That guy—the same guy who tried to beat his ass after track practice—tried to stab him. The cops don’t seem to know who the guy is right now. Everything is so fucked up.
Not okay.
Far from okay.
“You should shower.” I squeeze his hand. “I don’t like…I don’t want this staining you.”
The haunted look in his dark eyes tells me it’s too late. When someone tries to kill you, it definitely fucking stains you. Hell, it didn’t even happen to me, and I’m shaken to my core.
I thread my fingers through his, unable to look away from the flecks of blood in the cracks of his knuckles.
Voices growing louder have me regretfully releasing his hand. Once our dads have seen the detectives out, they walk back to the living room, wearing matching worried expressions.
“Tomorrow is a birthday do-over,” Dad says to Alis. “Fucking hell. What a day.”
He pulls Quinn to him just like I wish I could do with Alis. Jealousy stirs in my gut. I’m envious that Dad has everything he wants—love and the ability to be in the open. Now, he even has Carrie and me.
“Are we done here?” My words come out harsher than I mean to. But there’s just something about seeing Dad with Quinn today that’s pissing me off.
It’s not fair.
It’s not fucking fair.
Dad’s gaze ping-pongs between Alis and me before he nods. “I think we all could use a much-needed nap. I’ll order pizza later for dinner.”
Quinn walks over to Alis, bends over, and kisses the top of his head. “I’m glad you’re okay.”
Is he?
Anger simmers in my gut as they walk off. As soon as they’ve gone to their room, I rise to my feet, pulling Alis to his feet. Taking his hand, I guide him up the stairs and into his room. I would have taken him into my shower, but I want him to smell like himself—limes and sweetness—not whatever the fuck I smell like. I need him to wash away the horror of the day and bathe in normalcy.
I shut his bedroom door and lock it. I’m not taking any chances. I strip out of my clothes and find Alis standing beside the shower, dazed. My fingertips graze down his spine, making him shiver. Once I get the water started, and steam begins to fill the bathroom, I tug off all his clothes.
We remain quiet as I lead him under the hot spray. His arms wrap around my middle, and he rests his cheek on my chest. An overwhelming sense of relief washes over me, cleansing away the stress and worry from the day. Having him safe in my grip settles something deep inside me.
It’s fucked up.
The whole situation.
Our dads won’t understand.
Neither will Mom or Carrie or the kids at school.
It makes me want to shove Alis into the passenger seat of my Challenger, fill the tank up, and drive north until we’re somewhere people don’t know us. Where there are no expectations or anyone to disappoint. We could just be two guys who once hated each other but now simply don’t.
He’s my Chibi.
My opponent. My challenger. My counterpart. My conscience. My everything.
As the water rains down on us, I wonder if there was ever a time I thought Nae was my everything. Naomi was there for me, and I loved her and cared for her. But I never saw more with her. Not a future…just a present.
With Alis, I dream. A lot. Of possibilities. Fantasies I want to come true. A life beyond the now. I think of sharing a space with him. Making his brown eyes sparkle to life as I gift him pieces of himself and of me to prove to him home is where he makes it.
I dream of us.
Not boyfriends. Not stepbrothers. Not even friends.
More.
But every time I began traveling down that mental pathway today, I was jolted with horrifying images of loss. When Dad received the call from Quinn at the hospital, I thought I’d be sick. I’d even dry heaved.
Because I thought something happened to him.
I’d heard the words shooter and blood and Alis.
Dad assured me he was okay, but I’d been tainted by the what-ifs.
After living months and months filled with pure anger, stewing over the dissolving of my family, I’d finally found something that brought me joy. Him. And then it felt fragile and temporary.
“You’re trembling,” Alis says. “Is your mom going to be okay?”
I stroke my fingers through his wet hair and then clutch onto it, tugging his head back until he’s peering up at me. Cradling his jaw with one hand while my grip is still on his hair, I slant my mouth over his, desperate to taste the realness of his lips—to feel proof of his existence. To taste the reality that he’s mine.
He whimpers as my tongue dominates his, eager to kiss away all the bullshit we’ve dealt with today and replace it with something that feels good.