6. Arlo
The moans and keens start as they always do. As it always does, my cock goes hot and hard, tenting my sweats.
“Asshole,” I grumble and shove from my desk. My gaze narrows on the air vent that feeds heat to my room…and Hota’s. The portal to a different world. A world I don’t understand. It leaks all manner of perversion into my room at least twice a day.
I hurry to the sleek clock radio I bought last week on our floor’s weekend trip into town and turn it on. The volume is low. Too low. Grunts and gasps still find my ears. I crank the volume higher than I ever have.
The obscure radio station I found yesterday pumps the hardest, most insane lyrics and riffs into my room and my soul.
As it overruns the other noises, my disgust and intrigue wane. My hard-on doesn’t. It will.
If I ignore it.
This essay is due Friday. I don’t need to finish it tonight, but I will. After that, I have three more to do for my customers. Drug dealing probably pays well on the streets, but in a school full of privileged rich kids, turning out mint assignments pays better. I have more money than I’ve ever had to my name. It’s empowering, even if it’s a drop in the bucket in the grand scheme of things.
It’s mine, and he can’t take it away from me. It’s mine, and I can do what I want with it.
Sure as hell didn’t want to waste it on a clock radio, but my productivity and sanity were starting to deteriorate. I’ve found more solace in that little radio than I ever expected.
Three paragraphs into my paper and I know it’s already paid for itself. I adjust my still swollen cock and scribble away.
A knock reverberates in my room.
My head jerks up, and my heartbeat echoes in my ears, drowning out the music. The wide peel of my eyes goes to the door.
Who the hell could it be?
I’m not answering it.
I make exchanges in the library. In the back of the stacks. It’s discreet.
The knock comes again. This time louder and more vehement. My hands shake, and I squeeze them into fists.
“Open up.” Hotaru’s voice filters in from the bathroom door.
It’s the first time he’s ever knocked or even spoken to me since the day I arrived. I’m dumbfounded and staring at the door when it swings open. He steps into my room with his midnight hair slicked back from a shower.
He’s sporting black sweats, the outline of a cock the size of a porn star’s, and a scowl.
I jump to my feet and put the pathetic wooden chair between us. This room is the size of my closet back home. With him inside, it’s smaller. Claustrophobic even. My chest goes tight.
His gaze rakes over me, then jumps to my clock radio. “Turn that shit down.”
My spine stiffens. I flex my jaw but say nothing. Instead, I let my body language do the talking. It’s been pretty damn effective at this school. With that and a small notepad, I can communicate as much as I want to. Which isn’t much.
“I’m trying to concentrate,” he snarls. His teeth are so straight and white. And his lips…Nope, not going there.
I smirk and my gaze drops to his crotch. My eyes roll and I meet his dark eyes once more.
His gaze hits my crotch with what feels like an invisible punch. My nuts suck up into my throat.
I forgot about my stupid situation.
“Looks like I’m not the only one trying to concentrate.” His lips purse.
“Fuck you,” I hiss.
“Hey, it’s only natural.” He shrugs muscular shoulders. The striations under his skin ripple and bunch.
“I don’t jerk off.”
I hate myself a little for saying that. My cheeks warm, and my chest vibrates with frenetic energy. The statement is true, and I hate that he knows it.
“You should. Then, maybe, you wouldn’t be such a bloody prick.” He steps toward my nightstand and radio.
I move left and block his path.
He stops a few feet away and points behind me. “That noise can’t help your cause.” The asshole lunges for the radio as though he’s going to turn it off.
My chin lifts. I hold my ground.
For the last two weeks, I’ve watched him toss guys his size around like dolls. I’m a lot thicker than I was last time we were this close. I’m bigger than him now. Taller too.
I could open my mouth and bite his forehead. That’s how much I’ve grown. That’s also how close we are.
The food I’ve been stuffing into my pockets and eating between meals has worked wonders. My body has responded to the care and sleep I’ve been able to give it here. I’ve hit a decent growth spurt each month. I need it to keep going.
“I’m writing an essay. It helps a lot. Drowns out the deviant bullshit coming from your room.” I point at the vent.
