Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 75589 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75589 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
“Victor,” she murmurs, smiling sweetly, “I love you. I want to stay with you every second. Something’s wrong with that. It’s obsess—”
“Rubbish! How could there be something wrong with your desire to stay with me, and I with you, huh?” I tip her chin and meet her eye.
“Because you don't love me too.”
Bloody. Fuck! I leaped in front of a hollow-tip bullet. “I care for you.”
“Victor, stop. I'll be twenty-four in a few weeks. I should be starting graduate school and dating a man that has potential—”
“I’m a billionaire, Little One. It doesn’t get any better than this.”
“Potential to marry me. Don't stare at me like you want to murder me when I say so. If you care,” Luxury slings the word like acid, “then you'd want my life to follow along those lines. Moreover, I just let Urban Gardens go. After I left New York, I didn't sell the company nor keep up with the payments. I gave up.”
“That wasn't a responsible thing to do.”
“Yeah. I'm glad collections hasn’t called me. Or rather, I don’t have my cell phone.”
I rub her arms. “Lux, when was the last time you talked with your mate?”
“Aliyah?” She smiles, though the familiar sting of regret flickers over a gorgeous façade
Am I bloody losing her? Just like . . .
Twenty-bloody-three. Last time I fell.
“I have this feeling you’re changing subjects. Trying to make sure I don’t leave.”
“You’re not permitted to leave,” I assure. “But when?”
“Okay, bossy pants. I haven’t spoken with Aliyah in over a month—since I left,” Luxury exasperates.
“Give her a call. I’ll draw you a bath before we leave for dinner. Then tomorrow, we will assess your jabs and uppercuts.”
41
Luxury
Before Victor came into the room and I admitted how irresponsible I was about Urban Gardens, I had tried to take an afternoon nap. But Momma’s diary kept taunting me. From my ages of seven to eleven, she snuck around Dad’s back, covering her indiscretions. Uncle Red offered the attention and affection that a mother desired and a daughter required.
For some time, the memories consumed me—had they resurfaced? Or were they false?
But I can’t help the knots in my gut as I now recall wishing Uncle Red was my father. Then the fire accident at his lab. That day, he should’ve died, but my mom’s spunkiness, everything that made her feisty, everything that was in Gina’s genetic makeup died instead.
Dad had a business trip, so Momma and I hit the road. I was excited because for an entire month, she was a ball of tension, silently brooding. I had even heard my mom and grandmother talk about the hospital. Someone badly burned.
All around town, we drove with no destination. The trip seemed like a complete circle for an eleven-year-older like me, who was just learning direction. Momma would get out of the car, bang on a door, and come right back. Each time, Momma’s eyes glossed over with fresh, unfallen tears. I kept my head in a book as we drove around to various places. Each time she got out, I’d put my book down and try to figure out why Momma was so frantic. Our last stop was at a condominium in the Bronx, which I’d return to over half my life later.
Gina beat on the garage door. She came to the car and said, “Luxxie, Momma needs you to do something for me.”
I nodded.
“Uncle Red is sick right now, okay? He looks a little different, do you understand?”
Eyes wide, my head bobbled, though I was confused.
“Good.” Gina smiled for the first time in a month. She took my hand, and I got out. Though I was almost twelve, Mom treated me like I was still six years old as we walked around the townhouses. She said Uncle Red had been in a hospital. I was worried about him, but Mom’s voice was so shaky that I didn’t want to interrupt and question her.
“He’s home now.” Her voice broke as we stopped at the front porch of the condominium. “Now, that window is open. It’s too tiny for me to squeeze into. Go in and open the door for Momma. I just want to talk to Uncle Red. He’s probably in bed asleep, so don’t disturb him. Just let me in first.”
Momma hoisted me up to the window that was about as high up as her shoulder. Pulling in oxygen, I jumped onto the tiled floor of the bathroom. I slowly walked out. The entire place was dark, windows drawn tightly. But there were boxes on the floor and construction equipment everywhere as if the condo was being remodeled.
“Luxxie?”
“Uncle Red!” I turned around with a smile. I ran toward him, needing to talk to him. To tell him about this boy who made fun of my freckles and called me shit face. As I ran to Charles, I noticed bandages about his waist and face. One bandage was coming undone. The reddish-burnt skin from his cheeks made me gasp.