Wrath: A Sinful Secrets Romance, page 10
But Coach McGee cuts in. "Miller, can you take your brother up to Fairplay Hospital? Someone needs to look at him. It won't take long."
Coach Nix flashes a light from his cell phone at Ezra's face, and Ezra recoils.
"He needs to go," Coach Nix says gravely. He looks from Ezra to me, and back to Ezra. "Any headache, sensitivity to light or nausea, spinning, dizziness, or weakness—that's all signs of a concussion. You go down and don't get up and don't remember, that's concussion stuff. I want you boys going to the ER. It won't be a long wait."
"Okay." Ezra nods, and I can tell it hurts because his eyes tighten a little. "Josh will take me."
The coaches look at me and nod, and Brennan offers to carry my cello case, which makes me laugh. "I've still got two arms, man."
"So do I," Ezra says darkly. Brennan steps over to the pile of backpacks in the grass and scoops up Ezra’s black one. I grab it from him.
"I can get it."
Ezra swipes the thing out of my hand like a damn raptor, tosses it over his shoulder, and starts striding toward the parking lot.
"Make him do it," Brennan hisses.
"I will."
For all his bluster, Ezra's walking slowly. I catch up to him in just a minute. “Your head hurt?”
"No."
"Stubborn ass."
"Doesn't hurt, dude. I'm not going to the fucking Small Town General Hospital either."
"What? You have to."
He scoffs. "Says who?"
"They said you can't play till you do."
"I can do an online doc appointment. Who will tell me I can't?"
I'm so surprised, I'm not sure what to say. He picks up the pace as we move around the front right corner of the school building, starting into the circle drive which leads into the mostly empty parking lot.
"Your dad will make you go,” I tell him. “When we get home—"
"He won't know."
That makes me laugh. “Hell yes he will.”
He turns to me. "No, he won't. Because you’re not going to tell him." He looks furious, like he might hit me—if he doesn’t throw up first.
"Are you always this pigheaded?" I ask.
"Are you always such a goddamn do gooder?"
I laugh again—because he’s so ridiculous. "This isn't do gooder. They said you got knocked out."
"I didn't." He makes this sound that’s kind of like a laugh, but with a rough edge on it. "Bullshit. It wasn't even a hard hit, but I was tired from last night."
I want to jab him there, but I won't. "We're going to the ER like I told them I would. I'm taking you now."
"Good luck with that." He stalks off between two parked cars. I blink, but he just keeps going.
"Are you fucking serious with this shit?" I shout.
He moves into the next row of cars and picks up his pace. I jog after. "Dude, what are you doing? Are you okay?"
He whirls on me—only for a second, so I can't read his face before he's walking again. "I'll get home. The only thing I need from you is keep your fucking mouth shut, Millsy."
I can't let him walk to the house. Not with a concussion. That's the only thing on my mind when I shout, "Okay—fuck. Turn around, you motherfucker!" I cup my hands around my mouth to shout, "I'll take you home!"
He stops. Stubborn jackass.
"That's right,” I shout. “Turn on around and let me take you home, ya stubborn ass."
He turns around. He's about a hundred feet up the way, walking in the grass that runs beside the road in front of the school. I can't see his face for the bright sunlight, so I wave him toward me and keep badgering, hoping he’ll come.
"C'mon, angel face. Let's get it movin'."
I just need to get him home. Then I can talk to Mom or Carl. Every step he takes toward me, he looks just a little worse. Got knocked out and just wants to forget about it. Dumbass.
I walk toward my car, still waving, and open the passenger side door. Then I start pointing at it like a host on Wheel of Fortune.
I watch his lips twitch. He presses them flat, because God forbid he smile at me. But I still see the corners dimpling.
"What the fuck?" he mutters as he nears me. He shakes his head, then winces.
"Get in, friend." I take his backpack, pleased when he does what I tell him to. I shut the door and stash his bag in the backseat before realizing that he needs his water, so I get his bottle out of the pocket on the side of the bag.
