Chapter 9
Miles
I impatiently wait for him at our next Figure Drawing session.
“If you want to blow me again, I’m game.”
I tried to sound cool, but really, if he hadn’t needed to be in class, I definitely could’ve gone for round two. I rarely do repeats, Tatum being one of the few exceptions, but despite knowing Dax shouldn’t fuck with me, part of me doesn’t want that.
And now that I know what he can do with that mouth, it’s even worse.
It’s not even just the skill that guy’s developed.
It’s the chemistry between us. Raw, powerful, explosive chemistry.
Something intense enough to drown out the noise in my fucking head.
And as hard as I’m trying to convince myself that what we did was a mistake, I feel like I crossed a bridge and then torched the damn thing behind me.
I can only imagine how he’ll be during his modeling session today, deliberately toying with me.
He’ll look my way, but not directly at me, as he poses.
The occasional smirk when he’s swapping positions.
His lips will beg for another load in his belly. And I’m gonna give it to him.
“Okay,” Professor Reger says. “Dax couldn’t make it today, but we have another model helping us.”
What…the…fuck?
“She’s in the back room, getting ready, but she’ll be out in a moment, so in the meantime, I’ll review what we’ll be working on.”
My thoughts scramble as I spiral. He said he wanted to mess around again, but what if he changed his mind? Maybe there wasn’t as much chemistry between us as I thought. If that’s the case, it’s not like he must stop modeling for class just because of that.
Before we even get started, I’ve already made up my mind that Dax just enjoyed hitting and quitting it and clearly wants nothing to do with me anymore. It’s for the best. He can go fuck himself. But why, when it’d be better if I was fucking him?
Class is torture as I force myself to draw the model, my hands tensing, trying to pull me in a different direction, because I know who they really want to draw. Even her lips aren’t right, and as Professor Reger passes behind me, assessing my work, I’m wondering if she notices whose lips they are.
“Nice work as always, Miles,” she assures me before moving on to the next station.
Wish I could enjoy the compliment, but I just grit my teeth and keep on, ruminating on what he told me about his mom.
It was such a shock to my system. Not that it’s a huge shock to meet others who’ve lost parents, but it amazes me that he can be this fun-loving guy despite that.
Although, I knew there was more behind his smile.
Fucking knew there had to be, and this proved it.
But more than that, it touched something in me, something a lot more important than anything we did sexually.
I could hear the pain in his tone, see it in his eyes, and I know that pain.
That loss. So fucking deep. Excruciating.
And he could’ve kept it to his damn self if he was just gonna write me off after.
The thought haunts me the rest of class and through my next one, Medieval Art History.
Don’t know why I’m stressing. If Dax doesn’t want to fuck around again, I can just as easily find someone else tonight at the TaskFrat Challenge—this masochistic thing the Peach State frats do where we volunteer for humiliation to entertain the frats and sororities.
What am I saying we for? I’m not in a frat anymore.
Anyway, I’ll find someone else to fuck around with and get Dax off my brain.
But…I know it won’t be that easy.
When class ends, I pull my cell out and see a missed call from Dad. No voicemail or text. Anxiety pulses through me as my mind races back… “It’s about your mom.” My throat constricts, my skin pricking with sensation.
I rush out of class, calling him as I head down the hall.
Answer…answer, fuck it.
Because of that one call, every time after, I fear he’ll have some more terrible news to share with me.
It’s probably fine. It usually is.
But every muscle’s so tight, my breathing erratic.
“Hi, buddy,” Dad answers in that playful tone that makes me want to lose it. Not just because of how worried he got me, but how dare he fucking sound so playful after what happened to her.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong. I was calling to check in. It’s been like a week since we talked.”
“What have I said about texting or leaving a message?”
“Oh, yeah. Sorry. It slipped my mind. I figured you might be able to hit me back between classes. I’m sorry. Is something wrong?”
What a dumbass question for him to ask.
“Nope,” I lie.
“How are classes going?”
I take a deep breath, summoning the strength to chill the fuck out. After all, I don’t have a problem talking to Dad. I love him. I do. And I’m sure if I wasn’t already stressed about Dax ditching class today, I wouldn’t be this frustrated.
“Fine. I just got out of Medieval Art History.” I spit that out without thinking, but I should have because I can hear his disapproval in the way he breathes.
He doesn’t even have to offer his usual, “Maybe you should consider trying something else. You were so great at math. Wouldn’t you be more interested in accounting? ”
“That’s nice,” he forces out.
Time for a subject change. “How about you?”
“Oh, the usual. Wrestling around corporate bureaucracy. The boring stuff that nobody wants to do but that makes a lot of money.”
Hopefully that’s the most he’ll push to remind me there are better careers out there, in his opinion.
I’m half tempted to tell him how much I’ve got in my bank account because of what he thinks is a dumb hobby, but I bite my tongue.
The only thing worse than Chipper Dad is Hurt Dad.
That’s something I can’t bear to deal with.
“You planning to go out this weekend?” he asks.
“Probably.”
“Just keep out of trouble.”
Again, he doesn’t say what he’s really thinking—just like we didn’t talk about Mom after she killed herself. Maybe that’s why I can’t keep quiet. “What do you mean?”
“Have a good time, but I’d rather not get a call from you at the police station.” He snickers in that way he does when he’s being awkward.
He doesn’t know what really happened that night. That I wasn’t the one, just took the fall, but I’ve accepted that means I might as well have done it to everyone, including my dad, who should know me well enough to know better.
