Total pages in book: 160
Estimated words: 163089 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 815(@200wpm)___ 652(@250wpm)___ 544(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 163089 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 815(@200wpm)___ 652(@250wpm)___ 544(@300wpm)
“What does?”
“Dad pulling the trigger.” His lips tremble before he purses them again. “I’d rather kill myself than watch him do it. I’ve disappointed him enough as it is.”
“Disappointed him how?”
He lifts his head and blinks once, twice, then sinks his teeth into the cushion of his lower lip as if he’s just realized who he’s talking to.
“Not important,” he mutters, finishing his last bites in silence.
As he eats, I watch him.
This seemingly perfectly imperfect prince with broken insides has never had a homemade family meal—despite the high-end chefs—thinks his mom died because of him somehow, and has some deep unresolved issues with his dad.
And it takes everything in me not to devour him whole. Disassemble him into tiny pieces, then put him back together again.
As he swallows the last bite, I’m getting really distracted by a smidge of sauce on the bottom corner of his lips.
“Can I have more?” he asks, but I’m already half standing, reaching out to him.
His eyes widen, turning a shiny expectant green. “What are you doing—”
I grab his jaw and lean in, sealing my mouth to his, then suck his lower lip, licking the sauce away as my balls vibrate.
Just a taste, and I’m about to combust.
As I pull away, Preston’s watching me with shivering, glistening lips.
And I realize with damning reality that I’ll probably never get enough of him.
Maybe I should just trap him, so he won’t get the chance to leave.
23
PRESTON
“Look, Pressie! I have wings!”
I laugh because Miley does have wings, neon-pink like her skates, and a headband with antennas stuck on her shiny curls.
She made me buy that bullshit on the way to the rink, or more like demanded it, because she’s a spoiled little shit who knows she can get whatever she wants from me if she pouts cutely.
It’s Sunday, and the ice rink at the edge of town is packed with people of all ages skating away. And, of course, Miley wanted to be part of the crowd. Maybe because her life is full of nannies and teachers, but she loves going to places where normal people hang.
“I’m gonna be so cool like you when I grow up, Pressie!” she announced today during the tedious breakfast I had to endure with our extended family.
Let’s just say I’m sort of under house arrest.
Okay, not sort of. I totally am. Dad sends Lenin with me at all times. Even now, he’s waiting outside.
The reason is actually stupid. Don’t ask Dad, though. He’ll say it’s serious. But anyway, I may have skipped meds for a few days after spending that night at Marcus’s place a week and a half ago.
Not sure why. Maybe because I wanted to feel normal. The meds override my senses sometimes, trapping me in a sort of enclave where emotions don’t penetrate correctly.
And while I was fine with that in the past, using humor and violence to make up for the chained feelings, it hasn’t been enough lately.
I selfishly wanted to experience everything in full detail.
Well, that might have been a mistake. My head chose the freedom to bubble over and decided, “Let’s fuck shit up!”
Of course, I obliged and joined some Vencor members for a killing mission outside of our turf in one of NYC’s clubs.
I might have gone a bit overboard—by slashing the fuck out of those people and making a scene.
So what? It wasn’t a big fucking deal.
Apparently, it was, because it stirred up some trouble, and Vencor had to deploy a large number of resources to cover it up.
I knew I’d fucked up when Lenin and his favorite friend, Dad’s driver, Nelly, came to pick me up at the airport. It only got worse when Dad just frowned upon seeing me. He didn’t chastise me or give me that look of disappointment. Grandma and Satan’s lover did, though. Grandpa as well.
But then I realized Dad didn’t bother disciplining me, because he left the job to Lenin, who beat the shit out of me, then informed me I was under house arrest.
I mean, I can go to school and practice, and I can hang out after school, but Lenin is always there, monitoring me and making sure I go back to the Armstrong estate.
“Your dad is so close to giving up on you,” Lenin said that day as I was coughing blood onto the floor.
I straightened and smiled like I usually do. “I thought he already had.”
“You know full well he hasn’t. If you keep acting out, skipping meds, and pushing your luck, he might decide you’re not worth the trouble anymore and just let you drop dead.”
“Don’t care,” I whispered, but still stayed at home like an obedient little bitch, my eyes twitching every time Lilith started her passive-aggressiveness or Grandma called me useless.
Dad didn’t say anything. Actually, he seems to frown a lot whenever I go back home as if he doesn’t expect me there. He was the one who ordered this, for fuck’s sake.