking my arm away and stepping toward the door. “Does it matter? I wasn’t aware that anyone cared about my personal happiness.”
* * *
“It matters if you are planning on killing yourself.”
* * *
His voice is so quiet, so deadly serious, that I pause in my exit, turning to face him. He stares at me, his face grim.
* * *
“Killing myself?” The thought is so absurd that, this time, a genuine laugh comes out. “Why would I do that? To save you both the trouble of dirtying your hands?”