Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 72543 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 363(@200wpm)___ 290(@250wpm)___ 242(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72543 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 363(@200wpm)___ 290(@250wpm)___ 242(@300wpm)
The car halts, and the doors open. He holds up a hand and insists on exiting first, and when we’re side by side walking down the hallway, I’m thinking about his emotionless advice. I don’t know if he’s right or wrong, but I lean toward right. My track record says I’m really wrong about a lot of things that involve my parents. We arrive at my door, and, of course, he’s first in, doing a complete search of the place.
When he’s cleared my path, he steps back into the hallway. “You’re welcome to wait inside with me for Damion.”
“Damion would not approve. I’ll be right here if you need me.”
He’s right. Damion wouldn’t approve, and while I feel bad for Adam being stuck in the hallway, it’s a really good feeling to have Damion on the brink of jealousy. Not that I would intentionally create that in him, nor do I think it’s healthy for me to be pleased by such a thing.
I shut the apartment door, with Adam on the other side resting against the hard surface. My gaze sweeps the space I have called home for years now, and there is no part of me that clings to this part of my life, while every part of me has held onto Damion. I’m scared of being hurt by Damion, but I’m far more afraid of never realizing all the possibilities between us.
Damion and I have transitioned from untarnished seven-year-olds in a closet to damaged—some might even say broken—adults about to move in together. It might end up a disaster, but as far as I’m concerned, it will be a beautiful disaster.
Chapter thirty-three
I stand inside my small walk-in closet, fretting over which clothes to take with me to Damion’s place now versus later, and decide I really need everything. It’s not that much, really, and clothes and a few toiletries will get me by just fine. I’m not even sure what else I want to take. My favorite mug, for sure. I’m remarkably unattached to a lot of my things, which says something about me, though I’m not sure what. Or maybe just about my life. I sigh and sit down on the velvet bench I purchased a few months ago, thinking about my decisions over the past few years, and not with pride.
I’d been about to buy an apartment months after the show launch as my way to celebrate the acclaim the show had received; so close, in fact, that I’d picked an adorable place and I was thirty seconds from inking the deal when my mother had come to me, crying. She’d literally cornered me on set, pulled me aside, and turned on hurricane-style waterworks while claiming to have been bullied by debt collectors for my father. I’d been so terrified for her and my father’s safety that I’d paid off the seventy-five thousand dollar debt.
And I don’t know why I think of that memory with the word “claimed” attached at this point. I’m crystal clear on my father’s gambling problem. I know the problem is real, but I’m fairly certain I’ve done nothing to help besides offer a band-aid. I should have demanded he go to therapy—both of them, for that matter.
I’ve rented this apartment for right at a year, having allowed myself a small upgrade after the show snagged a renewal, that upgrade being a walk-in closet, which is quite the luxury in New York City. The rest of the place is a small box, but I didn’t dare go bigger, not when my parents were constantly needing money—ten thousand dollars several times over on top of that seventy-five thousand. What if the next lump sum is six figures? And what happens if I don’t give it to them?
There’s a shift in the air, and my gaze lifts to find Damion standing in the doorway, looking as Damion always does to me; breathtakingly handsome. My heart leaps at the sight of him, the punch of awareness between us as familiar as it is delicious. His jacket gone, his pressed blue shirt outlining his defined body, his sleeves rolled up to expose his powerful forearms.
I pop to my feet, and he’s in front of me instantly, his hands capturing my shoulders, and he drags me to him. “How much money have you given them?” he demands softly.
I blanch, unprepared for the question despite the inevitability of it. “What?” I ask because I can’t seem to figure out what else to say.
“This is not how someone of your success level lives, Alana.”
There’s a pinch in my chest, and my fingers curl at his waist, where they’ve settled. “You’ve been here before so I don’t know why you’re saying this now. And I’m moving in with you, remember?”
“How much?”
Embarrassment washes over me, blood rushing to my cheeks, and I bury my head in his chest. He cups my face and forces my gaze to his burning stare. “Your lack of answer says everything. A lot. And that’s why I’m saying this now. Because I’ve figured out just how used and abused you are. You’re selfless and they know it. No more. You are not their bank or an excuse for him to keep on living like this.”