Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 92043 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 460(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92043 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 460(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
He ripped off his T-shirt and shucked off his jeans, socks and shoes until he was naked in the middle of his shattered reflection. He didn’t care that if he moved an inch in either direction the sharp glass would slice him open. In fact, part of him welcomed the idea—ached for it.
Physical pain to siphon off the psychological agony. But he was still too stubborn to pick up one of the bigger pieces and do the work himself. His gaze caught on a pair of ancient metal scissors he’d once used to artfully decorate his old jeans. He picked them up, testing their sharpness with his thumb. With his other hand he gathered half of his dirty, used hair in a fist. Holding his breath, he cut.
Ten inches of black strands fell to the floor at his feet. All the times his mother had run her beautiful silver brush through his hair telling him how handsome he was drifted away with its loss. Z sobbed in both grief and satisfaction.
He cut another chunk. And another.
With each tumble of silk, weight lifted from his shoulders. Memories, both good and bad, played through his mind like an old slide show. Happy memories of the time before his mom got sick. The way her eyes had glittered when she’d laughed. He’d been growing his hair since she left. It had always been a part of his identity.
Who was Azariah Hayes without his long black hair?
The Z that stood surrounded by broken pieces of himself didn’t know.
Someone new.
Someone stronger.
Someone smarter.
That’s who he needed to be from now on. Not someone who fell into traps so obvious even a rat would have avoided them. Not someone who was both victim and assailant at the same time. Not someone who thought his stupid pride was better than seeking aid from those he knew loved him.
Z chopped another, longer, piece off. It scattered over the white ceramic sink, the contrast only visible because of the light from the street lamps outside. With the last snip, Z set the scissors down and took a deep breath. The tinny, funky smell of Marc’s come was gone, but that didn’t make him feel better.
His fingers forked through his new shortened locks. Z curled his lips around his teeth as a surge of fresh anxiety flooded him until his knees shook. His eyes filled with tears that held nearly two decades’ worth of pain.
Oh God...what had he done?
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The knocking brought him back into reality. The louder it got, the deeper Z merged with his body until once again he could control his own muscles and move. His hands shook, his ankle throbbed, but it was his chest that hurt the most.
The knocking turned into pounding. Someone was at his door. He found his crutches on the floor and did his best to avoid the mess as he left the room. He was still naked.
He didn’t care.
If it was Mrs. Duncan, she could get a good eyeful of his junk when he tossed her the dirty cash he’d just killed himself for before he slammed the door in her face.
If it was someone else? Well, they deserved it for interrupting him this late at night.
Fuckers. He flung open the door without looking to see who it was, and growled, “What?”
Connelly stood there with his hazel eyes wide. “Uh...you’re naked.”
“Thanks for the newsflash, genius. What do you want?”
Those all-too-attentive and curious eyes raked over him. Probably noticing every mark, scratch, blister and bruise he’d just finished categorizing in the mirror. Finally, they landed on his face, on the hair that was no longer there. “What happened?”
Z slammed the door in his face and sucked in a breath. Shit. Shit. Shit.
No fucking way was he ready to deal with everything Connelly made him feel on top of the crippling helplessness he was working through. And those eyes.
Those fucking eyes. It was like they saw everything. Saw right through him.
He wouldn’t be able to lie.
Not to those eyes.
The door whipped open so hard it bounced off the wall with a thud. Connelly stood in the frame like an avenging angel come to make all the sinners of the world pay for their crimes. Z could practically see the invisible wings stretching out behind him like shining beacons of goodness and light. He backed up a step at the force of it.
Connelly came into the room and slammed the door shut behind him. “What happened?” he asked again, only this time his tone didn’t speak of concern or worry, it was threatening and full of menace. It made Z shiver.
Another step forward and Connelly was suddenly in Z’s space. “Azariah?” He said Z’s name like a question and a curse.
Z breathed and his lungs filled with Connelly’s fresh scent, so clean and good and real. Z had to close his eyes because he shouldn’t be breathing something so pure. He was too filthy to even be in the same room as Connelly. He swallowed all the terrifying emotions bubbling up from his stomach like sour bile and lifted his chin so he could meet those awful, beautiful eyes.