"Here you go."
"Wouldn't say we're friends," he mumbles as I slide behind the wheel. He's got his seat back just a little, and one arm draped over his eyes.
"Probably frenemies. Or stepfuckers." I blanch when I realize what I just said. "Not that kind of fuckers," I choke.
I can hear him snicker from behind his arm. "Knew you're sweet on me, but that's some fucked up shit."
"Fuck off, Masters."
"I thought I was angel."
"I said angel face. And angry angel." I roll my eyes at my own stupidity as I back out of my parking spot.
"I'm not angry." He says it so quietly that I almost don't hear.
"Are you hangry?" I'm not sure what else to say. My face is still hot from stepfuckers.
"No." He leans his chair back more, lowers his arm, and folds a hand over his eyes, rubbing his temples lightly with his fingertips.
I see his face twist in a grimace as I pull onto the main road. "You okay?"
"You shouldn't give me a ride." His voice is low and groaned.
My stomach flips at his tone. "Why not?"
He shakes his head, and then his other hand comes to his face. "Pull over."
"What?"
"Stop the car! NOW."
I pull over on a grassy shoulder, and he lunges out, slamming the door shut before bending over in the grass.
“Damn.” I feel almost sorry for his stubborn ass. That he's new, and he’s a freak dickface who's also clearly miserable. At least I think he is. I guess I could be wrong.
I make a mental note to ask my mom more questions about him. Then he's straightening up. I watch as he pulls his sweat-soaked T-shirt off and wipes his face with it. He moves slowly toward the car and pulls the back door open.
"Sorry," he rasps as he leans his head against the headrest. He puts a hand over his face, clutching the T-shirt to his bare chest. He's breathing hard, and I can see the muscles of his abs flex.
I jerk my eyes away.
"You should drink some water." I'm holding his drink out, but he doesn't take it. He cracks his window first.
"Are you hot?" I ask.
"What do you think, DG?"
He takes his drink from my hand, and I watch him chug some in the rearview mirror as I point us toward home.
"You need to get looked at. Seriously, dude."
"What will they do for me?" He lowers his hand from his face, so I can see his dark eyes and flushed cheeks. His hair is damp. He runs a hand back through it, swiping it out of his eyes. "I'll sleep it off."
"I don't think you're supposed to sleep. Also—"
"I'm not going."
I sigh as I turn onto our street. "What am I supposed to tell your dad and my mom? Nothing? What if something happens to you?"
“What if something does?” He smiles weakly at me in the rear-view. "Nobody dies from a concussion, DG."
"It's like...unethical for me to not tell them."
"Ah, ethics. An Eagle Scout is always ethical."
"Don't be a dick. I know it’s your thing, but it won't work. You need to let me take you. Or you need to go with your dad." I hang a right into our driveway, and he sits up straighter.
"How about this, then? If you tell, I'll tell." Ezra arches one of his dark brows. "What do you think about that?"
It takes me a second to realize what he’s saying. After that, a moment to find words. "That's fucked up, you know. That’s…just wrong."
He snorts as he throws his car door open. "Yeah? Not everybody gives a shit."
When I get inside, he’s nowhere in sight. I assume he successfully dodged my mom, because she comes into the foyer as I hang my backpack on the hook, and she’s clearly in greeting mode.
“Hi, honey. How was your day?”
I frown at the tiny plastic bag of screws and small parts she’s holding.
“I’m assembling a new bookshelf for Ezra,” she says.
“Really?”
“Well, he needs a good one. I talked with him the other day about reading, and he likes all the classics. He said he left most of his books at his mother’s, but every student needs a bookshelf.” She smiles. “How was your first day of school, honey?”
I tell my mom it was great. I don’t tell her a damn thing about dickface.
“Have you seen Ezra?” she asks.
“Pretty sure he went straight upstairs.”
“Surely he must need some sort of after school snack…”
“He might be showering from football. I think they had a hard practice.”
