8. Malcolm #2
“Why?” I need to understand. Either nothing he’s saying makes sense, or my brain broke when my head hit the wall.
“Because I’m not fourteen anymore, Mal.”
He is definitely not fourteen. He’s definitely a full grown man pinning me—another full grown man—to a wall, and I’m not fighting it.
It’s not like he’s a stranger, or I haven’t ever felt his body against mine.
Or his legs, firm and hard pressed into mine.
A flat chest smashed into me almost like we’re hugging—one of those long hugs where I liked to…
Oh God…
I know why I’m not fighting him.
Before I let myself reconsider, my hand moves into his hair.
I wrap my other arm around his shoulders, closing what little distance there is left between us.
He lets out a tragic noise as his hands move from my hips to my mid back to hold me close, one fisting in my shirt.
His cheek is rough against my neck. The texture is unfamiliar but the heat —I remember this.
Our breaths sync, deep and slow. I shut my eyes and inhale him. There’s a hint of spice in his hair that stirs something deep inside me—a need that’s as familiar as it is uncomfortable.
“I can’t do this,” he whispers, but makes no move to pull away.
“Why not?” I ask, wondering if this is as awkwardly arousing to him.
“Because this isn’t us.”
Isn’t it? “It is right now,” I say, grazing the edge of how I really feel.
“I don’t like it.”
He’s lying. His dismissive words are in direct contrast to the tightness of his hands, the pressure his chest is exerting to keep me pinned to the wall.
“I do,” I tell him. I really like it . Holding him makes sense. Way more than a financial analysis and certainly more than socializing with my mentor off the clock. His body might be different than it was when we were kids, but that heartbeat against mine feels exactly the same.
That same throaty whimper comes out of him again, and I tighten my own grip on him.
I understand his objections, obviously. And I know I can’t turn back the clock.
But I’m sorry for how I treated him. I need him to know it wasn’t him.
It was me. It was my insecurity and my fear, and my confusion.
I do forgive him, but I haven’t managed to forgive myself.
“This isn’t what I want,” he complains again.
I swallow hard before I ask in a shaky voice, “What do you want?”
He doesn’t answer me, still not giving up an inch between us.
“You used to like my hugs,” I remind him.
His deep breath threatens to cave in my chest. “Please let go.”
I don’t want to. I get that hugs don’t last forever, but this one doesn’t feel finished.
It’s like there’s this deep, empty well inside me that I never noticed until his presence started trickling into it again.
Every second I’m holding him, there’s another drop that hits the cold, hard bottom of it, and if I let him go, all I’ll have is a dried up well I’m now fully aware of. “Can you forgive me?” I ask.
“Fine, yes, I forgive you. Jesus.” He yanks on my shirt and bends his head until his forehead bangs against my collarbone. “Please let me go.” He says pathetically like I’m gonna have to be the one to shove him off.
“Or what?” I press. I can’t help it. For the first time in I don’t know how fucking long I feel like I’m in the right place at the right time doing what I’m supposed to be doing.
I’m not ready to move onto the next thing on my never-ending list of things to try hoping it might be a better fit—more “me.” This is me.
This is the me no one knows but him. The me only he could ever see.
“Mal…” He lets out another heavy breath before his hands settle once again on my hips, gripping them hard enough to put some distance between our lower bodies. “Don’t,” he chokes out.
The trickle stops as soon as our thighs aren’t touching. He manages to peel himself away and take a full step back. When I get a look at his face, he’s swiping his thumbs beneath his eyes—nearly green beneath wet lashes.
My heart, which hasn’t felt much more than affection in years, is hit with an emotional blow so hard, I lose my breath again. “I’m sorry,” I say, but the words don’t make any sound.
He checks his pockets, and before I find my voice, he’s got the door open and he’s walking out.
In the final analysis, I’m not sure what that was—either from him or from me. I don’t know what he was trying to tell me when he pushed me against the wall, and I don’t know what I thought I could accomplish from hugging him like I used to when we were kids.
What I do know—more acutely than I’ve ever let myself acknowledge—is that I miss him. Somewhere behind all those walls is the best friend I’ve ever had. I could feel him. He was the water in the well. He is the well. And I’m so fucking thirsty I feel like I’m moments away from dying of it.
On Sunday morning, the video on the new account @justthetipfinancebro has 2,172 views and thirty five comments. Some are appreciative of my looks or Kaylin’s dog, and others are questions about the actual tip I gave.
I lie in bed and respond to all of the comments in an effort not to dwell too much more on last night.
I spent way too many hours doing that after Ryan left, going so far as playing some of our favorite songs from when we were young and full-on wallowing in my butt hurt feelings.
What still sucks today is I want to text him screen shots of some of these comments and see what he has to say about them.
Where that urge resurfaced from, I’ve got no clue, but it’s not like Jake, Evan, Henry or any of my friends now would get it—or even think it’s funny.
When Kaylin comes by to drop off Stephanie, she mentions she saw the video and thought it was great.
She also tells me not to be afraid of dropping my waistband, which she reaches out and does, pulling my sweats past my hip bones.
When she pats the newly exposed skin with her hands, I remember Ryan’s hands on them last night, and I get a feeling .
It’s a weird, something’s crawling under my skin feeling I want to both twist away from and also curl up in.
The only better way to describe it is the way it feels to get your first orgasm—like something’s wrong—it’s not okay—oh holy shit what happens if I keep doing that—I might die— that kind of thing. But it’s also familiar .