I want to believe Mom would have known, but who knows?
“Have you, um, talked to any therapists?” he asks.
I grunt, not replying right away because I don’t want to lie.
He sighs…oh, the sigh of my father’s disapproval burns like acid on my chest. “Miles, we talked about this. I handled everything after you got in trouble, and you said you would talk to someone.”
“About just this?” I press.
If he wants to go there, then let’s go there.
He hesitates. “I think you probably have a lot of things on your mind.”
Fucking say it, Dad. Say I’m probably fucked up for being a kid whose mom killed herself and whose dad fucking ditched him to go to a mental hospital, being abandoned by both his parents at once.
I hate myself for even thinking it—I know neither of them could help it.
That they both must’ve been in so much pain to get to that point, but I can’t help this rage that bubbles up whenever I think about it.
Angry as I can get, it’s never something I want to put on him.
I keep it bound up in me with all the rest of this shit.
“Now that I think about it, I do have a meeting coming up,” he says.
Yeah, fucking right.
“I’ll be around later if you’re free,” he adds.
For obvious reasons, I don’t ever believe him when he tells me he’ll be around.
“Sure thing, Dad.”
“Love you.”
I do love my father, but I can’t bring myself to say it back. I hang up, the tension steadily rising within me as my mind flashes back to the day before , Mom smiling and laughing with me, leading me to believe everything was fine.
I’m fucking pissed at Dad for bringing all this to the surface, and now that it’s shown its ugly face, I can’t push it back down like I usually do.
And I’m pissed at Dax too. For a few moments, he was the cure I could have turned to, but for whatever reason, he probably doesn’t even want to see me again.
As if I’m gonna make it that easy for him.
I catch the shuttle to fraternity row, pulling up Instagram on my phone. I’m not friends with Dax, but I’ve stalked his account before. It’s what you’d expect—lots of hot shirtless pics, and he’s all smiley with his buddies. Always having a great time.
Though clearly, there’s more to him than he shows his frat buddies.
Since we’re not friends on Instagram, my DMs will only go to his requests, but that’s good enough for me. I draft a few messages:
You acted like me running was such a big fucking deal.
You could have at least told me you didn’t want to fuck around again.
And then there’s always just: Fuck you.
That would be very me, but I’m not sending him any of that. I’m not giving him the chance to ghost me on socials. He’ll have to tell me to fuck off to my damn face.
The shuttle pulls up to the block with some of the frats, and I get off and head for Alpha Theta Mu.
Will he even be there?
Will he give a shit?
What the hell am I here for?
I don’t have answers, just know I must do something or my head’s gonna explode.
When I reach the front door, I knock, more aggressively than intended. Damien Westbrook opens it. He’s towering over me at six feet plus too many inches, looking like the bouncer of Alpha Theta Mu.
“Dax here?” I ask, amazed I manage to sound cooler than I feel.
Maybe I’m doing Dax a favor. Maybe once I give him hell over this class shit, his fellow fratholes will know he’s no friend of mine and won’t give him grief over sticking up for me.
Damien folds his arms, cocking his head back like a real fucking tool. In fairness, from what I know of the guy, he’s cool and he’s big on helping at the local nonprofit, Activate Kindness, but fuck if I care right now.
“What you need Dax for?”
“That’s between me and Dax.”
“He’s Alpha Theta Mu, so really, it’s between you and me too.”
Really? You gonna suck me off to cheer me up, big boy?
I won’t say that, but damn, I want to.
“Tell him I’m here.”
“If you think I’m letting you in so you can start beef with one of ours, you’re outta your mind.”
I shouldn’t. If I had half a brain, I wouldn’t .
But Dax has me so fucked up right now, I don’t really care what the hell this giant does to me.
Hell, if he beats the crap out of me, that might be better than this intense discomfort that’s constricting my chest like a motherfucker.
I start to shove past him, and he keeps in my way.
“Not happening, Omega Psi.”
“I’m not Omega Psi anymore, remember?”
“Exactly. You’re lucky we’re even letting you back into parties.”
I fucking go for it, shoving him, and not a half second later he’s got me by the collar. He lifts me off the porch, whirls around, and shoves me against the side of the house. In the commotion, some of the guys head outside.
“Try me,” he says, getting in my face. “I’d love it.”
The last thing I need right now is getting into shit for this.
Stop it.
“You should go,” he says with a clenched jaw.
He’s right. I shouldn’t be here anyway.
“Fine,” I say. “It’s cool. Just back the fuck off.” I give him a shove, and he releases me.
Six Alpha Theta Mus are congregating outside, looking at me like I’m out of my damn mind. Maybe I fucking am. It’s like everything I’ve pushed down suddenly lays siege to my brain: Dax not being in class. Dad’s call. Mom. And now these fuckwads.
I start to head off when the tightness in my chest knots up, my muscles locking, blood rushing to my face.
As a bout of nausea hits, the rest happens so quickly—I lose my balance and tumble into the porch rail, which snaps apart like it’s made of popsicle sticks.
Collapsing into the bushes in front of it, I barely feel myself hit the ground because I’m stuck in my head and body, struggling against it all, though I’ve experienced this enough to know fighting won’t do me any good.
I’m having a panic attack.
The frats surround me before I hear Dax’s voice. “Miles?”
As I lie in the bushes, my thoughts terrorizing me, all I can think is, Fuck. My. Life.