“Well that’s not very first-day like, is it?”
Yada yada—she asks a few more questions, and I quickly answer—and then I’m heading upstairs, eager to see if dickface keeled over before he got to his room. I find his door locked, along with the bathroom door on my side.
Motherfucker.
I go back to his bedroom door and knock a few times. “If you shut yourself up in there, I’m telling them. I don’t care what you do.”
That’s when I hear the distant sound of someone puking.
Ohhh.
I go to my bathroom door.
“Hey, angel face.” I press my mouth into the crack between the door and door jam. “You okay in there?”
I think I can hear him breathing. Then the sink is running. A minute or so later, he turns on the shower.
“Tell me you’re okay, and I’ll fuck off.”
Annnd of course he doesn’t. This prick never makes it easy.
I pick the lock with a clothes hanger and stand there at the door, trying to decide what to do. I have to either tell my mom or check on him. He might be fine and just a stubborn ass, but what if he passed out or something?
I knock one more time, and then I open the door.
I find him standing on the bathmat wearing nothing but a tan line. For a long second, I can’t even get my eyes to blink. He’s long and lean and built and…long. Jesus, he’s hung like a bull. I realize he’s scowling like one, too.
“Take a picture, DG.” His voice sounds hoarse. He wraps a hand around his cock, which only makes my dick get stiffer. “Or maybe you’d rather draw one.”
He’s sneering at me again, but he looks like shit. His hair and face are wet, as if he just splashed them in the sink, his eyelids heavy like he’s half asleep.
Still, I’m not letting him pick at me again. I make sure my voice is firm as I say, “I came in to check on you, you chickenshit.”
His glazed eyes narrow. “I know that’s not true. As soon as you heard the shower, you were picking the lock to get an eyeful for your sketch collection.”
“What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“I’d say nothing.” He looks down at himself. “What do you think, though? You’ve seen a lot of dicks, right?” His mouth does something that’s a cross between a cruel smile and smirk.
“Fuck you, Ezra.”
“You been wanting to?” He smiles, but it looks like it hurts. His whole face is tight with what must be a killer headache.
“You look like you feel like shit.”
“I don’t.”
“You’re being stupid,” I say.
He steps into the shower, angling his hips away from me as he does. When he’s in there, his low voice says, “You sound like a guy who wants to be outed.”
“You sound like you’re scared of going. Do you have a phobia or something?”
“Only of you sliding into my bed at night.”
“Don’t be a homophobe, fuckface. It’s not a good look.”
“I’m not afraid of all the homos. Just the ones that come into the bathroom when I’m naked.”
“Yeah, I came in here to see you naked.” I roll my eyes.
“Did I pass your boner test?”
“You’re such a dick.” I can’t suppress an amazed laugh.
“Why don’t you go draw it now? Do they know you’re gay at church?”
My stomach flips at that thought. “If you tell them, you’ll fucking regret it.”
“Oh look, the twinky little cello boy is making threats now.”
I’m not going to take this shit from him, so I step out and shut the door just hard enough to let him know he can fuck off without alerting my mom.
I’m so pissed, it takes almost an hour for me to realize he got exactly what he wanted. I left Ezra alone. I knock on his bedroom door again, out of nothing but a sense of obligation.
“Not dead yet. Sorry,” he calls from the other side of the door.
He’s so hostile. And so fucking volatile. I wonder what the hell is wrong with him.
Twelve
Ezra
August 5, 2017
My very own journal. Wowzers, I’ve always wanted one of these! You can call me Mark Twain, baby.
Yeah…no one is reading this shit. I don’t care what Paul the supreme ruler of the fuck-up empire told us. I’m going to guard it with my life, and at the end of my time here, I’m going to burn it.
I’m at Alton, if you can’t tell. Whoever YOU are. I guess no one. Pretty sure they’re never going to check these things. There’s no reason to write anything at all, except I can’t sleep.
