Ruin My Life (Mangled Masterpieces #1)

8. Win

8

Win

Six Years Ago

“ H ave you decided, Winnie?” Mom asks between nibbles of cheese from the charcuterie board she made after school. She’s the only one allowed to call me that ridiculous nickname without getting a fist in the face.

I pick at the chipped black polish on my thumb.

When Dad called to ask if I’d like to spend winter break with him, my knee-jerk reaction was to look up flights. But after the other night at Remy’s, I’m second-guessing my chance to hightail it out of Fort Manor.

Did Remy and I discuss what happened a week ago?

No.

Are we acting like nothing has changed?

Yes.

Am I jerking off at least once a day to the memory of him hard and on top of me?

One hundred percent.

But I can’t read into it. Clearly, he doesn’t want to address it and as much as I want to devour every inch of him with my tongue and teeth, I’d rather have him in my life in some capacity than scare him away with my stupid crush. That’s what this is, right? The nightly fantasies of his sunny smile pressing against my lips and daydreams of his honey-smooth voice whispering my name while his body rolls into mine—

“Win?"

I blink back to earth.

“Not yet,” I sigh.

The look on her face twists my insides. It’s hopeful. She believes I’m happy here. And maybe I am, but not for the reasons she thinks. It has nothing to do with the change of scenery, the new school or even the violin tutor she hired.

She doesn’t know I’m bullied relentlessly for the way I dress. For being too quiet. For not fucking my way through every girl in the sophomore class since they haven’t figured out I’m gay… Yet.

But they’re picking up on it. Yesterday, a senior named Grant Larson pinned me to the lockers and smashed my face into the metal as he taunted, “ You’re such a fucking faggot. Bet you love cock deep up your ass, huh? You’d let your buddy Remy fuck your hole, wouldn’t you? ”

I don’t think he would have appreciated me saying, “ In a heartbeat .”

As much as I want Remy like that, I refuse to let Grant and all his homophobic douche-canoe friends know it. It may hurt me, but I’m used to it. I mean, I came out in eighth grade and lost all my so-called friends since they didn’t want me to, “fall in love with them.”

Remy isn’t me. He hasn’t been stripped of all good qualities and reduced to a sexual preference as a means to justify violent hatred. His self-esteem isn’t beaten to a pulp from years of taunts and jeers. No, Remy is sunshine in a bottle. If he gets more tangled up with me, those bastards will drain him of all his beautiful brightness.

Granted, that would imply he wants me in the same way.

He doesn’t. He’s your friend, that's it.

I pinch the bridge of my nose.

“Is something bothering you, hon?”

I shake my head. “Just stressed about exams,” I lie.

The hope in her eyes deteriorates. I hate that my existence constantly brings people down. I haven’t forgotten overhearing Dad, the week before shipping me off, whisper into the phone, “ I don't know what to do. He won’t talk to me. Now he's got cuts on his wrists, Marcy. I'm out of my depth here.”

After the divorce, I was given the option to either move with Mom or stay with Dad. I didn't want to impose on Mom's new life, nor did I want to leave Dad all alone. He seemed thrilled with my choice for a while, but I guess I became more of a burden than a comfort.

Mom and Richard were more than happy for me to move to Florida with them and accepted reassurances from Kingsbury High that I’d be required to attend weekly check-ins. Fifteen minutes of small talk in a stuffy room during lunch period with my overworked and underpaid school counselor, Danny, isn’t going to radically transform my mental state, but I don’t dare bring that up to Mom. It’s easier if my parents believe I’m getting better.

“Headed to Remy’s?” Mom asks.

A flush creeps up my neck at the thought of him. I ache for the freedom to touch him— show him just how insane he drives me. It takes incredible restraint not to throw myself at him. If I didn’t value his friendship so damn much, I would’ ve already.

Apparently, I enjoy torturing myself because I nod at Mom as I grab my backpack off the counter.

“Have fun!” she calls at my back. I wave her off and begin the mile walk to Remy’s house, taking a shortcut through a few neighboring properties. I pop my headphones in, ambling beneath ancient trees dripping Spanish moss while the sting of my newest cut chafes against the seam of my jeans. (Ever since Dad found the one on my wrist, I steer clear of visible areas.) Physical pain distracts me from the shame and misery stewing inside me.

