Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 80774 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 404(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80774 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 404(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
As soon as I’m wrung dry, I collapse against the bed, breathing heavily, but not sated. That’s what happens when you want someone so much for so long—you’re always chasing a feeling you’ll never have, and nothing else is ever enough.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Lucas
Hunter came over again for breakfast on Tuesday. This time, I made omelets and these high-protein fruit smoothies that are popular among athletes. I’ve fucked a professional athlete or two in my time, so I know enough things like that.
While I want him to eat some chocolate fucking cake when he wants it, I also don’t want to be a bad influence. I want him to take care of his body and excel at his sport, if for no other reason than I saw how happy it made him when he played so well last Sunday. He loves football the way I love photography, though it takes more from him than I think football deserves. But I don’t want him to lose that because he lost my brother—the brother I need to remember Hunter is in love with. He’ll never be mine. I should never want him to be mine…
After breakfast, we went on another hike, talking and laughing, being playful but also serious, like we did the previous week. This time, I invited Hunter up after our hike, but he didn’t come. I almost offered to show him my darkroom, just to get him back inside, but figured that’s a little obsessive, and if the man didn’t want to come, I shouldn’t try to manipulate him into it.
I hate the way I want him, want to spend time with him, the pull I feel in my chest to him…the same one that left me devastated when he and Ellis went from best friends to boyfriends.
And now, just like last weekend, I’m in my condo alone, with the LA and New York game on TV. I don’t know how the thing hasn’t burst into flames, having to play football two weeks in a row. Spending time with Hunt is fucking with my head. Hunter, who is playing another incredible game today. While he doesn’t have a touchdown, he’s doing his job and getting the football up the field, his rushing and passing yards climbing high and fast.
At halftime, I consider turning the TV off, but I want to hear what they’ll say about him. There’s not a chance in hell they won’t mention his play, so I’m not surprised when they start out with, “We’re seeing flashes of the old Hunter King the past two games.”
“I was thinking the same thing. His instincts when it comes to finding an opening have always been incredible, but he’s been missing that a lot lately, except for these last two games,” another broadcaster says.
“He used to credit that to his partner, Ellis Blake Jr. The two of them really were a special story.”
My stomach twists. Is it cool that a hypermasculine sport like professional football has accepted Hunter and other queer players? That they talk about his relationship with Ellis the way they do? Yes. But does it make my chest ache every…single…fucking…time I hear it? Also, yes.
I mute the television, not in the mood to hear more. As if the universe wants to remind me how much it hates me, my cell rings. It’s Mom. I relax slightly knowing it’s her, but I’m also aware of how talking to her always makes me feel. She loves me, she supported me, but why didn’t she ever do anything about the way my father treated me?
“Hey, Mom.” I sit back on the couch, trying to remember how long it’s been since I let myself talk to her.
“Look who’s decided not to ignore me today,” she says with a soft playfulness. It hurts her. It has to, but as much as I love her, she’s hurt me too.
“Sorry. I’ve been busy. I…moved to LA.”
“What! Lucas! You moved to another state and you’re just telling me?”
“It’s only been a couple of months,” I counter, but as soon as I say it, I realize how ridiculous that sounds. I couldn’t find a moment in the past few months to tell my mom I moved and opened an art gallery? “I’m sorry,” I say, and Mom sighs.
“You know I love you, Lucas, don’t you?”
“Yes,” I answer automatically. And I do, but then all that bitterness resurfaces, and…I know I don’t make it easy on her. “I’ll be better.”
“I will too,” she replies.
“I, um…opened an art gallery.”
“That’s incredible! Tell me all about it,” Mom asks, and I do—about Isla helping me run it, how well it’s doing, and about recent contracts I’ve secured and shoots I’ve been involved in.
“Is she your girlfriend? You’ve mentioned her a lot over the years.”
“No, but she’s my best friend.”
“That’s good. I’m glad you have her.”