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)
Consciously, he tried to loosen up. One by one, relaxing every muscle, starting with his toes until he was as loose as a wet noodle. Above him Marc growled, leaned down and sank his teeth into Z’s shoulder.
“Fight me,” Marc grunted in his ear.
No. Z was done fighting, especially if it was what everyone wanted him to do. The perverts who would watch this scene and get off on Z’s pain could all go to hell. He wouldn’t give them any more titillation.
He closed his eyes and gave up.
The only evidence of his continued torture was the rush of fresh tears making trails down his cheek.
“Fuck,” Marc cursed. That evil grip in Z’s hair pulled harder so Z’s neck was stretched unbearably.
Still, Z didn’t fight.
Marc seemed to get the message. His movements sped up and his sex noises got louder, clearly playing it up for the camera like a professional. Because it wasn’t as though Marc was a bad guy, he was just being paid to act that way. Like Z was being paid to be a victim.
The only difference was that Z was stupid and hadn’t had a clue what he was getting into.
Marc was clearly used to this kind of shit.
He tucked his face into the sheet as much as Marc’s awful hold in his hair would allow and tried his best to breathe through the rest of the scene. It was over pretty quickly after that. Marc pulled out, growled loudly and then spunk landed on Z’s hair and face.
The tinny scent of it made his stomach roll.
Before he could choke on his own vomit, the nameless camera guy yelled, “Cut.” And Marc immediately released Z and removed the gag from his mouth.
“Great work, guys.” Nameless smiled then brought the camera to the desk in the back where the computer was located.
When his back was turned, Marc asked, “Hey, you okay, man?” He was now standing at the foot of the bed.
Z, on the other hand, hadn’t moved. He couldn’t stop staring off into the void, vision cloudy from tears, nose and mouth full of snot and come and blood.
He wasn’t okay. He needed help.
* * *
Z clutched the envelope to his chest. Somehow, he’d managed to find strength enough to leave the studio. He’d risen like a zombie, dressed in his own clothes, snatched the envelope with his payment in it from the camera guy’s hands, and limped out the door without saying a word.
He didn’t call a cab until he was a few blocks from the warehouse, then he waited in the shadows until the yellow car slowed to a stop. Z did his best to hide his face under his hoodie, looking out the window and barely muttering his address to the driver. He rode the whole way home shivering even though the cab was too warm, then practically flew up the stairs, his ankle throbbing the whole way. As soon as he was inside, he bolted the lock and collapsed.
He wasn’t sure how long he stayed there curled up like a ball with his head on his knees. Every time he breathed too deep, the funky smell of Marc’s come made him want to puke. Eventually, he couldn’t handle it. He levered his aching body up with the crutches, slapped the envelope on the counter and went into the bathroom.
The person staring back at him in the mirror was unrecognizable.
Those hollow eyes, that dead expression, matted hair and ashen skin. That was a corpse. That was his mother right before she’d died.
Suddenly, her voice whispered through his mind. You are the best thing that I ever did.
Lies. All lies.
Stay strong, sweetie. Be as strong as a diamond and shine just as bright. Promise me.
He’d promised to be tough, to be unique—to glitter like the stars they used to watch at night. He couldn’t do it anymore. He was so tired of keeping that steel in his spine. All he wanted to do was collapse, give in. Let the universe win.
You are the master of your own fate, Azariah. Bullshit. He’d never really had control of his life. Not if it could fall apart so easily.
You will do great things. No! He wouldn’t. Not without help.
Z flung off the hoodie and clutched the edge of the sink. Anger held him in its frozen fist. He was angry—at Landon, at Lirim, at Connelly, at Carl. At the fucking world. At everything. But mostly at himself.
He glared at his reflection and snarled. “Fucking idiot.”
A single hard punch cracked the mirror. Shards fell into the sink or landed on the ground, crashing into even smaller pieces. Z stared at the broken fragments, and a million furious eyes looked back.
He held on to that anger. The hot burning fire of rage was far, far better than the cold, dark depths of absolute misery. So maybe he was no longer the same Z he’d been before his mother died. Maybe he’d been trying to hold on to that person for far too long. Maybe he needed to transform in order to survive.