Chapter Two
Lucas
“That was really good,” Eddie—at least I think that’s his name—says as he flops down on the bed beside me.
We started talking on a hookup app earlier in the day, and I told him I was down to host. He came over, and we fucked each other’s brains out. I pull off the condom, tossing it into the trash can, my muscles feeling dead after the ride I gave him.
“You just moved here?” he asks as I grab a cigarette from my nightstand, light it, and pull smoke into my lungs.
“About two months ago. From New York.” I left Kansas City for New York the second I graduated from high school.
There was nothing there for me, never had been.
The only thing I miss is my mom, though I probably don’t tell her that often enough.
There would be no point in missing my father because he doesn’t give a shit about me.
The second I didn’t want football, I was dead to him, and he’s only been hating me more since we lost my brother.
“I bet WeHo is a whole lot different. I’ve never been to New York City.”
“You should go. Everyone should go at least once.” I pull another drag of smoke in. “Want some?” I sit up higher against the headboard, offering it to Eddie.
“No, thanks. So what brought you here?”
I’ve spent a lot of time in LA, have friends and contacts here.
My best friend, Isla, lives in West Hollywood—we met in college, and then she moved here.
But I don’t offer Eddie all that information, instead leaving it vague.
“I was looking for a change.” Which is true.
I’m always looking for a change. Outside of photography and art, I haven’t found anything that grabs me, but I’m forever looking—sex, drugs, trouble—whatever I can find to make me feel good, even if nothing ever really does.
This, hopefully, will be different, though I don’t know why I think I’ll find it here, in the place where I lost my brother.
Ellis and I had a complicated relationship—how could we not—but I loved him. I should try and be more like him.
“What do you do?” Eddie asks.
“I’m a photographer. I just opened my own art gallery.”
“No shit? Aren’t you a little young to be so settled? And to have…” He motions around the apartment. “All this?”
“I was lucky and born with money.” At least, that’s what my father always says—how lucky I am, how much I squander it, how spoiled I am, and how I’ve never worked hard for anything.
Translation: I didn’t work hard for football.
But I didn’t want football. Never had, never will.
Conversely, I’ve worked my ass off for my photography and art, built a career that’s surprising for someone my age—Eddie’s right.
And while my father’s money gave me a head start, I am what I am because I love what I do.
It’s the only thing I’ve ever loved besides my family, even if to most of them, I’ll never be good enough.
I’ll never be Ellis.
Ellis, who is gone.
I sit up on the edge of the bed, not wanting those thoughts in my head, not having it in me to think about him right now.
“Should I leave?” Eddie asks.
“That depends. If you give me a few minutes, I can go again if you’re interested.
” I look at him over my shoulder. He’s sexy as hell, not the perfect LA body like most people I see—a little soft in some places, with wide, playful eyes that would probably dim if he spent more than a day with me. It’s what I tend to do to people.
“I could go again,” he says.
Sex and art are my go-to distractions, the two things I can always depend on. “Then stay.”