The Air That I Breathe (The Game 3.5)

Faggot.

Queer.

Funnily enough, “Bob’s kid” had had no issues sucking my dick last week.

Pop wasn’t amused, and he pointed a finger at me. “Using your fists ain’t the answer, boy. I don’t wanna hear about another fight. Hell, if you spent half as much time studying as you did fighting every bigot you can find, your grades wouldn’t be tankin’.”

I clenched my jaw but said nothing.

Not long after, I returned to my room, and Reese asked how it went.

I shrugged and threw myself on my bed, digging out my magazine again. “Same as last time.” I flipped open the magazine and hoped to get lost in an article about mental defense mechanisms after someone had lived through trauma.

I couldn’t wait to graduate. I wasn’t particularly interested in going to college for a full education, but there were certain classes I wanted to take.

“I don’t like this new you,” Reese said. “You’re practically dead. You don’t give a shit about anythin’.”

“I give a shit about gettin' outta here.” I folded the magazine to hold it in one hand and slipped the other under my head.

These last three weeks should be more tolerable, though. Pop was heading out on another long-haul tomorrow and would be gone for a week. And I knew he had one more gig planned right after.

“You’ll be back to all your one single friend soon,” Reese drawled. “I reckon you got more buddies here.”

I had just the perfect number of friends, thanks.

“I wasn’t talking about wanting to go back to Virginia Beach.” I flipped a page. “I mean that I can’t wait to leave everything behind. I think I wanna go to the West Coast.”

I’d also thought about enlisting.

Reese sat up straight, and his feet hit the floor. “Are shittin’ me?”

I furrowed my brow and glanced over at his side of the room. “What’s weird about it?”

He stared at me incredulously. “What’s… How about everything? You’re talking about walking out. What about me? What’re you gonna do? You barely talk to people. You walk around with raccoon eyes and glare at everyone. And you wanna what, hit up Los Angeles?”

A lot to unpack there…

I sighed and put away the magazine for now. I was clearly not gonna get anything read.

“Reese, compared to you, everyone’s antisocial,” I stated. I had friends; I just didn’t care about partying. It wasn’t my thing. “That doesn’t mean I’ll struggle to find someone to talk to if I move anywhere, but thanks for your concern about me being lonely.”

“That’s not my concern at all,” he argued. “It’s about me being lonely.”

I snorted.

“And see that?” He pointed at me. “You don’t laugh anymore. You’ll snort or huff or smirk a little.”

That killed my humor, and I turned my stare to the ceiling instead.

It wasn’t easy trying to relax and shoot the shit and joke around when you barely got any sleep.

Pop wondered why my grades were tanking? That was why. I couldn’t focus worth a damn, because I got about two or three hours of sleep each night.

“I think you need to get laid,” he said. “That would cheer you up.”

Man, he was dumb as a box of rocks sometimes.

“I’m good in that department.”

I was met by silence, and I didn’t know why, but I felt the need to glance over at him.

He watched me pensively, hesitantly, and chewed on his lip. “Damn.”

“What?” I asked.

He tried to shrug it off and act aloof. “Nothin’. Just learned even my lame brother’s gotten laid, and I haven’t.”

Wait, what? He was the one who’d told me to get… I was so confused.

“First of all, I haven’t said shit about my experience,” I replied. “Second of all, you’re still a virgin? You act like a fucking whore in school.”

He glared. “Fuck you. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Oh, I didn’t? He was out every goddamn Friday and Saturday—and now, in the summer, even some weekdays—he regularly came home drunk, and he always talked about fucking and getting sucked and whatnot. In short, my brother was always on the prowl. Always hunting.

It was a little funny.

“Why the fuck are you smiling?” he growled.

“Shouldn’t that make you happy?” I retorted. “I’m finally findin’ somethin’ funny.”

He rolled his eyes.

“So, you’re strikin’ out a lot, huh?” I dragged myself up to sit on the edge of the bed.

He shot me a scowl. “Hardly for lack of offers.”

I believed him. Despite the fact that I didn’t move in the same social circles he did, guys had their way of tracking me down ’cause we were two of the very few gay dudes who were out. Plus, we were objectively hot as fuck.

Reese lost some of the hostility and muttered, “So who’ve you fucked?”

“No one.” I shrugged.

He turned dubious. “You don’t strike me as a bottom.”

“I’m not.” Not really, anyway. I mean, technically, I couldn’t be sure. I hadn’t tried either. But the idea of being a bottom held zero appeal. Mostly. “I said I’m good in that department, as in, I’m not fuckin’ interested. Not that I had a string of hookups following me around.” I shrugged. “I get head every now and then. That’s enough for now.”