Badly Behaved

They sink against the jets, lay their heads back and close their eyes.

I laugh, loudly.

And then suggest we order in.

Ransom and the boys don’t leave, but take turns showering and then slip into extra clothes they find in the trunk of Arsen’s car. We didn’t end up ordering in because I learned something new today.

Beretta cooks. He said his mom taught him, so he slipped into our ridiculous kitchen built for a damn Master Chef when no one in my family cooks beyond the basics, and even then, it’s only Monti or myself making a quick batch of eggs or something if we’re bored and Gennie hasn’t made her stop yet. My mom hasn’t so much as poured her own cup of coffee since, well, ever, as far as I know.

After we ate, we headed to my room, the boys started playing video games while I caught up on some classwork. We’ve been relaxing, watching random TV for the last hour or so, and I can’t stop glancing toward Beretta.

He sits with his back angled in the curve of the chaise, one leg bent, the other stretched along the velvety material. His left arm is draped along the back of it, the remote sitting loosely in his palm while the fingers on his right hand glide along Arsen’s naked neck, who sits on the carpet just before him, his back pressed against the thing, both absentmindedly watching TV.

“Seem obvious now?” Ransom whispers beside me.

I don’t look away from the two, but nod.

“Yeah,” I say quietly. It does.

The looks, the sound of lips locked in the dark bathroom that day...

“At Beretta’s when they were boxing...”

Ransom chuckles softly. “Oh yeah, they almost went for it.” He grins, and I look up, meeting his eyes. “Arsen gets horny when they box. Every time.”

I laugh silently, lowering my head back down.

We’re lying on my bed, him pushed up on the headboard, while I’m perched on a pillow under his right arm.

They seem so content, calm and... complete, as if they need nothing else in the world, when they don’t have much to begin with.

Or maybe they believe they have everything because they have each other?

It’s such a dangerous ideal, happiness.

“Do they love each other?” I wonder.

“They’re it for each other, if that’s what you mean.”

I nod, maybe that’s what I mean.

Beretta’s hand falls over Arsen’s shoulder, and Arsen lifts his, lacing their fingers together.

“They’ve never been like this in front of me,” I speak softly, a small smile on my face.

“You saw one suck the other’s dick; I’d say they’re comfortable around you.”

I gape, flopping onto my back with a laugh that’s a little louder than I meant for it to be, and the others look our way curiously.

But as they stare, a tenderness slips over them both.

Their eyes meet mine, moving to Ransom’s, and as if they’re one, they both nod, small curls hitching the corners of their mouths and then turn back to the screen.

Something cracks in my chest and I flick my gaze to the TV, uneasy.

This is... a lot.

Because for the first time in maybe ever, I too have a sense of comfort, of calm, and it’s nearly enough for a part of me to want to kick them out, but the larger part, the buried, reckless part—the part that I got from my real father—never wants to leave this room.

That part wants to hold on to the boy at my side and give him things I’m not so sure I’m capable of, but he makes me wish I were.

He makes me want to be.

He makes me wish I was in control of what I want.

Ransom has never expected a thing of me, was there when he had no reason to be, and seems to enjoy the messed-up side of who I am. He doesn’t bend at my will, but he doesn’t discount my voice either.

Ransom being Ransom senses when I slip inside my mind and get lost there.

He scoots lower on the bed until his eyes are level with mine.

Perched on his elbow, he stares down at me.

He’s incredibly sexy, far from pretty, but rough and alluring in only a way he can accomplish.

Without realizing, my hand lifts, my fingertips ghosting over the edge of his sharp jaw, and he dips his head, so his lower lip can get a taste of me.

His blue eyes search mine, for what I’m not sure, but I think he finds it as his mouth curves with rawness, softening his features.

“Beretta told you,” he whispers.

My ribs constrict. I’m not sure if he’s talking about his sister or about his own struggles, and I know there is more to be told, but I nod.

“You know it was only me, right? That they were never inside you? It was only me.”

He scowls at his own words, as if pained by guilt or embarrassment, but I reach up and wipe it away with my thumb.