Chapter 5
“That boy is messed up,” I told Bobby as I fluffed my pillow.
Bobby was already in bed, wearing nothing but a pair of skimpy sleep shorts, which left lots and lots of smooth, golden muscle on display. Bobby also happened to be scrolling through the music on his phone, and he didn’t appear to be appropriately engaged in my outrage.
“He’s insane,” I told Bobby. “There’s something wrong with him. With his head, I mean. Did you hear how hard he was laughing?”
Like someone who might not have fully heard the conversation, Bobby said, “Millie too.”
I gave the pillow an extra-emphatic fluff and cleared my throat.
Bobby looked up. For a moment, confusion fogged his eyes. Then he said, “Sorry. Say that again.”
He was just too dang earnest. That was part of the problem.
“Keme,” I said. “Remember him? The budding teenage psychopath living under our roof? The one whose sole purpose in life is to destroy me?”
That big, goofy grin spread across Bobby’s face.
He patted the bed until I climbed up next to him.
Then he pulled me into his arms. He felt nice and solid and warm.
I, by comparison, probably felt like a stick of beef jerky still in its plastic wrapper.
Bobby tucked his face into my neck. The faintest hint of stubble from the day scratched pleasantly there, and then he kissed my shoulder.
He held me like that until some of the iron in my joints and muscles began to soften.
His hand moved slowly up and down my back.
“He loves you so much,” Bobby said, still nuzzled into me.
“But he’s also a teenager, which means he’s feeling a million different things, all at the same time, and all of them dialed up to a hundred.
He’s still trying to figure out what he’s feeling, let alone how to communicate it.
On top of that, he’s had a rough life.” Bobby pulled back.
The burnt bronze of his eyes was like a mirror, holding me, as he said, “He’s had a lot of people let him down, Dash.
The fact that he can trust you—be playful with you—is kind of a miracle.
There’s this part of him that’s probably still waiting for the other shoe to drop, for you to hurt him or forget him or whatever.
So, instead of telling you he loves you, he does this bananas stuff that only a teenage boy would think of.
” Bobby scruffed a hand through my hair. “Take it as a compliment.”
“I don’t want to take it as a compliment. I want a bazooka. And a bulletproof vest.”
Bobby laughed and stretched past me to turn off the light. That’s when things got interesting.
Here are some facts about Bobby: he’s warm, he’s gentle, he’s confident, and God help me, he knows what he wants.
So, if I got a little caught up in the, er, action, so to speak—well, sue me.
My mind was focused on one thing and one thing only.
My brain was turning to mush. My body was soft and pliant.
I made a noise that I literally can’t put into words, arching up to meet Bobby’s mouth.
And then an alarm went off.
A loud alarm.
Right by my ear.
I jolted upright. Bobby said a few words that you wouldn’t find in a Valentine’s Day card, and the lights came on.
I realized I’d missed headbutting Bobby—and probably breaking his nose in the process—by about a centimeter.
Bobby, back straight, eyes wide, looked like how I felt.
It was like getting a bucketful of cold water thrown on you.
It was like getting goosed by a maiden aunt (is that an expression?). It was worse.
Bobby’s eyes narrowed, and he dug around under the pillows until he came up with a kitchen timer. He did something to it, and the ringing sound stopped. Then he held up the timer for my inspection.
I let my head fall back, and I groaned.
In a voice I would have called strangled on anyone else, Bobby said, “I need this to stop now. This thing with Keme. No more.”
“It’s not my fault—”
“Dash.”
“But he—”
“No more.”
Holding up a hand in surrender, I nodded.
Bobby snapped off the light. This time, though, things didn’t get interesting.
We lay there in the dark, adrenaline leaching out of us, our breaths evening out.
Bobby was right. This had to stop. Keme had taken things way too far.
He was a maniac. It was starting to affect my, um, relationship with Bobby. First thing tomorrow, I’d tell him—
“Oh my God,” I breathed.
Bobby didn’t ask. I could hear him not ask.
“When’s the next time you’re due for a haircut?” I said. “No, wait, it doesn’t matter. I can just cut it myself. I only need a little bit.”
Slowly, in the dark, Bobby pulled the pillow over his face.
“Hear me out,” I said. “I think your hair looks enough like Keme’s that if I sprinkle it around the house for a few weeks, I can convince him he’s going bald.”