Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 83542 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 418(@200wpm)___ 334(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83542 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 418(@200wpm)___ 334(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Damon: No. And if I have to miss my flight home because something’s happened, he’ll be calling Maddox to explain why.
Me: I’m sure everything’s fine. He just wasn’t happy when he got back and now he’s left again.
Damon: Isn’t your sole job at the moment to keep tabs on the man?
Me: I was caught off guard.
Lies. Total lies.
Damon: Why don’t you call him?
Me: Because I’m not dumb enough to think he’ll answer. What did you actually tell him?
Damon: The truth. His ass is on the line. We’re all sick of the shit. He needs to sort himself out. Not to sleep with you.
I blink at the last line, not surprised at all that Oskar had that conversation but surprised that Damon mentioned it.
Me: Why do I feel like you’re telling me the same thing?
Damon: Because I am. He’s hot and he’s persistent when he knows what he wants.
Me: Noted.
I toss my phone on the couch and scrub both hands over my face with a scowl. Damon isn’t telling me anything I don’t already know, and I’d be offended over him doubting my professionalism if I hadn’t already jerked it to the sound of Oskar getting himself off. And if I didn’t want to do it again despite all my warning signals telling me to abort that hot mess.
But no. Fucking Oskar and his fucking emotions. He just had to go and put it out there, and now I can’t close the door on how those vibrant blue eyes dulled at whatever memories he has.
I’d almost be relieved to find out he was playing me and none of it was real.
I pace some more, pick up my drink, and set it back down again. And as I cast my eyes around the room, it sticks out to me that there aren’t any photos. Sure, he’s younger than me and has social media accounts full of them, but while I don’t have a lot of ties to people, I have some Polaroids from a snow trip I took with my PR team back in Dallas framed on the den wall. I have a picture of my college buddies from back in the day, even though we’ve all lost touch over the years. And once upon a time, I had a photo of my parents and me on my desk with the hope that they’d someday come around and accept me for who I am. That never happened, and I got sick of staring at the stupid picture where we all looked so happy, so I threw it in the trash. But I still had it.
Oskar has … nothing.
It’s not only photos missing; there are no books, no trinkets, nothing decorative. His place is minimal and staged, but there’s literally nothing in it that screams Oskar.
Stop trying to psychoanalyze him, jackass.
He’s probably got hard drives full of his personal sex tapes hidden under his bed. Or, knowing him, stills of them printed off and plastered over his bedroom walls.
My mind gets stuck on his bedroom.
Surely there’d be something personal in there, and I can’t help wondering what kind of thing a guy like Oskar finds important.
Of course, it’d be completely inappropriate for me to go snooping. Even in the name of finding out more about the guy I’m supposed to be babysitting.
But given I’ve failed at my job multiple times already, does any of it really matter? By the end of the night, there’s likely to be photos or videos of Oskar’s dick being shared all over the internet. Hell, maybe he’ll even take it all the way and go live as he fucks someone.
I clench my jaw at that thought, and I wish I could say it was because of how it would destroy both of our careers, but nope. That nasty feeling taking hold is straight up jealousy over the thought of someone else getting to have him that way.
Before I can follow that line of thinking to places that would only get me in trouble, my phone gets an obnoxiously loud alert.
Damon: I’ve spoken to him and he made me promise not to tell you where he is. So I won’t. But I’m sure you’ll be getting a call soon.
Almost as soon as I’ve read those words, a call lights up my screen.
“Hello?”
“Hey, is this Lane Pierce?”
“It is …” I say hesitantly, not recognizing the voice.
“This is June from the San Jose training facility. I thought you might like to know that Oskar Voyjik and Aleksander Emerson are here.”
I hurry to thank her and hang up, unsure what to do with that information. Oskar … isn’t out? He’s not blowing up both our lives?
None of it is computing in my brain.
I trusted him and gave him space, and somehow—somehow—he made an actual decent choice. But enough playing chicken with both of our careers, and enough of this animosity between us. This shows Oskar wants to do better, doesn’t it? This shows the guy I knew was hidden deep down is in there. I’m almost dizzy at the realization.