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 I don’t.
Because I’m in fucking control.
Always.
“I know, Mum,” I whisper back.
“Listen. I know it’s too soon to talk about this, but I think Grace might be open to take you next year.”
I frown. Grace, Mum’s agent, is not only world-renowned but also a legend in the UK’s art council and even holds the position of a Lady in the House of Lords.
Despite her reputation, she has only signed three world-famous artists, Mum being one of them.
“Why would she want to sign me?” I ask carefully.
“Because you’re a marvelous talent. I’m so happy you’re finally getting your chance. I know how it must’ve felt to see your brother get all the opportunities this whole time, but you’re as talented as he is, Bran.”
You have to say that because you’re our mum and can’t be caught showing favoritism.
“Okay,” I say simply.
“I love you so, so much, Bran. My life wouldn’t have been the same without you.”
Her words flood my mouth with nausea, but I swallow and smile. As if she can see me. “I love you, too, Mum.”
I hang up before she says anything else that will turn my stomach and send me rolling down the nearest cliff.
My hand tightens around the phone until I think it’ll break into irreparable pieces. A part of me is disappointed that it doesn’t and remains intact. Like my head.
My gaze slides from the phone to the canvas. I started to have a vision, made a few strokes, then had to physically force my hand down.
It was doing things my brain doesn’t approve of and never will. I should be working on a landscape painting, but I couldn’t bring myself to touch that.
Instead, I was thinking of eyes. I don’t fucking do eyes. Eyes send my head up a fucking wall.
I stopped painting people and animals for that reason. I succeeded for years, but now, here I am again.
My thoughts were running rampant, which is why I was thankful when I got Mum’s call. But then not so much when I couldn’t stop myself from staring at the canvas even when I was talking to her.
Things got worse when she could tell I wasn’t myself—not that I ever am—and she started probing and worrying.
I hate it when I’m a constant cause of concern for her.
It’s the worst.
My gaze falls back on my phone and my heart thuds when a new text pops in. But it sinks down so hard afterward when I see Clara’s name.
Fuck.
Clara
BABE! I got your gift! Love the LV bag, it’s sooo pretty. I already posted it on IG and tagged you! You’re so precious, handsome. Love you and miss youuu x Can I come to hang out in your room tonight? I bought the sexiest lingerie *winking emoji* *aubergine emoji* *splashes of water emoji*
My fingers are on autopilot as I type.
Me
I can’t. I promised the guys I’d spend time with them. I’ll make it up to you another time.
Clara
*pouting emoji* Ok. Love you, babe.
*heart emoji*
My gaze remains fixated on the conversation, specifically on the last word she sent.
Babe.
I didn’t care for it until someone else said it. Or a more intimate version of it.
Now, I fucking hate it.
My finger is unsteady as I exit my texts with Clara and scroll down for some time until I find the name that I hate more than baby.
I click on the conversation that I started two days after he called me that, touched me in ways he had absolutely no right to, then proceeded to punch my face.
Me
Hey. I wanted to apologize for what I said the other time. I really meant no disrespect and I’m sorry if you got offended.
This is Brandon King, by the way.
He read the texts but never replied.
That was over two weeks ago.
Two weeks and I still find myself checking in case I missed a text.
Like now.
What on earth is wrong with me?
I just can’t seem to stop replaying what happened that night. Over and over, like a broken fucking record. Again and again, it sneaks into my head and spreads on top of other thoughts like a special torture device.
Every day, I think of why I lost control so easily. I was cursing out loud—not once or twice, but several times. I snapped and growled and even used violence.
But the most embarrassing moment was when he had his lips on my jaw and throat, licking and exploring. My skin caught fire and I was on the edge of something nefarious.
My heart has never beat as fast as when he bit down on my throat.
And I groaned. Me. Brandon fucking King groaned because a guy was biting me.
It was like existing in the skin of an entirely different person. As if I broke apart from my physical being and morphed into an alien entity.
I hate that version of myself. I fucking despise it.