Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 123873 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 619(@200wpm)___ 495(@250wpm)___ 413(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 123873 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 619(@200wpm)___ 495(@250wpm)___ 413(@300wpm)
Brendan’s eyes hardened. He looked at Cillian sidelong from beneath his brows and ripped the foil off an alcohol wipe, releasing its stinging, sharp scent. “He didn’t. But you’re telling me Oliver Newcomb didn’t do this to you.”
Fuck. “I haven’t seen him since you chased him off yesterday,” Cillian said, and averted his eyes. “It wasn’t him. And no one attacked me, I…I was doing something I wanted to do.”
Silence—until the alcohol wipe pressed against his cheek, and Cillian hissed as it drew over bruised and aching flesh, snapping his gaze back to Brendan. But Brendan wasn’t quite looking him in the eye, instead focused intently on his face as slowly, gently, Brendan wiped at the layers of clumsy makeup, the alcohol pad coming away stained with pale peach-yellow smears. It hurt, it hurt like bloody hell, and the tingling-cool alcohol evaporating against his skin wasn’t making it any better, making his face draw tight enough to pull at the bruises.
But there was something strangely fascinating about this.
Brendan Lau. The Brendan Lau was…touching him, looking after him, so close, and he smelled like aftershave and something crisp and hot that felt like it would have a sour tang on the tongue, bitter lemon to lick from the skin. In the silence between them the faint sounds of the studio lot and the low hum of the air conditioning receded into soft white noise, far-distant, and yet in their place Cillian’s breaths rushed too loud in his ears, his chest constricting, he—
“Explain,” Brendan demanded.
The spell shattered so hard it left Cillian reeling as if he’d just been slapped, blinking quickly as the world came sharp again. “Excuse you?” he snapped without even checking his tongue first. “I don’t owe you explanations about my life.”
“You’re right. You don’t. Hold still.”
One heavy hand cupped the back of Cillian’s neck, clamping there with heat that—oh, that…Brendan probably…shouldn’t…do that, especially when looking at Cillian with that quietly brimming anger so hot in his eyes, fuck, what was wrong with Cillian that after everything, he was starting to shiver in response to that touch? Brendan must think he was—
“But I’m asking you for one,” Brendan finished in a murmur, as he took another swipe down Cillian’s face and then let go. He tossed the crumpled, stained wipe on the sofa and ripped the foil off another.
Breathe. Breathe.
Focus on being annoyed, and not the lingering after-print of those strong fingers against his neck.
“Try actually asking,” he shot at Brendan.
Brendan stopped with the half-ripped packet pinched between his fingers, eyeing Cillian askance. “Are you being serious right now?”
“Maybe a little,” Cillian mumbled. “You know, on screen, whenever you’d give interviews or talk to the press, you were always…suave. Charming. Reserved. But not…not…”
“A dick?” Brendan filled in blandly, and shook the clean alcohol wipe out.
Cillian winced. “…you said it.”
“I am who I am.” Matter-of-factly, Brendan leaned in and began wiping at Cillian’s face again, leaving behind cool, stinging kisses of pain. “And who I am is a grouchy old man who ran out of patience for bullshit a long time ago. I do my best to be polite in public appearances because I’m not a heathen, I wasn’t raised in a barn, and I won’t embarrass my parents on national television. But that’s about my limit.”
Frowning, Cillian searched that handsome face. “Don’t you care how you affect others?”
Don’t you know how much you’ve affected me since before we even met?
“I don’t let anyone know me well enough for me to affect them.” Brendan nudged Cillian’s chin upward with his knuckles, before that cold-stinging swipe moved down his jaw. “Not me. What they do with the public personas they craft around me…well.” He shrugged, his voice dropping to a low, distracted hum of concentration as he leaned in closer, and gently swiped the wipe under Cillian’s eye. “The only control I have over that is making sure nothing I do or say can hurt someone out there I’ve never even met, but they’re still paying attention to me. I’ll never know their name.” A second wipe tossed onto the sofa; a third ripped out of the foil. “But they know mine. And they’ll remember some casual comment that means nothing to me—but hits deep and personal for them.”
This time, when Brendan reached for him with the clean wipe, Cillian flinched back, turning his face aside. “And me?” he bit off. Fuck, why did he feel like his chest was collapsing? “What if it hits deep and personal that the man I thought was something to aspire to is just some sour, bitter, rude old fart?”
“I’m not bitter. I’m actually quite content with my life.” Leaning back, Brendan propped his arm against his thigh, brown eyes fixed on Cillian steadily, that probing look that felt like it could peel him open. “There’s a difference between being bitter, and being tired of modulating yourself in your private life just to match the demands of your public persona.” Brendan inclined his head. “You can be disappointed if you wish, Cillian. There’s a reason they say to never meet your heroes. But the man you aspired to was me as an actor. Who I am as an actor hasn’t changed.” Once again Brendan reached for him, fingers skimming along his jaw. “Who I am as a man isn’t really your business.”