Kicking sand spurs and dirt from my sneakers, I ascend the wooden stairs to Remy’s front door and knock.

Will he act differently? Should I stay off his bed?

I rub my sweaty palms on my thighs.

Panicked thoughts take off their marks, speeding around the track as the door opens—

Outlined in golden light, he glows like an angel.

“You take the long way?” Remy teases. The tension in my muscles melts. I roll my eyes dramatically, grinning as I shoulder past him. He cuts in front of me, leading the way to the living room.

Not his room.

Message received.

I try not to let my disappointment show as he flops onto the beige sectional, long limbs spread in all directions like a starfish. His hair is buzzed again— he said he hates how it looks long.

He could be bald and I'd still find him stunning.

There’s a mischievous twinkle in his hazel eyes.

“Guess what?”

My brows knit. “What?” I ask, dropping my bag on the opposite side of the couch. Probably best to give him space.

His lips split into a devious smirk.

God , the sight of it stirs something molten awake in my groin.

“Why are you smiling like that?”

He wiggles his fingers.

“We have the whole place to ourselves tonight!”

I stand there for what feels like hours gaping at him. His smile falters at my silence until a disbelieving laugh leaves me.

“No shit?”

“No shit,” he snickers and grabs a bottle off the end table. “We can’t have a ton or my dad will notice, but you want one?”

Dad let me try beer once; it was kind of gross, but if Remy's drinking it, I'm drinking it.

“Sure.”

He passes me one.

Our fingers brush.

The tiniest touch is a match tossed into a dry forest, inciting a wildfire. I retreat to my end of the couch and take a long swig, hoping to drown the inferno raging within. It's not as disgusting as I remember. Excitement wars with insecurities until I’m squirming as Remy starts an episode of a ghost-hunting show.

“Let’s play a game,” he says. I cock a brow. He continues, “We drink every time someone asks, ‘What was that?’”

I snort but agree.

After the first episode, I’m buzzed.

On the second, I’m opening another beer.

By the third, I’m feeling fucking great .

I don’t remember when Remy migrated to my side of the couch, but I’m not complaining. He’s pointing at the screen, giggling at everything, eyes glassy with intoxication.

“They really thought they saw a fucking ghost,” he wheezes, tipping his beer back for a sip. He pauses as it meets his lips, features adorably scrunched.

“Aw, fuck, I’m out.”

I pluck it from his grip and set it on the end table—

Fingers wrap around my wrist.

His hand slides to cover the back of mine. Holy fucking fuck . Can he feel my pulse? How hard it's pounding?

He wets his lips.

I think I just died.

“Win?"

“Y-yeah?”

“I’m…” His eyes widen as if shocked. My heart is going to beat right out of my chest. A slow smile unfolds on his lips. “Really fucking drunk.”

I roll my lips in, trying my hardest not to laugh but it’s impossible. I’m cackling, he’s giggling and we’re a heap of limbs. After an eternity of floating in hilarity, we start to relax.

Remy's eyelids droop.

“I don't wanna sleep in an empty house,” he rasps. “Can you stay the night?”

As if I'd ever choose to walk my drunk ass home over sleeping under the same roof as him.

I nod.

He stands on unstable legs, stumbling and tugging on my arm.

“Come on,” he whines. I don’t know what he wants but I’m incapable of denying him anything. He helps me up; it’s like walking on the ocean's surface.

His arm wraps around my shoulders, enveloping me in his fresh scent— like an early morning on the beach. I’m high off it as we sway down the hall to his room and tumble onto the bed.

Somehow I end up under him for the second time in my life. A breath whooshes out of me. His weight pushing me into the mattress sends blood rushing south. Fuck, I cant get hard right now. He'll feel it again and —

Remy grins, rolling off me. The loss of his warmth makes me shudder.

I prop on my elbows to find him tearing through his dresser. It’s fucking hilarious. I’m having a full-on fit while he’s mumbling, “I just want the grey ones.”

Eventually, he gives up and collapses next to me.

On our backs, side by side, we stare at the ceiling with dopey smiles and heavy lids.

A pinky finger wraps around mine.

My lungs scream for relief.

“Promise me something, Win.”

“Anything.”

“Promise…”

I wait.

And wait.

Until soft snores answer me.