7. Clayton
Chapter 7
Clayton
Every so often I’d get a flash of feeling that maybe Kieran might not completely despise me.
He continued to act like my warden. Shane’s watchdog. He was over all the time, checking in on his mom. Making sure I hadn’t figured out a way to con her. I’d hate to break it to him, but I wasn’t smart enough to be a con man. But if it kept him at arm’s length, I was okay with that.
Because him being nice fucked with me. If I’d thought him attractive before today, the way he hadn’t treated me like shit on his shoe had my dick half-hard in my pants. I wasn’t a fan of the way my body had started to respond to him. At first it took me by surprise. Arousal hadn’t been a friend of mine for a while. It had been so long that I’d almost forgotten what it felt like to want someone that way.
And of fucking course it was Kieran. My awareness that he barely tolerated my existence should have been a boner-killer, but my stupid cock just throbbed harder. And then he had to go and touch me. I’d wanted to hop to the house and escape, but my energy had flagged and the meager distance between his truck and the front door seemed like ten miles.
He carried me up to the house and got me into the house, and the whole time I was trying not to breathe him in. My stupid cock had already imprinted on the sharp, almost angry glances he sent my way. The last thing I needed was it to develop a Pavlovian response to the scent of citrus.
On instinct, I reached for my dick with my right hand. Then I remembered the cast. Fuck sake. I couldn’t even wank properly. Deciding it couldn’t hurt to try, I snaked my left hand into my pants. I’d been wearing nothing but elastic waists since the hospital and I was grateful for the easy access.
Over the past few weeks, I’d gotten accustomed to using my left hand to do a lot of things, but trying to jerk off left-handed proved to be a challenge. My own touch was foreign to me and my dick, greedy and thirsty, was willing to overlook the awkwardness.
My palm was smooth, but not slick, and the friction was more than I was used to. I definitely needed lube, but I wasn’t in the position to go to the store and I’d drop dead before I asked Kieran to buy me a bottle. I could only imagine his disapproval, which for some reason made my dick leak. What was it about him that made me hot? Did I have some secret kink where I wanted someone to be mean to me? My stomach twisted in protest, but the thought of Kieran specifically looking at me with that familiar disdain was almost as good as when he’d been randomly nice to me today. Somehow, his edge toward me had softened and I didn’t know what to make of it.
I certainly deserved his derision. I wasn’t worth the help that Shane was giving me, that his whole family was giving me. But I wanted to be worth it. And that meant I probably shouldn’t jerk off to silly daydreams of Kieran and what it would be like to earn his approval. How would it feel to bask in his praise? What if his contempt was only an act, something he could easily cast aside?
Well-versed in entertaining my bad ideas, I adjusted my grip and indulged in a slow stroke that had me biting my lip to keep my whimper in. It wasn’t the most perfect sensation. My overhand grip wasn’t something I was used to, nor was the awkward rhythm. But when I imagined it was Kieran’s hand, my body didn’t seem to care as much that the grip was as off as my pace.
How hard up was I that I was getting off thinking about the way Kieran was able to pick me up and move me around like I weighed nothing? It should have felt demeaning, but instead a tiny thrill crawled up my spine. Kieran didn’t have to help me. He could’ve stood by and watched me struggle, but he’d helped me. Even though I was pretty sure helping me was the last thing he wanted to do. And that made it all the sweeter when my balls tightened.
Backing off, I took a few shaky breaths and slowed my strokes. I could almost hear Kieran’s voice in my head. I wondered if he was a quiet lover or if he liked noise. Did he get off on dirty talk? I imagined him being the one to do the talking. His deep voice was smooth like silk and I was pretty sure he could talk me into having an orgasm. No hands. No toys. No touch. Just him and his ridiculously hot voice.
Biting my lip harder, I stroked myself. Digging my foot into the mattress, the one that wasn’t attached to a broken leg, I arched up off the bed, jerking faster. Precum leaked from the tip of my cock and I smeared it around, using it to slick the glide.
I paused long enough to shove my pants down low enough so they wouldn’t be a hindrance. When I took myself in hand again, I was already achingly close to coming. My heart thrashed in my chest like a wild animal. As my orgasm threatened to crest, I thought of Kieran and the look he might give me if he could see me right now. Instead of scorn, I pretended there was heat behind his angry stare. Never in a million years would Kieran be interested in me, but the idea was enough to make my breath catch.
