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Everything you (didn’t) need to know about Ilya’s Orange Porsche
Let’s start with some basic car facts:
The specific car that Ilya drives in the book is a Porsche 918 Spyder. It looks like this:
This car was only manufactured from 2013 - 2015.
Cost: The starting price was $845,000. It was actually not available in orange from the factory, which means that Ilya’s is a custom color. There was also a racing sport package (the Weissach package) available with this car that cost an extra $84,000, which, for the sake of this post, I am assuming Ilya ordered. This means that he spent at least 1 million USD on this car.
Engine: The Porsche 918 has a hybrid-electric motor, so yes, Ilya drives a hybrid. A really, REALLY fast hybrid. It can go from 0-60 in 2.6 seconds. It has done a bunch of very impressive race car things, which I will not go into detail about but I am 100% sure that Ilya knows every single stat and tells Shane about all of them in excruciating detail when he’s drunk.
Body Style: It is a two seater convertible. Kind of. The 918 has what is called a Targa Top, which is a Porsche-specific thing that means there is a removable roof section with a full roll bar that goes across the back of both seats. The roll bar is there in case the car… rolls. It’s basically a piece of metal that keeps the top of the car (and therefore your head) from being crushed in the event of a collision. It is called a Targa Top for race car reasons that I will not get into, but I will say that Connor is driving a vintage Porsche Targa in this photo shoot for Vogue Adria.
Which is not actually relevant but is a fun fact. (Sorry about my shitty screenshot, I couldn’t find a non-Instagram image of this)
Transmission: The 918 has a manual transmission but is NOT a stick shift, because it has a really, really complicated gear box so it has what is known as a paddle shifter, which essentially means that the shifting is controlled via two little levers behind the steering wheel.
Other Fun Facts: The sports package also came with body-hugging race seats, which could make any potential sexy car times pretty difficult, but these are two professional athletes fueled by an inherent need to fuck nasty 24/7 and I believe in them. It is also only 45” tall, which is going to make going through the drive thru problematic. And because this is a Porsche, it is a mid-engine sports car, meaning that the engine is located in the (approximate) middle of the car, so sadly no dirty fucking on the hood after Ilya has been working under it because the engine is not under there.
In conclusion: If Ilya had to pick one car to keep from his European sports car collection, this is a pretty excellent option. It’s fast, horrifically expensive, and there are only like 5 of them in Canada, which makes him an extra special princess. Plus it’s a hybrid so it’s good for the environment, Shane.
1777 words
Rating: Mature
Troy Barrett/Harris Drover, Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov
Note: I promise that Adrian does not win, lol. Happy ending and all of that!
Justin had dumped Adrian last week, and Adrian, feeling a little lonely and a lot horny, thought that maybe he could slide back into Troy’s life now that Troy had come out. It made perfect sense to Adrian that a handsome actor and a handsome athlete would be unstoppable - their combined fame would skyrocket. They’d be handed exclusive interviews, accept brand deals, be invited to the most private parties. Adrian thrilled as his mind raced, conjuring images of having Troy on his arm at Bar Lis, paps catching candids of them going out for iced coffee, and perhaps having their own extravagant wedding attended by Hollywood elite and hockey players alike.
Only one problem stood in the way: the scruffy man who was grinding against Troy’s ass and kissing his neck. Adrian scoffed. He’d seen the pictures posted on Troy’s Instagram and knew his name was Harris and that they’d proudly posted a picture of them grinning in front of their new home, some fucking barn out in Bumfuck, Ontario.
1777 words
Rating: Mature
Troy Barrett/Harris Drover, Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov
Note: I promise that Adrian does not win, lol. Happy ending and all of that!
Justin had dumped Adrian last week, and Adrian, feeling a little lonely and a lot horny, thought that maybe he could slide back into Troy’s life now that Troy had come out. It made perfect sense to Adrian that a handsome actor and a handsome athlete would be unstoppable - their combined fame would skyrocket. They’d be handed exclusive interviews, accept brand deals, be invited to the most private parties. Adrian thrilled as his mind raced, conjuring images of having Troy on his arm at Bar Lis, paps catching candids of them going out for iced coffee, and perhaps having their own extravagant wedding attended by Hollywood elite and hockey players alike.
Only one problem stood in the way: the scruffy man who was grinding against Troy’s ass and kissing his neck. Adrian scoffed. He’d seen the pictures posted on Troy’s Instagram and knew his name was Harris and that they’d proudly posted a picture of them grinning in front of their new home, some fucking barn out in Bumfuck, Ontario.
Scott had never imagined that he’d be at a brewery sharing beer with the love of his life, in public, yet here he was. His anxiety had trained him for years to hide who and what he was.
Over the last couple of months that anxiety lessened, brick by terrible brick crumbling away. He'd practiced not retreating from Kip’s touch in public, fingers sliding between Kip’s, shaking at first, then calming after Kip gave him a reassuring smile. He’d stopped wearing sunglasses and eventually ditched wearing a hat. “You look so handsome,” Kip said, which stamped down the nerves that had risen up in his chest.
Well, he used to hate it. In California, everything was neon, jewel tones, ocean blues. It was black concert shirts next to neon crop tops and sheer white mesh. It was pink. It was energy. It was electricity.
Brown, to Billy in his first few months, meant fucking Hawkins. Fucking Indiana. Dirt, mud, cow manure. Expanses of dull farmland. It meant shit. It meant a boring life away from vibrant lights and crashing waves. It might as well have symbolized a flatline.
Then Steve fucking Harrington changed all of that.
Steve showed up to school one day in a soft brown sweater in February, just slid into a desk and pulled out his notebook, sweater jammed up his forearms, displaying a smattering of brown hair. He slid a pen behind his ear into that stupid chestnut hair, looked at the chalkboard with eyes the same color.
Fuck, Billy thought.
Steve started talking to Billy not long after. Just shooting the shit, basketball games, chemistry notes, new movies, whatever, just talking. Billy couldn’t understand why, didn’t think he deserved it, but still fixated on those little brown moles on Steve’s face.
In March, Brian Douglas had a St. Patrick’s Day party. Steve showed up late, wearing a chocolate-colored jacket. Looking like a Hershey’s fucking Kiss. White snowflakes gathered and slid down his shoulders.
Billy grabbed the sleeve of Steve’s jacket and pulled him behind the shed, shoved him against the wall. Gave him a second to say no.
Steve’s eyes dropped to Billy’s lips.
Billy pressed his lips to Steve’s, forever remembering that jacket as the beginning of the end.
Brown was soft. It was Steve. Billy loved the color brown. He always would.
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