Wrath: A Sinful Secrets Romance, page 17
“Yeah, man.”
Brennan hasn’t noticed that DG and I aren’t bro buds. Marcel has, so he shoots me a look. I arch a brow at him and head out the cabin’s front door. Greene, one of the running backs, is overseeing the fish situation. He’s standing on the front porch in front of something that looks a little like a grill, but I guess it’s some sort of fryer.
“Dude, is there hot grease in that thing?”
“It’s hot in here.” He nods. “Won’t hurt you.”
I make a yeah right face at him, and start through the trees. I was so distracted earlier when I got out of the Jeep, I left my Marlboros in there.
I don't need the cigarettes, though. Every second I keep moving toward the Jeep takes me farther from DG and that fuck Arnie. Who names their kid Arnie? What kind of college dude comes home on weekends to chase someone younger? Wait—but Arnie might not be chasing DG. Maybe he's just here, being a small-town loser.
Walking through the woods alone at night, hearing the pine straw crackling under my shoes... It reminds me of other shit. But there's twangy country music drifting through the muggy air, and I can hear the noise of people talking on the big porch that’s tacked on the back side of the cabin.
I grab my Marlboro Lights, plus my lighter. I think of DG in the car when I climbed in from smoking by the roadside. Telling me I smelled like a fucking ashtray. Goading me. Because he hates that I'm a liar, or because I said the shit with us is over?
I light a cigarette and smoke as much of it as I can before I step into the clearing where Greene is working on the catfish. He motions me over, wanting to show me how the frier works. I try to act interested even as I'm gritting my molars. Then it's back inside to find that my plan didn’t work. The pool table has been commandeered by Cara, Landry, and some of their friends; Brennan and DG are nowhere in sight. As soon as the girls see me, Cara waves me over.
"Listen," she says softly, as I search the room for DG. "James is here, and I can tell he's jealous. Landry told him you and me are a thing. Can you play with us and do some flirting?" she asks. The word sounds like flirtin' in her accent.
"Sure." I try not to let her hear me sigh. We start a new game. She says, "Pretend I'm a bad shot and you have to help me."
I wink and give her a rakish grin—right at the moment a door at the back of the room opens, and Arnie, Miller, Marcel, and a couple others come through. Marcel's hauling something: a card table.
They start playing cards. The game is loud, and it gets louder as they go. James comes in and joins them, and he's watching Cara and me as I give him the show Cara asked for. DG looks up when I'm standing slightly behind Cara, helping her adjust her pool stick. I can't help brushing my lips over the nape of her neck.
She shivers, and it's totally real. Then she's laughing. She turns her back to the card game, wraps her arms around my neck, and she says, "Ezra Masters. That was naughty. Downright dirty. You...scoundrel."
Over her shoulder, I see DG. Dude's looking in our direction. I wrap my arms around Cara, giving her a hug I probably need more than she does.
She beams up at me like I'm her hero. It feels good to be the nice guy for once.
"Is he looking?" she whispers.
"Oh yeah." I haven't been keeping a close eye on James—I was too busy scoping out DG—but dude is definitely glaring at us right now.
Landry, as it turns out, is pretty good at pool. I guess she’s been holding back to give James a chance to see me helping Cara, but she must be bored now because she starts sinking all the stripes. I have to go after the solids. I pretend my back's not sweaty underneath my shirt. That my hands don't want to break the fucking pool stick.
Arnie's re-located; now he's beside DG.
The next time I look, DG's got his cheek in his palm, his elbow propped on the card table. He looks tired. When he gets up a second later, disappearing through a door I figure must be a restroom or bedroom, I try not to stare a hole in Arnie. Don't you do it, fucker. When a few minutes have passed and Arnie's still playing cards, I excuse myself and try the door DG went into.
It’s a bathroom—hunter green tiles and a green and brown duck shower curtain. There's a door at the other end of the small room, and that door is open. I move through the lamplit bathroom into another small room, a dark space that makes my fucking stomach flip so hard I almost can't step forward.
