Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 91635 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 367(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91635 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 367(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
No. No thank you, no sir, no ma’am, no mx.
Groaning, Amani buried his face against his forearm.
He had to see that oblivious confused rich straight boy in that ridiculously ostentatious apartment in a little more than an hour, and he could not be thinking about this every time Victor gave him one of those puppy-eyed looks.
And the money had come through. Before Amani had even made it home Friday night, his phone had chimed with a PayPal notification that eleven hundred dollars had been received in his account, with a little message beneath.
Ten percent tip’s just good manners.
-V
Asshole.
He saved his term paper, shut his laptop down, then rose to change—and told himself he wasn’t making himself look pretty for some blue-eyed straight boy. He wasn’t sweeping his hair half-up, half-down, and weaving it with interconnected bits of thread-fine golden chain that mingled in glimmering strands among the dark locks. He wasn’t picking out his favorite pale golden thigh-length caftan, natural muslin almost white, with thick borders in shimmering geometric gold silk and a front slit that went almost down to the bottom of his ribs, the sides completely open save for short bands of muslin that held it together into a single garment, letting his waist show through on either side. The matching pants were simple white muslin, straight-legged, designed to flow easily, nearly covering his feet and the plain, simple leather-strapped sandals he wore nearly everywhere. A slick of eyeliner along the edges of his lids, a sleek layer of transparent gloss with subtle gold shimmer on his lips, slim gold bangles chiming on his wrists, his coat, and he was catching up his cello and slinging it over his shoulder to head out the door into the chilly, breezy night.
He was just stepping off the 6 line at Spring Street when his phone rang in his pocket. As he strode down the sidewalk, ducking around busy pedestrian traffic, he fished it out and glanced at the screen. Overbearing Prick, the contact name showed.
Oh. Victor.
Amani should probably change that address book entry.
He swiped the call and lifted the phone to his ear. “Hello?”
“Amani?” Victor’s voice sounded tight, strange—aloof and calm, nothing like the affably awkward mess he’d been before; that same change Amani had heard last time he’d called. “I’m sorry, I’m running a little late. Meeting ran long at the office. I’ve called the front desk at the apartment to let them know to ring you in and unlock the elevator for you. I promise I won’t keep you waiting long, and I’ll double your fee for the session to make up for wasting your time.”
“Of course,” Amani said dryly, cocking his head and looking up at the tall, glass-walled spear thrusting up into the sky, the penthouse apartment on the top floor waiting for him and apparently empty of its owner. “You trust me in your apartment?”
Victor made an amused sound. “What are you going to do? Trash the place to stick it to the one percent?”
“I might.”
“I’d let you.”
“I’m not catering to this bizarre little phase of masochistic rebellion you’ve found yourself in,” Amani retorted, struggling not to smile. The man was so damned irritating it was almost charming. “I’ll see you in…?”
“Fifteen minutes,” Victor promised. “Ta for now.”
The line went dead, and Amani looked down at his phone. Ta for now?
Asshole.
Rolling his eyes, he tucked his phone back into his pocket and pushed the glass front doors of Victor’s building open, stepping into the lobby. With its broad marble reception desk, gray-veined white marble floors, and black, gold-lined columns everywhere, it looked more like a hotel lobby than an apartment building, complete with uniformed staff waiting behind the reception desk and a security guard by the elevator. Amani always felt uncomfortable in places like this—like everyone who looked at him was wondering what he was doing here, as if he could ever possibly have any business somewhere this expensive.
At least the staff on duty were the same two women and one man who’d been here Friday night, and apparently they even remembered his name. One of the women offered him a saccharine, overly bright smile. “Mr. Idrissi,” she said, over-pronouncing his name with exaggerated care, turning it to Eee-dreee-seee. “So good to see you again. Mr. Newcomb let us know to send you up, but do call down to the front desk if you need anything.”
“Of course,” Amani replied with an equally forced, bright smile, using that voice he hadn’t realized he hated until Victor had told him that when he spoke as himself, he sounded real.
He stepped from the lobby quickly, avoiding eye contact with even the security guard as he slipped into the elevator and some semblance of privacy. Enough, at least, to let him breathe, despite the red light of the security camera blinking in the corner.