Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 81423 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 407(@200wpm)___ 326(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81423 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 407(@200wpm)___ 326(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
We’d been doing this for a year, longer than I’d ever been with anyone. We were a whole lot better at sucking each other off now than we used to be. I also knew what it was like to be inside him, and to have Remy inside me. There was nothing like it. I might not get to be with him as often as I wanted, but I didn’t want anyone else. I wasn’t sure I ever would.
I felt…important when I was with him, but in a different way than I ever had. Not because of my name or how I looked. I loved to make him laugh and hear him talk about music. It made me want more for myself, made me want to find my own dreams, because if being in love with something felt half as good as Remy made it sound, it was everything.
Things weren’t always easy, though. When he played and I had to pretend I didn’t know him. When he’d talk about his family, his siblings, who I felt took advantage of him, and we’d fight when I’d tell him. And he was sad sometimes, maybe all the time, but I felt like maybe it helped when he was with me. I knew music helped. It was the one place he lost himself…well, that and when I was touching him.
I’d never known anyone who felt on such a bone-deep level as Remy did. I was fascinated with that too.
“Record me what?” The way he said it, I could tell it wasn’t the first time he’d asked that.
“Playing…singing. We can upload it online and—”
“No.” He shook his head.
“Why not? You can’t keep playing in coffeehouses around here. You have to put yourself out there if you want to make it.”
It was hard for him. I got that. I was able to jump and experience things in a way Remy couldn’t, but then, that was probably because I’d never loved anything the way he loved music.
“I can’t. People will hate it.”
I nodded. “Some will.”
He grabbed a pillow and threw it at me. “What the fuck, Law.”
“Well, it’s true. Not everyone will like everything. There will be people who love it too. You play publicly in front of people, and they love it.” He often had panic attacks, and I hated that part. I’d sneak into the bathroom or outside and find him, and hold him until he calmed down. When he was onstage, it was all about the music. It was before or after that he came down. Still, he always went out there, and I respected the hell out of him for it.
“Yeah, but that’s never more than what…forty people? The Internet is…no. Just no.”
He tried to get up, but I pushed his guitar aside and straddled his lap. “First, you’re online already. People have recorded you when you’ve played. Second, I’ll do it. I’ll record it and make you a channel. I won’t tell you what it is. That way you don’t have to see it. Please, gorgeous. You’re so fucking good. People will love you. You gotta give them a chance to hear you.”
He looked at me with those blue eyes…I’d wondered about their color the first time I’d seen him onstage…and I knew, fucking knew I had him. That he would give this to me.
“Okay.”
“You might want to get dressed first. You’re mine, and no one else gets to see you this way.” I winked, and he grinned, but looked nervous.
Still, he got dressed. He sat in the chair with his guitar on his thigh. It took a few times for him to get it right. He sang the first song I’d fallen in love with about the sunrise over the mountains.
I made the channel online—Remington—and uploaded the video, then stripped him out of his clothes and fucked him until we melted into each other and he told me it felt like music when I was inside him.
Christ, the way he spoke to me. It short-circuited my damn brain. He was like poetry I didn’t know I loved.
We lay there afterward, his head on my chest. He had his hand in my hair. He liked to play with it, and even though I’d always hated people fucking with my hair, I liked it when he did it.
“My mom is sick,” he said after a while.
“What?” My heart thudded, maybe hard enough for him to feel it against his cheek.
“She got diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease. She’s pretty young for it too. It’s not bad. We’re lucky in that she’s only slightly affected so far—some mild tremors, is all. But we don’t know how fast or slow it might progress. Symptoms are known to worsen as time goes on.”
“Fuck…I’m so sorry.” I didn’t know a lot about it, but I’d look it up. “Is there anything I can do?”