Mostly, it’s C.
Her going head-to-head with our dad concerns me, so I want her out of there too. It’d be healthier for both of them.
Which is why I said, come live with me, again.
She said, you live down the hall from the most obnoxious Cobalt boy. I’ll pass. I thought she meant Charlie, but then she told me, Beckett.
I love that she hates him because he’s been trying to hit on my sister since Scotland. And I know what kinds of clubs Beckett goes to, and I don’t want my baby sis anywhere near that.
Right now, I send her a new text: I know one person in NYC who has a place. Me. Offer is still open. And the apartment is all paid for. You can take the bed. I’ll take the pull-out.
Will it be inconvenient? Yeah.
But there are some inconveniences that don’t matter in the grand scheme of things. It’s a bed, not a college diploma I’m forsaking.
I’m about to put my phone away, but I rub the wet streaks off my face with my shirt and decide to take my mind off everything for a few minutes.
Popping open Instagram, I scroll through Faith’s profile. I’ve been seeing her off and on for the past couple months. Nothing serious. Her hair is dyed a pale purple, and she blows kisses with her hand in most of the pics. No captions, just a couple heart emojis.
Sleeping with her has been fun, but that’s all it really is. Nothing there beyond the surface. Against my sanity, I click out of her profile and type in Jack’s username.
I may have dug around for that info.
JackStuckOnThe405 pops up. His profile is curated with beautiful landscape shots of Philly and LA, but it’s his selfies that get me. His bone structure is can’t-tear-your-eyes-away stunning, and I’m almost shocked he’s never been an actual model considering all the time he’s been in the industry in California.
I skim his bright hundred-watt smile.
I grin back, then cringe.
Holy shit, I’m torturing myself.
I log out of Instagram.
Fuck this.
I delete the app.
I’m about to vacate the bathroom when I remember something. Benji Strong.
Jack keeps surprising me. His confession about his porn star crush as a teenager almost annihilated me. Never heard of the guy though.
I could…do some research…
Alright, this is the last time I check up on anything Jack-related. After this, he’s not allowed to take up space in my brain.
Quickly, I type in Benji Strong’s name in a popular porn site.
Gay.
Gay porn.
XXX GAY PORN.
Tags to the videos. The actual video titles are more graphic: Big Cock Bangs Twink. Benji is definitely the big cock.
I grin into a laugh.
His build is…hmm, we’re similar. Not vein-popping bodybuilders, but toned and cut. And the entertainment of this new information slowly fades as reality sinks in.
Benji is a gay porn star. Jack watched gay porn as a teenager.
Blood rushes down south, my body ready to jump his bones. Ready to explore Jack and see what’s hidden under his clothes, and deeper. To feel his leg slide against mine while I pin him to the bed and fuck him good—yeah, I’m ready.
But really, this doesn’t change anything but my attraction to him. Ramping up to the hundredth degree.
He’s still straight.
A straight boy that watches gay porn. Or used to watch it. I wonder if he still does.
Wow, I sure know how to fall for them.
9
JACK HIGHLAND
Steam fogs up the shower, water slowly gliding down my temples. Dazed, head light and heady, heat cocoons my limbs. Shutting off the faucet, I grab a towel draped over the glass shower and tie the fabric around my waist. Still drifting, floating, a swelter pricking my nerves.
I shift…a little conscious that…I’m…this is a dream, but I relax and sink back into the thick, steaming warmth.
Quietly, I step onto the cold bathroom tiles, and I look up.
Oscar perches against the sink, coolly. Towel slung over his shoulder. Drawstring pants low on his waist, abs glistening…he’s wet from the shower.
His curly hair is damp, the strands brushing his forehead. Already showered, he’s in the bathroom with me. My dick rouses, pulsing for a need. A hunger for him, and I stroke his body with my eyes. He undresses me with his gaze, even though I’m already buck-naked.
I can barely move, blood pumping in my erection. Like he’s already fisting my length. But fog and space separate us, and so I walk over to him in that heady daze.
Dreaming.
Shut that out, dude. I want to see what happens. I want to feel it.
My eyes trace his unshaven jaw, heartrate skipping, and I whisper, “How does this work?”
Oscar grips my hardness with the assuredness I need, and breath hitches in my throat. I clutch his waist, firm muscles beneath my palm.
Our mouths edge nearer, nearer. Ask me again, Oscar. I choke out, “Ask me.”