It was enough to make the feel of my left hand seem not awkward at all as I tightened my grip. My world whited out as I came, like I’d died and was headed for the light. I sucked in a deep breath, trying to control my noises. The euphoria from my orgasm lasted as long as it took me to realize I had a handful of cum and no easy way to get rid of it. Letting out a defeated sigh, I wiped it on my shirt, then pulled my pants back up.
I changed my shirt and hobbled across the hallway to wash my hand. I’d spent the past few weeks avoiding looking at my reflection in the mirror, but today I forced myself. I was sure my therapist would have something to say about that if I told him I couldn’t stand the sight of myself. But today was different. Maybe it was the post-orgasm glow, but I didn’t hate how I looked.
Having three meals a day had gone a long way toward filling out the hollowness of my cheeks. My complexion was no longer sickly pale and now that the last of the bruising had faded from my face, I almost looked good. My hair was getting a little long, but there was nothing I could do about that right now.
But underneath the slightly healthier shell, I was still me. I was still the guy who’d sink so far that he ripped off his best friend. My therapist wanted me to accept the decisions I’d made—and I did—but with a dash of disbelief that I’d done them at all. Everything I’d done had made sense at the time, but I looked back at those choices now with a sour stomach. Regret was a hard pill to swallow.
I appreciated that he didn’t talk about forgiving myself. I didn’t think I ever could. In no mood to hide in my room and sulk, I made my way to the living room and sat down in the recliner. The older, well-worn chair had become my spot during my stay. It sat higher than the couch and was easier to get out of.
Patricia’s house had that lived-in look that made it feel like home, even if it wasn’t my home. She’d decorated her walls with pictures of her boys. There were a couple wedding pictures and I’d wanted to ask about her husband, but I wasn’t sure that was a safe subject.
Her house reminded me of my own when I was growing up. The well-loved furniture in almost an identical shade of caramel. The pale yellow walls that matched her sunny demeanor. Her kitchen had kitschy little items that people would call vintage, but they were just hers. The ceramic knick-knacks in the shape of vegetables. It was an easy place to feel comfortable in. That’s probably why I ended up falling asleep, only waking when Patricia nudged my shoulder.
“The phone is for you. It’s your doctor.”
I sat up straighter and tried to blink the fog away. The light in the room had shifted considerably meaning I’d been asleep for some time. I took the phone from her and answered it .
“Hello?”
“Hello, is this Clayton Cross?”
“It is.”
“Mr. Cross, I’m Doctor Bright.”
I sat through his introduction, something I cared little about. All I wanted to know was when I could get the casts off. At the same time, I dreaded the impending news. It felt a lot like doom rolling in off the horizon.
“I’ve received your x-rays from the radiologist. I’m happy to report that your leg has healed nicely. When the cast comes off next week, we’ll get you in a walking boot for a few weeks, just to give it some extra support while you finish healing.”
“And my arm?” I wiggled the fingers on my right hand, eager to have full use of my appendage. I wanted to jerk off. To draw. To create. To do up a pair of fucking jeans.
“—not as expected.” the doctor said, and I realized that I’d forgotten to listen for the answer.
“Can you say that again?” My stomach wobbled and my mouth watered. I was suddenly very concerned with being sick in the middle of Patricia’s living room.
“Your arm isn’t healing as fast as expected. You’ll need to stay in the cast for an additional few weeks.”
“Why isn’t it healing as well?” My chest wanted to cave in on itself and crush my heart. It might as well. I needed my arm. I needed my hand. I needed to be able to do things, to earn a living. To start to pay Shane back for everything he’d done for me. I wanted to prove to Archer that I was truly sorry, and part of that would be by paying Shane back.
“It was a more complicated break than the one in your leg. Your leg was a simple fracture. There was simply less damage to heal. We’ll set up an appointment to get the cast off, and we’ll get you started on physical therapy.”
Everything else he said went in one ear and out the other, but I managed to make an appointment to get the cast on my leg removed. I should be happy about the concept of taking a proper shower. Even if I had to bag my arm, I’d be able to soak in a bath or stand in a shower. There were a million things I should be grateful for, but all I could manage to feel was anger and bitter disappointment. Fear swam up my throat, burning like acid. What if my arm was forever screwed up? What if it never healed right? What was I supposed to do? What if I couldn’t draw anymore?
“Are you all right?” Patricia asked me when I ended the call.
I didn’t know how to answer her. I gave her a weak smile that took all my energy to muster. “I get the cast off my leg next week. Thursday at three.”
“I’ll make sure you get there.” She walked over and squeezed my shoulder. “Are you hungry? ”
I shook my head. I should eat, but I didn’t think I could stomach anything at the moment. What were you supposed to eat when your world threatened to crash down around you? Again.