Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 99583 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 498(@200wpm)___ 398(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99583 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 498(@200wpm)___ 398(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
“I was,” I said, reluctantly sliding into the extra chair. “But then Mondo had to come back to the city for a family thing. Since I was riding on his plane, I had to come too.”
James’s face crinkled in sympathy. “Sorry. I know how much you love it there.”
Oscar snorted. “Who doesn’t? I mean, c’mon.”
I ignored him. “I do, but I don’t. I mean, I do. Of course I do. I always have. But this time, all I could think about was the fact I was freeloading. Not that Mondo cares or even noticed.”
What I didn’t add was that I’d been bored. For the first time in years, the parties were getting old, and the gossip among all of the cute boys around the pool had been shallow and annoying. Getting back to the noise and anonymity of the city had seemed like the perfect fix. Only… now that I was here, it wasn’t as comfortable as I’d hoped. For one thing, I was staying with my friend Sacha, whose idea of a quiet night in included thirty friends, an open bar, and loud music.
I really, really needed to find a job so I could stop couch surfing and find my own place.
“Besides,” I continued, “I need to get back to my job search. I left Dad’s company for a reason, you know?” The reason had been twofold. First, because my father was a controlling bastard, and second, because I was unable to give a single shit about real estate development.
“How’s that going?” James asked, his expression sincere. James knew more than anyone how soul crushing it had been for me to work for the family business. My father had high expectations, ones that I never seemed to meet, no matter how hard I tried. Eventually, I’d given up trying, content to rake in the money while doing little work. Unfortunately, that had been soul crushing in its own way, leaving me empty and directionless.
James was the one who’d encouraged me to quit. To figure out what I really wanted to do with my life and follow my passion. The only problem was I hadn’t quite figured out just yet what that passion was. I was just as aimless as I’d been months before, except now I was a whole lot poorer too.
It didn’t help that my father had declined to give me a reference or to pull strings with his contacts. He’d been furious when I’d left and had told me that if I wanted to forge my own path in life, I was welcome to, but I was going to have to do it on my own.
But I didn’t want to tell James all of that. He was probably the one person I knew who believed in me wholeheartedly. I didn’t want to disappoint him. Plus, fuck if I was going to admit how difficult the job search had been in front of Oscar.
I shrugged. “I’ve got a few leads.” Just vague enough that it wasn’t a complete lie. “In fact, I’ve even gotten a job offer.” I didn’t mention that it had been with a well-known photographer who specialized in artsy nude shots, and I wasn’t entirely sure it hadn’t been a come-on line, but Oscar didn’t need to know that.
James’s face lit up with a big smile. “That’s fantastic, Richard,” he said, placing a hand on mine and squeezing.
I shifted uncomfortably. James was genuinely happy for me, and I felt a stab of guilt for misleading him. “I’m not sure it’s the best fit though,” I mumbled. “I’m still weighing my options.”
“Of course you are.” Oscar’s voice was more condescending than empathetic.
I glared at him. “If you have something to say, say it.”
Oscar studied me. “You really want me to?”
No.
“Yes.”
“You don’t actually want a job,” he said simply. “You want a handout.”
Ouch. I sucked in a breath. His words galled me, probably because they had the harsh ring of truth about them. But, to be fair, who actually wanted to work for a living?
But Oscar wasn’t finished. “When was the last time you actually worked hard for something? I’m guessing you’ve never broken a sweat for a job, and that includes hauling your ass on top of a copy machine to make copies of your bare butt.”
I opened my mouth to argue that I didn’t know how to work a copy machine well enough to make copies of my butt, but I realized that would just prove his point.
“I know how to work hard,” I told Oscar. I hated how defensive I sounded. I glanced at the bar, desperately hoping to see my order ready, but there was still nothing.
He smiled, and something about his expression made me wonder if I’d just stepped into a trap. “Prove it.”
“I don’t have to prove anything to you,” I snapped. It felt damn good to finally say those words, even if they felt like a lie.