Chapter 25
Chapter Twenty-Five
Breslin POV
I stumbled into my dorm room. I was no lightweight, but my legs had somehow changed into rubber. A loud buzzing sound echoed in my brain. I was tired. Sick. Sick and tired. Tired and sick.
The world drifted one way. I'd blink and it shifted the other way. My eyelids weighed a hundred pounds. Wherever this place was, it was the comfiest I'd been in my entire life.
Arms wound around my shoulders and pulled me in. The sweet scent of flowers drifted around me. A soft moan. She was under me, around me. I moved in and out of her body as heated electric tingles breathed across my skin. Her breasts teased against my chest.
She huffed and gasped and whimpered. Her arms hugged me tighter as her lips grazed my ear. “I want you, Breslin. Only you . . .”
I jolted awake. A sharp, instant consciousness like an invisible rubber band snapped against the squishy surface of my brain. I groaned as my eyes attempted to focus. The side of my baseball cleat dug into my cheekbone as the smell of sweaty feet reached my stomach. It rolled over in a solid, simmering lump. I pressed my lips shut and shoved at the shoe. It slid, splattering in . . . Liquid? On the floor.
A painful nagging pushed me upright. My brain had melted out of my ears onto the linoleum, and it smelled rank. Like fermented, rotting?—
My stomach jumped and dragged my ass off the floor. I lifted to a crouched position, crawling to the trashcan in the corner. The muscle leapt again and tried to permanently leave my body. I heaved whatever was left in my stomach into the bin. It reeked of alcohol.
Suck. I had zero recollection of ingesting whatever this was. Ever. Why had I thought alcohol was a good idea? I groaned as a pounding ache sat in the middle of my brain. I closed my eyes and sat there, hugging the can, half-asleep—my cheek resting on its rim. My stomach flipped and flopped. Leapt and dropped. Then attempted a few backflips.
The flesh along my face and neck burned. Sweat slicked its surface and cooled me too quickly. I shuddered.
Yeah, fuck this. I needed water, ibutab, and a helluva lot of paper towels to clean up the grosstastrophe on my floor. Had to get myself in some kinda shape for our morning workout. I dragged ass to the sink, ran tap water into a plastic cup and downed it. I filled another cup and sipped—mentally willing the liquid to seep into my cells. My stomach sunk lower in my abdomen like it finally accepted it wasn't going to escape this body and find someone to treat it better.
I pulled my shirt over my head and caught a look at the fried leftover of a thing I'd become. Look alive , Eberhardt had said. A standard saying. But since I'd arrived at school, nothing was doing it for me. I needed to turn this shit, my shit around. But no matter how much I knew it deep down inside, all the way to my flip-flopping gut. The knowing wasn't turning into action of any sort. I shook my head at the guy in the mirror. No heart. That's what Coach Jay would've said.
“You gotta give your all, not just on the field. Play this game called life with heart , son.”
Maybe at one point, I'd felt things 'in my heart'. But, now . . .
I shut my eyes, blinked them open. That was all kid stuff. Baseball was a serious pursuit. And this was game time. Everyday. Need to shave . I eyed my reflection. My facial hair still came in, in weird patches. Some of my teammates could grow full beards, but not me. I just looked unkept. I sighed. Shower. Shave. Look alive.
I slipped off my pants. The semi-erect thing glared with one eye. You, too. It's good for our mental health. I huffed and grabbed my towel from the floor. The ghost of an image sloshed around inside my alcohol-infused brain.
Her arms tightened around me, crushing her bare breasts against my skin. Her lips hovered, so close, I ? —
“No.” But now it was a completely-erect thing. Dammit, why her? I growled and wrapped the towel around my hips and slid my feet into my flip flops. I shuffled around the yuck I'd have to clean up later and crossed the hall to the communal shower.
I shoved open the door. The place was empty. What time is it? I glanced around for a clock. Where the fuck's my phone? “Ugh.” Where the fuck's your brain, idiot. Probably closer to your ass.
“Talk out of your ass much?” She tossed her head and glared.
I chuckled and found the nearest open stall. Stepped into the shower, flipping the water on as soon as I could reach the faucet, I ducked my head under the spray. Cool water slid over my skin. My body's cells began to breathe, tingling back to some semblance of life. I sealed my eyes shut, letting the liquid wash over me.
Her face swam to the front of my brain. Sparkling blue-green eyes. Smart, pursed red lips. Long legs that held up that incredible, tight ass.
“I sleep in your shirt. And only . . .”
I groaned as somehow my mind conjured that exact instance in time. Like she was right there, about to brush her mouth against mine. Like I could rewrite that sequence to have her slide across my lap, tangle her fingers in my hair and?—
The door to the shower room banged open. I let go of the rock-hard part of my anatomy and pumped soap from the dispenser into my palm. I rubbed it over my chest and shoulders, letting the water rinse it off almost as soon as it hit my skin.
