Total pages in book: 36
Estimated words: 33104 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 166(@200wpm)___ 132(@250wpm)___ 110(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 33104 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 166(@200wpm)___ 132(@250wpm)___ 110(@300wpm)
He cracked a grin. “Leave it to Brooklyn… If you can’t beat them, join them.”
I laughed. The idea of Elis Brooks in a beanie behind the counter of a coffee shop was laughable. “That scowl would scare off your clientele. It’s all peace, love, and light vibes over there.”
It had been five years since we’d graduated from high school, and the angles of his face were more pronounced and appealing to my needy fingertips. He was just as good-looking, but he’d grown out of being a handsome boy. He was a man now. But he still had the same soulful brown eyes. You couldn’t help but be captivated by Elis when you were around him. From the moment I’d met him, I knew he was destined for greatness.
“Painting walls is hardly a danger.” His thick voice finally broke the silence. “I want them to know someone sees them.”
I sat silently at his side, taking him in. His sadness hit me in waves, and I realized that was what had changed about him. Elis Brooks’s eyes weren’t etched with rebellion now. They were shadowed with sadness.
“Who is them?” I finally asked.
In slow beats, he turned to take me in, his gaze crawling up my form with measured movements.
I’d never felt so naked and vulnerable as I did under his intense stare, like he could see through to the heart of every bad thing I’d ever done. Most people saw the designer coat, Italian leather boots, or limited-edition Birkin mini on my shoulder, but not him. Never him.
I’d never been able to hide a thing from Elis Brooks, and maybe that’s why he made me so uncomfortably naked. He didn’t see what I wanted him to see; he saw what I tried to shield from the world. He saw me. That’s why it hurt so badly when he no longer could.
“Them”—he leaned slower, sucking in a breath of night air as his lips brushed against mine for a fraction of a breath—“are those who take advantage of other people as easily as breathing.” His thumb dashed across my jaw and sent a shudder of sensation through me. “Them, Devlynn Price, is people like you.”
And then he stood, walking off into the night, and left me seething.
By the time I’d walked the short distance out of the park and crossed W. 59th, my muscles were strung tight with tension. I didn’t know who Elis Brooks thought he was, talking to me like that. I didn’t need the painful memories of the past, especially not now, when the world had fallen out from underneath me, the pain still raw and processing like cement through my tired body.
I dashed home faster than I usually did, wanting to outrun the disgusted look in his eyes and the disdain in his voice.
***
“How’s your mom holding up today, Ms. Price?” The doorman of my building held the elevator door and let me pass him.
“Not so great. She’s been having night terrors since my dad…” I trailed off.
“I figured that’s what had you out so late, miss. Let me know if you need anything. I’m here for you.” He patted my shoulder, and his kindness nearly crushed me. Since my dad had passed two nights ago, the doorman at my building had shown me more kindness than anyone.
The Prices may be one of the most prestigious names in the city, but most of the family had died out. It was only my mom, brother, and me now that my dad was gone. We’d never been a close family. My dad worked too much, and my mom was busy with her charity events and dinner parties, but somehow, without him, the world seemed dimmer.
When the elevator opened to my modern apartment, windows overlooked all of Park Avenue and the verdant green of the park beyond it. It was breathtaking—my father’s twenty-first birthday present to me. Before I’d even had a chance to redesign the kitchen, he’d been diagnosed with an aggressive metastatic tumor. His radiation and chemotherapy had started the following week at Lenox Hill Hospital.
I’d sat at his side every day while they’d pumped toxins into his system and watched him lose himself to his illness while my mother avoided anything too heavy from day one. And my brother, Matt, hadn’t even come home from school in California.
I was the only one left to hold his hand through his illness.
The disease wasn’t like any sickness; it was a slow and steady decline. For nearly two years, he fought—we fought together. I’d spent hours each week researching new treatments while avant-garde international doctors ran cutting-edge trials and therapies. Many had visited my father at his bedside. None had been able to fix the problem.
My father was dying. We would need to prepare ourselves for that.
I’d spent hours with the grief counselor in the days leading up to my father’s passing while my mother sobbed to her psychiatrist that she needed a stronger prescription for her anxiety.