I stand up, my stomach cramping so badly I think I’ll puke. “Gotta go. Tell Mom I said hi, okay?”
“You just arrived! Sit.”
“Can’t, dad. Something I need to do.”
What I need to do is stop running. Feels like I can’t stop.
I don’t wait for his reply. Forget the running shoes, I just want out. Throwing the door open, I stumble out and take the stairs two at a time, going so fast I’m risking my neck. I jog out of the building, brace one hand on the wall outside and bend over.
Faggots. Pansies. Throwing themselves all over one another.
Jet’s chest, his mouth, his dick, his taste, the sounds he makes as he comes…
Good for nothing. Faggot bitches.
Jet on his back on the bed, jacking off. In the shower, coming hard as I look on. His dick in my mouth, my dick in his ass, our mouths crushing together in a deep kiss…
Fucking hell. I retch, but nothing comes up. There’s a hollow ache in my chest when I think of Jet and Candy. No matter how hard I try to convince myself I hate her, that I don’t want him, I know I’m lying to myself.
Oh God, what am I gonna do?
Chapter Thirty
JETHRO
When it all goes to hell, what will you do?
Remember those days when everything went according to plan?
Yeah, neither do I.
All my life I’ve tried to be strong, to face my problems, to let pain and sorrow flow over me like water and not stop me. To not let fear and panic control me.
Anger has always been my saving grace, pulling me up from the murk, giving me the strength to go on.
And in the last years I managed to find meaning in my life. A purpose. Despite the nightmares and the memories that won’t let go, I moved on.
But Joel was by my side. He was my ally.
Not in this, though. Not now. Not anymore. And after what Donna told me… I’ll probably lose Candy, too. Lose both of them in one fell swoop.
I swipe my drawing pad off the sofa, jump to my feet and start to pace.
I can’t lose them. Maybe Candy won’t shut me out. Even if Donna fired me for not having a school diploma—because I admitted it, dammit, too shocked to lie—maybe Candy won’t mind so much that I’m such a loser.
Who the hell knows?
But Joel… Fuck. Getting off can never make up for losing his friendship. Feelings that go further than friendship. Further than brotherhood. And I’ve never been good with feelings—with understanding them, showing them. Getting a fucking response to them.
What I want doesn’t matter. Never has. I’ll take what he can give and won’t expect anything more. And I should stop fucking pushing before he goes for good.
The thought sends cold slithering down my back. If he goes… Fuck, no. No.
I kick at the wall, my boot leaving a black mark. I kick again, kick the bed, the closet door. I grab the chair and smash it to the floor.
Hit my fists against the wall. Smash my knuckles into the plaster. Kick the furniture. Welcome the pain.
I stare at my bleeding knuckles, breathing hard, and the knot in my chest unclenches marginally.