Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 85167 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 426(@200wpm)___ 341(@250wpm)___ 284(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85167 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 426(@200wpm)___ 341(@250wpm)___ 284(@300wpm)
It was hard to forget days when he’d had none of the above. Those years when his every waking breath was tinged with anxiety about what the next breath would bring. When he’d been constantly afraid of another cigarette burn, another brutal fuck, another monster who’d choke him hard enough he’d pass out. More bruises, more physiological manipulation. Another in a seemingly endless line of moments when he didn’t know if he’d live to see the next.
All those nights hiding under his bed, hoping and praying not to be found because he knew what would happen if—when—he was. All those men touching him, rubbing on him, sniffing him, biting him—hurting him. Their straining terrible faces all blended together into one horrible monstrous mask, the same nightmare he used to draw on every surface he got his hands on until his teachers had called his mother about it.
The same horror that still kept him up at night.
Those were the memories that clung to the deep dark places inside him. The ones that still knocked the wind out of him that made sleeping through the night problematic and kept him alone.
It didn’t matter what he did, shame that clung to everything. Logic didn’t work. No matter how often he reminded himself that his body was merely reacting to physical stimulation—it hadn’t been real desire. He’d been young, hormonal, manipulated, abused...
It hadn’t been his fault. It was one thing to understand something, it was another to believe it. Tam was still working on the latter.
Only during dance could he free those buried emotions and let them move through him.
Most people saw art. They thought he was creative.
For him it was a purge, a release. A necessity. Without it, there was a high probability that he would implode. After last night’s puzzling development, he needed this chance to shake it all off without anyone watching. To just sink into his thoughts and feelings, to live them for just a second so letting them go didn’t hurt as much.
If he didn’t, his nerves about the not-a-date with Driver would consume him. And even though he’d argued about going, Tam absolutely did not want to be a twitchy wreck. It was time to pull himself back together and find his inner diva. Time to let the sassy boy out to strut.
The first song that played was Molly Sandén’s “Freak.”
He wasn’t classically trained in contemporary dance, but it was one of his favorite styles—particularly with songs that emoted so powerfully. With each shift in tempo he changed direction, tumbled and leaped and spun with increasing intensity, matching the melody and lyrics. At the end he stood in the center of the room, hair wild, hands clenched into fists, and stared at himself in the mirror.
There was defiance in his reflection’s eyes.
Defiance and determination.
He might be a freak. He might never outrun his history, but he wouldn’t stop trying. He wouldn’t stop fighting.
His monsters wouldn’t win.
* * *
At six, Driver helped the rest of the crew put the tools away and began sweeping the site with one of the massive push brooms Fitch had at the space. They were renovating an old shopping center because some genius developer wanted to create an artists’ co-op, a space where creative people could live and work. The blueprints looked amazing, large open spaces surrounded by smaller private units. The building doubled as a gallery too so visitors could come in and experience the masterpieces, maybe even buy them.
Everyone involved seemed inspired by the idea, even Fitch, who didn’t appear to be the most creatively open guy. Yet he dated Ansel, who was definitely an original piece of work.
Driver was just happy Fitch needed extra hands and wasn’t worried about his lack of a long-term commitment. It could be hard to find work when you didn’t know where you’d be laying your head the next night. It meant sometimes he had to do jobs normal people would turn up their noses at.
One month he’d been so desperate after a few bad-luck incidents, including a ruptured tire and a pickpocket, that he’d spent an entire day cleaning port-o-potties. It had probably been the worst job he’d ever taken, but it had earned him enough money to fix his tire, buy some dinner, and afford a nice hotel that night.
And he’d learned not to keep all his money in one place.
He’d opened a real bank account the next day. And even though he preferred cash, he made a point to put a little away whenever he got paid. So when Fitch handed him his day’s earnings, he automatically divided it up. He still needed to deposit what he’d earned from Brandon as well.
“Thanks, man, you were a real help today.” Fitch clapped him on the shoulder.
“No problem. I should be thanking you. Need me again tomorrow?”