Anyway, today was the day. Got on a plane that flew from Richmond to the Bangor Airport in Maine. Some curly-haired woman in a white T-shirt with “Alton Academy” on the pocket was waiting for me right there where I got off the plane- just in case I tried to run.
We waited around for almost four hours as a bunch of other fuck ups flew in. One of the planes came from Brazil, so I guess they’ve got some fuck ups there, too.
Anyway, us fuck ups got on a bus. Regular yellow bus, but not doing regular bus stuff. We had assigned seats. They gave us bag lunches, like a third grade field trip. They had wavy chips and everything.
The bus drove us way out into the boonies. The Allagash Wilderness is what it’s called. We’re in a forest- a real one- right up at the Maine-Canada border.
Woods for miles and miles, crisscrossed by little streams and creeks and at least one big river.
Was it how I thought it would be? I don’t know. And you don’t care. Cause you’re not a person, are you?
I will say- it was cold. As soon as the sun started to go down, it didn’t feel like summer anymore.
The road we were on was really narrow, like it’s just for one car at a time. But it was paved. I wish I could remember if it was a county road or what, but that doesn’t matter. I’m not trying to escape. They told us there’s a big fence all around the place. Like prison.
Looking out the bus windows before it got dark, we saw some people rafting on the river and a few cabins here and there. But for most of the way, it was just woods. These are different than the stuff back in Virginia. Different trees. More conifers, I think, or maybe they’re called evergreens? It’s dense and dark, like something from a fairy tale. Lots of ivy and this forest floor that’s got a lot of…bush-type stuff. You feel like you could get lost here.
I figure the bus ride was a fitting start. Everything started in a bus, didn’t it? Buses ruined my life and then this bus drove me up here where I’m supposed to fix it.
Bottom line- it doesn’t matter. All of that shit’s in the past now.
All I need to focus on is moving forward. Even Coach Bert is in on the plan. I promised him I’ll work the program here as fast as possible, hopefully in just a few weeks. Then I’ll be back. I’m not the first one from my school to go to Alton Academy. “Academy.” - note the quotations.
On paper, it’ll look like I tried a new school and didn’t like it, so I transferred back to Beechwood Christian. Sounds like nbd, right?
I keep thinking about Smithson starting as QB. All the scouts coming to see me senior year, and I’m not there. Because I’m here.
Sometimes I can’t believe this happened at all. But it’s what I deserve. After this past year, something had to change.
I helped pick this place and I agreed to come here. Now just get through. And get back to my starting spot.
Thirteen
Ezra
August 2018
The do gooder looks peaceful. He’s lying on his stomach, one arm wrapped around a pillow, sheets tangled around his knees. Now that I’ve been lurking in his room for a while, I can see him better. Eyes adjusted to the dark and all that.
He’s got on boxer briefs. I keep looking at the way they fit him, looking at him in the bed. Weird iron bed—reminds me of another bed. His briefs seem almost too tight in the moonlight streaming through his bedroom window. But I can’t tell for sure unless I move a little closer.
I’m by the bathroom door, leaned up against his wall. I’m drinking Propel. I don’t want to go back to the stuff I quit, even though I can’t tell right now if how I feel is from the practice hit or from the lack of stuff.
I want to feel better. In the daytime… Everything is always better when the sun is up.
Miller shifts onto his side. One of his knees comes up and out, as if he’s trying to press his dick into the mattress.
I don’t look there. Only at his legs. Sometimes he says stuff at the dinner table about being a dough boy, but he’s not. His legs are all hard muscle. They’re dusted with dark hair, and thick in both the quads and calves.
He sleeps without his shirt, so I can see he doesn’t have pudge. I can’t see his ribs one by one, the way I can still see mine, but he looks good. He looks healthy. He’s got at least a four-pack happening, and his biceps are sturdy and strong.
I wonder what it would feel like to touch him. If his skin would be soft. I look at his face and think of how he wanted that guy Arnie to touch it.
His lips are full, his cheekbones wide and high. His nose turns up a little at the tip. And he’s got freckles.