Mom said I should kiss girls instead of play baseball. I tilted my chin to let the spray soak the back of my head. There was a time when I'd discovered that girls liked kissing baseball players. Especially winning ones. Some liked to do more than kiss. These were not conversations to have with one's mother.
“You should find more time to kiss girls, Breslin.”
I grabbed my orange juice and downed a gulp in the hopes my grin wouldn't give me away. Oh, I found time to kiss girls. And Bailey Lee hadn't stopped at kissing—my mouth, anyway.
“Not that I'm in a hurry with a sixteen-year-old son. But, I do hope to make it to be a grandma someday.”
“After college.” My dad's voice groused.
My no-longer-innocent brain wandered off, conjuring images of Bailey kneeling between my legs.
“Yes, after college.” My mom nodded as she sat across from me. Shit!
“Need more orange juice.” I knocked my chair over as I stood up. It hit the floor with a loud bang.
God, I wanted to see Milline on her knees, with her infuriating mouth wrapped around my cock. My hand fisting in her hair, guiding her along my length.
I groaned as an urgent, primal need burned through my veins. It wasn’t enough—to think of her naked and willing to suck me off. I wanted her . . .
My hand curled around my hardened shaft and slid along the rigid surface. My horny, alcohol-soaked brain became a jumble of images as I worked my erection. I nudged the faucet handle to add warmer water. My hand moved to a slow rhythm as sexual fantasies tumbled and splashed through my aching skull.
She kneeled over my legs, bouncing, stroking, coaxing my length. I reached for her, tugging her hair to pull her closer. She hissed through her teeth.
I pulled her slick, naked form against me in the shower, demanding her kiss. Pressed her back against the wall, I stroked her between her legs. She gasped and her gaze smoldered.
“I want you, Breslin . . . Please.” Her voice mewled.
Pressure mounted and compressed inside my abdomen. I braced myself against the wall as I pumped faster, rougher. I panted for air, sucked in a breath and held it.
Another flash: the image of me, on my knees, with her legs over my shoulders. She arched and whimpered and begged. Her folds quivered against my tongue.
“Please, Breslin, fuck me.”
I hit the pinnacle, that instant where I was empty and nothing, but it didn't hurt. Didn't matter. Then consciousness ripped through my body. It fractured and broke through the emptiness, lighting the world from the inside out. I convulsed, came, and spilled onto the tile below. Relief pounded through my body, soothing every cell as it went. I gulped in air and let the warm water wash over my skin. It collected along the ridges in the floor before rinsing the evidence of my need away.
After dressing in a clean pair of shorts and my Strikers-issued gym shirt, I used all the paper towels I possessed to tackle the nastiness on my floor. I knew better than to leave the mess in my trashbin, so I pulled the garbage bag and dragged the thing down to the dumpster. It was Wednesday and we had a later start to training, but time was no doubt tick— Dammit. Phone!
A search of my dorm turned up the device in my kitchen sink. Dead. The red sliver of battery light assured me it wasn't “dropped in water” dead. I let out a long breath.
I got it plugged in. As soon as the bare minimum amount of charge blinked on the main screen, a missed phone alert popped up with its annoyingly peppy chime.
I stared at the number. A calendar reminder buzzed. The only alert I had— “Ah fuck.” I'd missed my community service shift. Shit. I cringed and tried to remember to breathe as I played back the message from the Director. My already abused stomach smushed into a gooey knot. I hoped to God it wasn’t about to repeat the earlier attempt to jailbreak.
“Hello Mr. Cooper, was just calling to check in on you. Mrs. Schreiber informed me that you were feeling under the weather. I hope it's not serious enough to miss out on practice. Pro tip: Schorr requires a doctor's note if you do. Anyway, it occurred to me I hadn't provided my cell number in case something came up. Call me back tomorrow when you get a few minutes and let's figure out how to make sure you don't fall behind in your hours. Get some rest.”
I sat on the floor of my small kitchen area and leaned back against the cabinet. I ran a hand over my forehead. My stomach unknotted, but I still felt like shit. Except, now I was also a colossal asshat. Dotty told her I was ill. It's not a complete lie, you do feel like leftover garbage. This was a time I couldn't be honest. Dotty'd probably be in the least trouble. I'd be up shit's creek with the Deputy for drinking, missing my community service hours, and he'd no doubt issue citations to the bar for serving me. And then whatever Schorr decided . . .
I hung my head. I had no idea what the hell was wrong with me, but I’d apparently sunk so low that a reporter had to save my academic life and someone else’s grandma had taken pity on me. Fuck .
The only thing to do was to thank her later. I made a note. Maybe I still had enough credit on my student card to get her flowers. I pulled myself off the floor, got dressed and made it all the way to the training room before I remembered: I wasn’t supposed to be there.
Shit .