The Broken People [Book 2]

Chapter Three: Aperture

"Hey".

Mark slowly looked up from his camera roll and he took in a sharp breath as he saw Thomas standing before him. There was a certain stillness in his posture that gave away Thomas's nerves. Mark decided to bite down his feelings and pretend nothing was wrong. Thomas had wanted to act like strangers.

"Hi," Mark said, as he squared his shoulders and adopted an air of nonchalance.

Thomas quickly glanced around, noting that that pesky reporter was nowhere to be seen and that no one stood too close to them. He let out a jaded breath and bit the inside of his cheek.

"We have to talk," he said as fast as he could.

"We do?!" Mark replied with a raised eyebrow. "I thought we just met. Whatever would we have to talk about?" He was being petty and he loved it. This was all Thomas's fault.

"Don't be like that..." Thomas muttered with a sigh. "I need to talk to you," he pleaded.

Mark stood up, smacking his lips while doing so, and smiled down at Thomas. It had taken Thomas a week of daily practices to go up to him and say something more than an introduction. And this was all he could come up with? I need to talk to you.

"What you have to say to me... is about," Mark paused, acting as if he was thinking deeply, "seven years too late".

"Mark," Thomas snapped, sucking the breath out of Mark's lungs with his sharp tone. "I'll text you the address. Please come to my apartment after practice. To talk," he said.

Mark shook his head. "I've changed my phone number. I'll get your address from Dean".

***

About three hours later Mark was doing breathing exercises on his way up the apartment building where Thomas lived. He had chosen to walk up the stairs, even though Thomas lived on one of the highest floors. Mark didn't like elevators at all. He was thoroughly out of breath by the time he reached the floor Dean had told him. How much money did Thomas make to afford to live this high up?

Hesitating for a second, he finally knocked and waited for Thomas to open up. Thomas's hair was still damp from the shower he had taken after practice. He was wearing an oversized, long-sleeved shirt and low-hanging, gray sweatpants. He didn't say anything to Mark, but he made space for him to enter.

"How much money do you make?!" Mark exclaimed, not being able to hold himself back, as his eyes went over the room.

Thomas lowered his head and awkwardly scratched the back of his neck. There was a definite blush on his face.

"More than I deserve..." he muttered.

Mark rose an eyebrow at that, unable to respond as he was still aghast by everything before him. Every piece of furniture he could see had to have to cost a fortune and he couldn't even begin to fathom the view the glass wall offered.

"Don't be like that. I saw your car..." Thomas said. Mark turned to give him a pointed look.

"I own a sports car, not a fucking luxury penthouse!" he snapped with a smile.

Thomas bit his lip and didn't say anything, allowing Mark to take everything in. A few moments later, Mark stopped looking at his surroundings and turned to Thomas, seemingly ready to hear him out.

"Do you want a drink?" Thomas asked him.

Mark's lips parted and he squinted at Thomas. "It's midday..."

Despite Mark's reply, Thomas walked to the tray on the console table behind him and poured himself a glass of what looked like whiskey. He looked at Mark, who had one eyebrow raised, lifted the glass to his lips, and finished the drink with one swing. The liquid burned his throat as it went down, but he didn't flinch. Instead, he looked at Mark and let out a heavy breath.