Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 92043 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 460(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92043 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 460(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
He crossed to the office door.
“Detective Reid.”
Hand on the knob, Connelly looked over his shoulder.
“You want to play hardball? Fine. I can respect a man who stands up for himself, but I can play that game too. I know you disobeyed my direct order about that fucking narcotics case. Hand it over now or you’re suspended.”
On his way out, Connelly slammed the door.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Z sat on the floor of his bedroom with every shoe he owned scattered around him like shrapnel—and he was the bomb. He couldn’t choose. They were all special. They all held memories. He picked up the first pair he’d ever bought, three-inch round-toed ankle boots with delicate laces that made them look old-fashioned. He held them to his chest and closed his eyes, remembering the day he and Ansel had tripped into the little vintage store with pockets full of change and loose bills they’d earned from panhandling. He’d seen the boots on the display and bargained the clerk down until he could afford them.
He loved those boots. He couldn’t leave them behind.
They were a symbol of his freedom. Of the control he’d once had over his life.
Seemed like decades ago now, as he struggled to pack his most important belongings. The ones he couldn’t live without.
Reality was rushing at him like a nuclear blast and it meant he’d have to let go of so many memories. He could only carry so much in his duffel. Whatever was left might be lost to him once he left the apartment. After last night, Mrs. Duncan would probably kick him out on his ass with the full force of the law behind her. Everything was slipping through his hands. It didn’t matter that his grip was so tight it hurt. It just swirled through his fist like smoke.
He set the boots aside and picked up his soft-gray knockoff Jimmy Choos. They had a shiny metal heel he’d always thought made them look tough, like weapons. He loved wearing them even though they had little support. They made his legs look amazing and that steel spike gave him a kind of superpower. Like, as long as he was wearing those shoes nothing could touch him.
God, he wished he could slide them on now.
He could really use a little of that strength right then. He put them in the keeper pile too, along with his Louboutins and purple suede knee-highs. It was too many and too few at the same time. His bag was already straining just from the few articles of clothing he’d tossed in, and he hadn’t even started on his makeup kit yet.
Standing, he crossed to his dresser where all his eye shadows and lipsticks were stacked and organized neatly. He found his largest makeup travel bag, the one he’d bought near Chelsea Market, which read Face Shit in big bold letters. He began the arduous task of deciding which pieces of his collection were necessary and which could be left behind. Every decision was like a tiny cut he carved into his own skin.
Z shrugged the duffel containing his most precious property over his shoulder and headed out the door for what might be the last time. He wasn’t planning on coming back. Even if Mrs. Duncan didn’t force him to leave today, there was no way he could pay what he owed so he’d be out eventually. Might as well get it over with.
It was already past noon. He’d catch the boys at the club. He’d lay it all out there and see if any of them would rescue him—no matter how badly the idea burned.
He hated himself for the position he was in. He hated Landon for what he’d done. He hated the world.
But it was just fuel for the fire that raged in his stomach. He was determined to overcome these obstacles just like he’d overcome all the others in his life. Just like he’d overcome the loss of his mother, his only champion. Just like he’d survived his years as a homeless gay teen. He hadn’t become a statistic. He would do whatever it took to make it through this blip too.
Whatever. It. Took.
The club was quiet when he arrived. He set his bags under one of the out-of-the-way tables and headed backstage, searching for the boys. He found Lirim at the dressing table, his head in his hands and his shoulders shaking.
“Hey, what’s wrong?”
Lirim’s head snapped up and he spun around, quickly wiping his eyes. Like he could hide the fact that he’d been crying. Z sat next to him and snatched his hands away from his face. Z’s own troubles vanished in the face of his friend’s sadness.
“Tell me.”
Lirim sniffed and blinked his red-shot eyes, forcing another cascade of tears to fall down his cheeks. “I’m in trouble.”
“Drug trouble?”
A small nod.