Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 84195 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 421(@200wpm)___ 337(@250wpm)___ 281(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84195 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 421(@200wpm)___ 337(@250wpm)___ 281(@300wpm)
My first stop was to find the sexy bodybuilder who’d approached me earlier. When I did, I said, “Listen, something came up. I’m not gonna be able to hook up tonight.”
“What the fuck? I’ve been waiting for you all night.”
I shrugged. “Sorry. It is what it is. You have time to find someone else.”
While I’d wanted to fuck him, I wasn’t going to let him make me feel like shit for canceling. It was never too late to say no.
From there, I went to get myself back into the rotation. Chet, the owner, found me and said I could go ahead and leave for the night. While it would have been nice to finish my shift, I agreed. I was lucky they were cool at the Playground. Anywhere else, I might have gotten in trouble, but I’d worked there long enough that they knew I wasn’t a slacker and always did my job well.
I went to the back, changed my clothes, and without taking the time to remove my makeup, headed out to Mom again.
When my mom had turned twenty-one, she’d worked in bars too. We were both good dancers and liked the nightlife and being around people. But as much as I loved her, one of the things that scared me the most was how much like her I was—free-spirited, emotions always running high. I even did the same kind of work she used to do.
That was why I was never giving away my heart. I wouldn’t give anyone the power to hurt me the way she had been her whole life.
2
Clark
“Sure, Mom. I can show the property,” I said as I came through the parking garage door of my apartment building and headed to the elevators. “Listen, I gotta go.”
No way I’d tell her what I had going on tonight. She’d surely frown upon it, might even think I was a bit off my rocker. But my weekly Zumba class was my own, and I’d looked forward to it all day. That feeling of letting loose and releasing tension wasn’t something I needed to explain to someone who wouldn’t get it. My parents’ idea of blowing off steam was planning a party for a hundred of their closest associates with champagne and ice sculptures.
“Mr. Havemeyer,” the doorman called just as the elevator doors were opening. “A package was left for you.”
“You can call me Clark,” I told Eddie for the hundredth time, and he grinned, knowing he wouldn’t because this was his job and he was required to address tenants formally.
As he handed me the medium-sized box, I searched my brain, trying to remember if I’d ordered anything. I glanced at the package. “No return address?”
“It was hand-delivered by Mr. Sinclair.” Eddie gave me a knowing look.
“Oh, okay. Thanks.” My ex. Great. I stepped into the elevator and punched 8 for my floor.
Donald Sinclair and I hadn’t worked out, but I wasn’t sad about it, quite honestly. In fact, the only thing I was bummed about was my parents making a fuss about it. Mom insisting we’d been perfect together. What she really meant was, we’d been the right kind of gay couple to fit in her society world. And she wasn’t wrong. In that, we matched up seamlessly. We were both successful real-estate professionals and only children from well-off families. Fortunately, I worked for Havemeyer and Whitney, my parents’ agency, while Donald’s office was on the other side of town, or it would’ve gotten awkward fast.
He was also the sort of guy I’d always gone for—taller and bigger than my smaller frame—and while the sex had been good, I’d eventually grown restless of always being his perfect, needy bottom. So I kept my toppy fantasies alive only for solo jerk-off sessions.
The thing was, I wanted what many people did—to be in a long-term, committed relationship, and maybe have a kid or two—but I didn’t want to settle just to please my parents, which was what I did most of my life anyway. Still, I couldn’t complain. I’d worked my butt off to prove myself at their company, I lived in a great area of town, and I was happy—most of the time.
I tucked the box under my arm, juggling it with getting the key in the door. As soon as I stepped inside my place, I set the box on the coffee table, already forgotten as I went to my room and changed. Mom would be mortified at my outfit—she’d tell me my nylon shorts were appallingly thin and that my favorite 2018 Olympics tee wasn’t a high enough thread count, but I was entirely comfortable, especially for where I was going.
I poured myself some water from the tap, and after heating up leftovers from yesterday, I ate on the couch while staring out at the skyline from my apartment window. While the view was worth what I’d paid for it, and the rest of the space had the best furniture and appliances, it felt a bit monochromatic sometimes. Or maybe just empty. I really should’ve invested in more colorful abstracts or something, but most days I was too busy to give it a second thought.