Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 86597 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86597 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
I don’t think she would have approved of what’s going on inside.
The antique billiards table that’s as big as some people’s studio apartments, is covered with shiny cloth, and two barely dressed ladies dance on top of it for an audience of at least two dozen people.
“Do you think this is where your brother would be?” Nico whispers, stepping inside as I eye two security guards who casually walk past us, staring at glitter nipple tassels attached to a pair of pert breasts.
When the dancer makes them spin, and then steps through a spiraling hoop, I’m certain the view before me will be permanently burned on the backs of my eyelids.
I try acting as if I don’t find any of this unusual, but as the two dancers slot together, I’m eaten up by discomfort. Not just because I have no interest in women, but mostly because this is not what I expected to see at a Christmas Party. And definitely not on the billiards table my dad used to house his toy train collection.
Looks like I don’t know my brother nearly as well as I thought. As if that wasn’t obvious when he sent assassins after me.
When my eyes get used to the relative darkness of the smoking room, I notice that only some of the women present are performers or hostesses. Plenty of ladies within sight wear conventional eveningwear, which offers me some relief, and I clap when the show on the impromptu stage comes to an end.
“I… don’t know this side of him,” I tell Nico, but as I’m about to retreat and peruse the rest of the house, my gaze lingers on a familiar silhouette.
He’s even wearing a suit I’ve seen in one of his photos. My brother might have a simple mask over the eyes, but he wants to be seen and known.
Nico grabs himself a canapé from a passing hostess, seeming perfectly relaxed when I’m about to faint from stress. He’s wearing the red gloves, likely to avoid leaving behind fingerprints, but all I can remember is how their leather felt inside me.
Carl seems so at ease when he grabs one of the dancers by the waist and carries her to the floor as she giggles, her bare breasts right in his face.
“That’s him,” I mumble, leaning against Nico. “My brother. The one hugging the dancer.”
I never thought of myself as a prude, but there’s something about seeing my older brother like this that makes me long for the safety of Nico’s small apartment.
“We have to get him away from people,” Nico says and while I consider retreat, he makes his way through the crowd like a snake zeroing in on its prey.
I don’t even feel I have a choice, so I follow him, desperate to grab his hand yet too afraid it could draw too much attention to us. Carl stands with his back to us, his arm around the dancer’s waist, but Nico seems to have no issue with making himself known. He leans against the billiards table and his gaze lands on the dancer, sticky with lust.
I’m so taken aback I don’t even know what I’m looking at anymore. He’s like a different man. If pretending comes so easily to him, maybe it’s for the better that we will probably part after this ordeal.
The dancer is drawn in by his interest and relaxed body language like a cat to fresh cream. Despite my brother’s hand on her hip, she flutters her dark eyelashes at Nico and smiles. It’s like a dance. I don’t know the steps, but I’m impressed anyway.
I stand nearby, like a tiny fish safe under the shark’s belly, so when Nico moves, so do I. He approaches my brother and the girl. While I try to remember how to breathe, he’s suave as if he’s attended parties like this all his life. In the dim light, I wouldn’t be able to tell that his mask is off the discount rack.
“I loved the show,” he says to the girl, and extends his hand to her. When she slides her fingers into his, he kisses her knuckles. “I hope I’m not interrupting.” He turns to Carl, and while my nerves are already in tatters, they now get thrown into a blender. One of those high-powered ones that can crush ice cubes, only this time it’s my ribcage that’s being pulverized before the blades can reach my heart.
He’s never spoken to me quite in this fashion. But should I be bothered? I know for a fact that he’s feigning interest, and I don’t expect him to treat me like a lady, since I’m obviously not one, but green, slimy jealousy still crawls up my gullet. I fight the urge to clear my throat as the sensation burns.
How can I trust him when I know how good he is at pretending?