"DG?" He doesn't answer, but I think I hear him breathing. "That you?" I ask, stepping toward the soft sound. My eyes adjust, and I see...a couch? Yep. He's sitting on a couch that's pushed against the bedroom's back wall. Something tightens just below the base of my throat as I take another slow step toward him.
"Hey...you okay?"
"Are you a dickface?" His voice is a rasp, which makes the tightness in my throat spread down to my chest.
I notice he's holding a Solo cup in one hand. "Is it good to drink tonight?"
He takes a sip. "You should tell me. This is root beer."
I give him a smile. "I’m not drunk driving with such precious cargo."
"Fuck you, Ezra."
"Yeah, yeah. Wish you could." I step closer to him. "You’re tired. I’ve been watching you. You’re really obvious."
"Oh yeah. How is that?" He shuts his eyes and leans the back of his head against the spine of the couch. I feel bad about my lie, and the reality behind it. I wasn't watching him to see if he was okay. I was watching him with Arnie like a jealous boyfriend.
"It's just obvious to me," I tell him quietly. "You were playing pool, but you were sitting down a lot of the time otherwise. Your face is tired. When you smile, it looks tired. You need to go home."
He makes a snort sound, lifting his eyes open. "Is that right, Dad?"
"Daddy's here to take you home, kid."
His eyes hold mine. Even in the dark, I see them boring into me. "Maybe I’ve got someone else who’s gonna take me."
"Arnie?" I ask.
"Maybe."
My chest feels like someone's squeezing it. "Well, is he?"
"Might be."
"He’s a fucker if he hasn't followed you in here." Then a worse thought hits me. "Are you waiting for him?"
"No." He rubs his head. Now that my eyes are adjusting to the dark, I can confirm he looks exhausted.
I hold a hand out for him. “C’mon, Mills. Let’s go.”
"I don’t need your hand." He gets to his feet.
"You want to meet me outside? You need to say bye to anybody? Arnie Warnie?"
He shoots me a fuck-off look. "I’m ready now."
As we say bye to everybody in the living area, I notice Arnie's eyes on DG, who's telling the others he isn't feeling well.
I step outside first, and I feel him behind me half a second later.
As we pass Greene, he says, "You leaving me?"
DG gives him a smile. "Eat my piece for me."
"Can't believe y'all leaving! Yankee ain't had fried catfish."
"Next time," I promise with a soft laugh.
My throat tightens as we walk into the woods again. A cabin in the woods—I should have known I wouldn’t like it.
A sharp whistle turns my head, and I realize Brennan's jogging through the woods behind us. "You bros leaving?"
"Yeah. I've got a stomachache," DG says. "Maybe something I ate."
Brennan frowns. "What about you?" he asks me.
"One car."
He nods, probably assuming one of us is drinking.
Brennan slaps Miller’s left shoulder. I can tell it hurts because his face tightens.
“Bye, dude," Brennan tells him.
“Bye, dude’s bro.” He slaps me on the back, too.
We start walking, silence between us. DG stumbles on a tree limb jutting up out of a pile of leaves. I grab his elbow, but he snatches it back.
"It was a lapse." I hear my own words in my head as I stride out in front of him and pull his car door open.
I don’t let myself watch him get in or shut the door for him. By the time I’ve cranked the car and had a chance to look discreetly at him, he’s slumped into my passenger’s seat. He’s even got his eyes shut. I shouldn't have brought him out here.
"Lay your seat back,” I say. “I'll drive slow. Watch for deer and bears and shit."
“You should,” he says. He reclines his seat and shuts his eyes again.
“Here, I’ve got a jacket," I say, reaching for my black fleece in the backseat. "It’s clean.”
I watch as he rolls it up and leans his head against it. Then I back carefully out of my leafy parking spot and drive slowly toward the county road.
He’s quiet and still for a long time.
I saw an Eagles T-shirt in the hamper recently, so I fire up their iTunes "best of" playlist, hoping that might make him feel good. I can't tell if it works, because the next time I look down at him, he's asleep.
When he twitches, it scares me so much, I put my palm near his lips to be sure he's breathing. My hand hovers over his forehead. I want to touch it. Give his hair a little stroke. To say I'm sorry this shit sucks.
