Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 92536 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 463(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92536 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 463(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
He was done teaching and alone in the apartment he and Tate had shared for the past few weeks. At first, he’d worried about living with another man. It was a first for both him and Tate, and he feared it would prove difficult, but the opposite was true. They’d blended seamlessly, and Tate’s noticeable absence left a gaping hole in Liam’s heart even after only a few hours.
As with lunch, he couldn’t eat dinner. But drinking was another story. A few glasses of wine should help lighten the heaviness in his heart. Or, better yet, make him drunk enough not to notice it.
He poured with a generous hand, topping off near the rim of the wine glass. After a few sips to ensure he wouldn’t spill, he made his way to the couch. A new episode of his favorite trashy reality TV show was due. Wine and bitchy housewives were exactly what he needed to boost his mood.
Except he couldn’t concentrate and was back to obsessing about Tate within minutes. Worry nagged him no matter how many times he reminded himself Tate could handle this and would be fine. But why had he been gone so long? Did he get arrested? Was he hurt? Images of worst-case scenarios wouldn’t stop harassing him. Over and over, his mind conjured nightmares of Tate hurt, alone, and suffering, or sitting in Swan’s single jail cell. And all of it because he wanted nothing more than to protect Liam.
“Shit,” he muttered before taking another sip—guzzle—of wine. “I should have made him stay.” Instead of getting pissy and turning his back on Tate, he should have forced the man to stay. “I coulda blown him until he was too stupid in the head to think.” He could have done it, but he’d let his hurt feelings take over and turned his back on the man he loved as Tate was to make a dangerous decision.
“What a prize you are.”
He sat in silence, stewing in his intrusive thoughts until he couldn’t stand himself any longer. Tipping his glass to his lips, he frowned and looked down into the empty glass.
Whoops, that went fast.
Nothing remained but a single purple drop of wine. It must be why his head was feeling floaty and his limbs light. He shut his eyes and rested his head back with a sigh, letting the tipsy sensation wash over him. It helped a bit with his misery, sending it to the periphery of his mind instead of the forefront. Sadness lingered, but exhaustion took over the longer the wine had to soak into his bloodstream. He’d keep his eyes closed for a few moments, maybe catch a power nap, then get back to worrying.
Liam’s eyes flew open, and he jerked upright with a gasp.
What was that?
He blinked, unable to see through the pitch-blackness surrounding him.
Where am I?
His heart raced as he tried to take in the dark surroundings.
Home. He was in his home, on his couch, and it was night.
Where’s T?
The events of the day came rushing back at him with staggering force. “Tate?” he called out, jumping to his feet. “Whoa.” He steadied himself against the armrest of the couch. “Guess there was more in that glass than I realized. Tate, you here?”
He ran through the apartment, which took all of three seconds, ending up back in the den.
“He didn’t come home.”
It hurt. God, it hurt.
But it also made him worry.
“Breathe,” he whispered to himself before inhaling a deep breath that had him frowning.
What was that smell? He whipped around, sniffing as he checked the apartment again. A faint scent of smoke tickled his nostrils. Tate smoked on occasion, but this didn’t remind him of cigarettes. And what had woken him with such a start? Now that some of the fog had cleared, he’d swear a loud crash had jolted him from sleep.
The smell intensified.
“No,” he whispered as an outrageous thought popped into his mind.
Barefoot, he ran to the door leading him down to the studio through the indoor staircase. The acrid odor grew stronger with each step he descended. “No, no, no,” he whispered, picking up the pace.
Without thinking, he grabbed the door handle at the bottom of the stairs. Tremendous heat scorched his palm. “Ow, fuck!” he shouted, jerking his hand away. He cradled it to his chest. It hurt like hell, but he couldn’t spare the time to assess the damage. Using his uninjured hand, he wrapped the bottom of his T-shirt around the doorknob and opened it as fast as possible. The shirt did little to dull the heat, but it was good enough to keep from searing the other hand while he opened the door.
The second he pushed the door open, oven-hot air blasted into the stairwell. He didn’t need to see the flames licking over every surface of his life’s dream to know someone had set out to destroy him.