I’m not an idiot. I get what’s happening here.
The reason I wanted that hug last night wasn’t only about missing him.
I’ve been thinking of him in a way I told myself I never could—in a way I shouldn’t and therefore wouldn’t.
To be honest, it’s still got me a little nauseous, and once Kaylin pecks me on the cheek and leaves Stephanie in my arms, I curl up with her in bed and start the Lord of the Rings trilogy.
The trilogy of last resort. It’s either that or pull out one of my flesh lights, and that just feels wrong now that Stephanie’s here.
When The Two Towers is just getting started, I get a ping on my phone.
@Billiondollarblackcat stitched your video.
Stephanie sniffs the screen when I try to open the video, and I pull her against my chest to get her out of the way.
It starts with me—shirtless—holding the dog while I lean on the wall outside my bathroom because it was the best place to set up the light and phone stand. I say, “Mal and Stephanie here with today’s hot tip to get rich and stay that way. ”
My image is replaced with Ryan—leaning against a window with his face bathed in golden sunlight.
His tattoos stand out starkly on his pale skin, and his black hair looks thick and lush.
The overweight tuxedo cat on his shoulder has bright green eyes and a white nose.
It’s purring loud enough to hear. “Here’s a tip, Justthetip,” he says, voice deep and eyes smoldering so hard Bailey would give him ten gold stars. “Think real estate.”
He goes on, giving a quick piece of advice about how to determine city areas slated for growth by following infrastructure trends, but I can’t get over how good he looks.
I’m okay on screen, but Ryan’s coloring—his angles—his goddamn pouty lips—his edge— the camera loves him.
He has zero bad angles. No unflattering shadows. No flaws.
I had him in my arms last night.
“Stephanie, what the fuck is happening?”
I toss the phone aside and bury my face in her fur, feeling the heat inside me everywhere.
I guess it really could be that I just miss him—that having him back in my life is playing games with my head, crossing wires and desires, confusing one need with another.
I wasn’t oblivious to him as a teen or even before that.
I know normal brothers and friends don’t snuggle to watch movies like we did or sleep with their heads together and their legs tangled under the sheets.
I always liked the feel of him. I liked knowing he was nearby.
I never had to hug him for as long as I used to, but it felt good.
But when he threw down a gauntlet that day while he was high on cough syrup, I took one look at it and ran.
I freaked the fuck out because whatever he thought I was—I couldn’t be that .
I couldn’t want him that way . It would mean things I didn’t want it to mean, and I was exactly young and stupid and confused enough to be scared shitless .
I also blamed myself for leading him on and taking too much and confusing him with my own needy ass, but fuck—my mom was dead, and I was still processing that. My dad had someone new, and all I had for myself was Ryan and a compulsive need to be held. That’s what I told myself. Or tried to.
I’ve been staring down at that gauntlet ever since, wondering not if I made a mistake, because he was my stepbrother so obviously I couldn’t return feelings like that, but whether my innocent touches weren’t so innocent after all. Whether it was my fault for leading him on. Whether I was damaged.
He was such a mess after I rejected him, though, it was easy to believe I did the right thing by convincing myself that he was disgusting and wrong and an asshole. I fucking reviled him.
But something’s different. He’s still the asshole I turned him into, but my disgust, my revulsion—all that’s gone.
That hug last night was intense as hell. The heavy breathing. The agonized sound he made. The scent and heat of him. That vast empty space inside me that felt slightly less empty with him up close and his breath on my neck.
So what do I do now? Do I say something? Do I try fantasizing about it again and see if it’s as potent as last time? Picture undoing his tie… his mouth on my neck.
My cock stirs, and that same sickness from before pools in my belly, stirring, twisting…
I don’t know. I don’t want to lie to myself, but this is major. This is a decision I can’t make on one impulse, based on one hug. “ I don’t know how to do this ,” I groan out loud to the dog and the room.
Stephanie gets up, makes a circle in front of me and snuggles hard against my chest. She weighs four pounds normally, but when she really tries, she can make herself weigh about twenty.
Bailey texts to see if I know how to make a stitch video or does she need to walk me through it .
I assure her I can figure it out.
She sends me some talking points to pivot the TikTok conversation from real estate to franchises.
Once I get the gist of what she wants me to say, I turn my camera to selfie mode, welcoming the distraction.
The lighting could be better, but I flip through some filters and find one that gives the effect of natural light.
Stephanie is perfectly positioned, and I look how I feel.
Hard up and in bed. My shirt’s already off, so I find an angle that showcases all the finest aspects of the pathetic state I’m in, and I deliver my lines like I’m telling a woman I want to lick her till she comes screaming on my mouth.
I send it to Bailey, and she responds with a head explosion emoji.
Bailey
You just did that right now?!
Me
No, I read your mind and made this one yesterday.
Bailey
You guys are fucking fire. We’re going to win huge.
Me
You’re flirting with me now?
Bailey
Still not my type, golden boy.
Great. So glad the nickname is sticking.
But I can’t argue with Bailey’s tactics or her approval. Neither can TikTok. By Sunday evening, Ryan and I have made six videos, and our views are up to thirty-three thousand per post.
Whatever we’re doing—it’s working .
But if I have to see Ryan’s sword tattoo one more time, there won’t be a distraction in the world big enough to stop me from thinking about what it’s pointing to.