The Do Gooder with his perfect Mayberry life and all his life-long friends, his fucking cello and his soccer cleats, his little preppy car. And he can't even drive now.
I wonder how that feels. To not know what's wrong in your brain. I wonder if his tongue still hurts, and if his shoulder's bruised. Or, even worse, the back of his head. I let my hand linger over his arm. I think of touching it...holding his hand.
I want to touch him—somewhere—so bad that I almost do. Never touching him again, never feeling his hands in my hair…it makes my throat close off like I can't breathe.
But I can.
It's okay.
This shouldn't be happening to him.
He still has his good life.
What if it's a brain tumor or something?
He had childhood epilepsy, dumb shit.
It's not because I care about Mills. I'm reacting this way due to my own shit. Miller’s just a...vehicle. I like to hate him, and now I can't, so that's annoying.
It was a lapse. That's what I said, because I meant it. Fooling around with him was nothing other than a lapse in judgment. Because he's like a fucking alien to me.
Hurting him was always at the core of what I hoped to do. Make him beg and watch him writhe. I wanted power. Just until I finally get some peace.
Seven
Josh
I wake up to Ezra. I’m looking up at him from below his sharp jaw and thick throat…even below his chiseled pecs. I feel his arms around me, because I’m lying in his lap.
We’re on my bed. I slide my gaze around my room. We’re on my bed. I can see the glowing light of early morning streaming through my window.
Last night, I just walked upstairs and came to bed, right? Why is my heart racing right now?
Ezra looks down at me—all eyes.
“What happened?” I manage.
“I don’t know.” His voice is quiet. “Think you might have had a nightmare. I was up already, so I heard you.”
Ohh yeah. I remember. I had a dream about having a seizure. I was playing soccer and…
I swallow to keep my eyes from welling up, and his hand comes to my face. “Sore from when you fell in the shower?” He looks different than the asshole from last night—sympathetic, like he cares.
I nod, biting on the inside of my cheek hard enough so I won’t cry in front of him. Even the nod makes my neck ache.
His arms loosen their grip on me. “Lie on your stomach, or your side if you want to.”
I get on my stomach with my arms above my head. Shiiit, everything hurts. I think there’s a bruise on my shoulder, but I don’t know. Cutting my eyes back that far to see it in the mirror hurts, too.
His hand touches the spot, which I guess he can see because I pulled my shirt off last night before crawling into bed. “You fell back to the left, I think.” His low, soft voice seems to move through my chest. He touches the spot again. Then his hand moves up my nape and into my hair. “That hurt there, too?”
Ouch—it fucking does.
He sifts through my hair, and then his fingers start to rub my neck. God, it feels so good. How does he know what to do?
A little groan comes from my throat. His hand stops. “Hurt?”
“No.”
He starts again, squeezing my nape then rubbing downward in smooth, firm strokes, massaging with the pads of his fingers—just hard enough. I can’t help myself; I’m breathing hard from how good it feels. His fingers work their way down toward my shoulders, and I start to tell him easy on the left one. But before I can, he murmurs, “I know. Little bit of a bruise…” His fingertip trails lightly over it.
He rubs my other shoulder and all down my spine. He’s a fucking masseuse.
“Feels good,” I moan.
When he reaches my lower back, he moves back up—all the way up, back behind my ears, where his fingertips move circular and gentle. I’m half asleep when his hand scoops upward through my hair, ruffling it lightly. Then he’s off the bed. His low voice says, “Getting some donuts. Be back.”
I reach under myself, squeezing my dick, which is aching from just his hands on me in any way. Even though he said he wouldn’t…anymore. I shut my eyes, remembering him shaking me awake in his Jeep last night.
“We’re home, Millsy.” I was fucking out of it. Just got too tired at the cabin. Seeing him with Cara made me feel like shit. Arnie told me I should go to the University of Alabama, that he’d fucked more guys in two weeks than he thought he would in his entire life. That made me feel worse.
So I was in a crap place when Ezra woke me up in his Jeep. He tried to spot me as I got out. Then, right before we reached the porch steps, he wrapped his arm around my lower back. He opened the door for me and followed me up the stairs, asking if I needed anything before I came in here to my room.
I look around now, spotting a glass of water with a straw on the nightstand, so I figure he must have left it for me.
I tug the covers up over my shoulders and close my eyes, thinking of the way he rubbed me just now. Why’d he do that—if he doesn’t really like me at all? Is it guilt? I roll over on my side, hugging myself.
The next thing I’m aware of is his fingers tickling my arm.
“Hey there, sleeping beauty…” He’s smiling down at me, this little tight smile: nice and kind of awkward. “Got some donuts.”
I sit up, because I can’t stand to be lying down around him anymore. The donut box is on the duvet. I look at it, then at him.
“Did you have some already?”
His mouth twitches, like a trying-to-be smile. “Not yet.”
“You should have one.”
“Later,” he says. “There’s a latte on your nightstand. Got the decaf since I wasn’t sure.”
And then he’s out. Motherfucker bounces without another word, and I don’t see him for almost two hours. I can hear him. He gets a shower, I think brushes his teeth. After that, I hear him in his room—just house noises from when he walks and stuff.
I text my mom and Jenna, who tells me James and Cara hooked up after I left last night.
‘What? I thought she was seeing Ezra?’
‘Nope,’ Jenna replies. ‘I’m hearing it was an act, all for James. Your stepbrother is a single man’
Well, fuck me.
I notice as I’m texting Jenna that Brennan sent one asking how I’m feeling. ‘Better today,’ I tell him. I feel bad for withholding the truth, but I don’t want to talk about that shit yet. Marcel texts as I’m polishing off my second chocolate donut.
‘What’s up with you and your bro?’
Nosey fucker.
‘Nothing,’ I text.
‘What did he do to you?’
The fuck? ‘Why do you think he did something?’
‘Dunno, just a feeling I get’
Great, so Marcel is a psychic now.
‘Nothing is up w/ us, dude. It’s all good.’
‘I like the boy,’ he tells me.
‘Uh well that’s good’
‘I think it’s good he moved here. Real good for the team too’
Why do people like to text? It’s so fucking boring.
‘How’s he playing?’ I ask, for shits and giggles.
‘Real good, brother. Good. He’s got some big scouts coming’
‘Oh yeah?’
‘Next week and the next- they’re gon want him too’
‘Where are they from,’ I ask.
‘All the places, brother. Bama, Auburn, I think TN. MICHIGAN. Hope they look at me too’
‘I’m sure they will,’ I tell him.
‘Thnx bruh.’
Thank God, that’s the end of text hell. I pull on a clean shirt and sit at my desk for a while, thumbing through my physics textbook. It comes pretty easily to me, but maybe that’s because I pre-read all the lessons. I wonder if Ezra does.
He said last night that he wants this shit with us to end. I’m sure right now he’s only watching out for me because he has to, trying to make our parents happy. What kind of dick would people think he was if he didn’t try to be nice after my big, weird, freakish SEIZURE?
I can’t get my brain into the physics. I don’t want to play the cello either, because I know he’ll hear. Maybe it’d be good for him to hear, so he can be reminded that I’m still normal and all. No need to rub my back or bring me treats.
I don’t want to play, though. I don’t even want to be here. I think of going fishing, and it hits me—I can’t drive. Dammit, I can’t take the boat out on the water, can I? Maybe I can. But I know that’s not true. I could fall into the water face down. Even with a life vest on—if I was seizing...
I walk out of my bedroom and onto the stairs. There’s a skylight right above them. I look up at the sky. Blue sky with fluffy white clouds. Fuck, this fucking blows.
“What’s up?”
Jesus. Fucking Ezra’s at the bottom of the stairs. I blink down at him. “Nothing.”
“Feeling okay?” he asks.
“Yeah. Feel fine.”
He’s looking up at me with rumpled brows. I widen my eyes at him.
“You get a donut?” he asks.
“No. They just sat in my room and I looked at them for a while. Juggled three, used another as a bracelet.” I turn around, so I can start back to my room. “If you want one, come get one. I only had two.”