“Deviant?” His mouth quirks. “I’m sure hand holding would seem kinky to you.”
He has no idea. None at all.
“You know nothing about me,” I snap.
“Don’t I?”
His head cants. He levels me with his knowing eyes.
It’s the main reason I’ve stayed away from him. That and the fact that I hate his fucking guts for what he did. For making me feel, for just a second, like I had someone who could stand up for me, who would be there for me. But he can’t. No one can.
When summer rolls around…I bank a shudder.
“That guy isn’t your dad.” His eyes bore into me, searching for any reaction. I hold perfectly still. “You two look nothing alike, and you had a fit when Miss Booth said something about him being your parent.”
I bite the inside of my cheeks to keep quiet.
“He beats your ass for fun.”
A buzzing starts in the back of my head. My vision goes blurry for a second. The tempo of my heartbeat revs like a juiced-up engine. I can’t seem to get enough air into my lungs or out. It feels like I’m going to explode.
This asshole grabs my desk chair and spins it so that the seat is behind my knees.
“Sit before you pass out, and I have to watch you splat your skull on the floor or catch your big ass.”
I try to tell him to fuck off, that I can take care of myself, but the words won’t form on my numb lips. So I grit my teeth and obey. I don’t want to hit my head. It’ll ruin my training for several days. I don’t want him to touch me either.
“He’s not coming here,” his calm voice reassures. “He can’t get in, even if he tried. We’re the school’s cash cows, us kids. They like to keep tabs on their cash flow.” He motions me forward. “Grab your ankles and relax your chest.”
“Fuck off,” I wheeze.
“Intimidating for an asthmatic.” He chuckles.
“I don’t have asthma,” I snarl. It still comes out as a wheeze.
He waves me down. Air is still barely bartering its way in and out of my lungs. I flop forward, figuring that if I pass out, I’ll be that much closer to the floor.
“What makes you happy?”
I gasp.
Breathing.
Breathing makes me happy.
“Think about what makes you happy. Is it a place or a time? Envision yourself there. Feel the temperature of the place. Hear the sounds there. Inhale the smells.”
Suddenly, I’m at my old house. My toes are tucked into the green grass of the conservatory. The warmth of the sun pours in through the glass above. The scents of gardenias and lush dirt fill my nose.
“That’s it. Deep, slow breaths.”
My fingertips itch to feel the leaves and pluck a rosebud, to toss it up and catch it time and time again.
I blink. Bare feet come into view. Tears threaten to obscure them. That limbo between my safe place and reality vacillates until I can breathe without sounding like an eighty-year-old chain smoker.
Swallowing, I press my elbows into my quads and wipe the tears from my eyes.
“Are you prone to panic attacks?”
“What are you talking about?” My gaze slices up to Hota’s.
“That thing that just happened was a panic attack.”
“Maybe I’m just allergic to you.”
“Hilarious. Really,” he deadpans.
I push myself back into the chair and feel like I just ran a marathon. My abdomen is jelly, and my arms and legs quake.
“How do you know about panic attacks?” I choke.
His arms cross over his lean chest. I wait for him to turn around and leave, but he doesn’t. It’s as if he’s weighing his words carefully. “My mum had them from time to time.” He bites his bottom lip. “Have you experienced that before?”
My nod is curt.
“I didn’t mean to trigger you.”
“I don’t understand half the words that are coming out of your mouth.” I huff.
I don’t like that. I usually know the most out of my friends. Of course, I don’t have friends now. I have nothing. Well, a little more than nothing, but not much.
“Can you turn that noise down? It sounds like someone's skinning cats alive.”
With a tilt of my head, I permit him to turn off the music. “It’s death metal.”
“It’s death, all right. Death to my eardrums.” He moves carefully around me, and then the music dies.
His music takes over once more, filling my room with slaps and moans.
“Shit.” His hand goes to his crotch, which consequently is right by my fucking face. “That is loud.”
My dick jumps to life, revived by the sounds of fucking. I’m disgusted once more. If only I could control my body’s reactions. If only.
Hota doesn’t apologize for the noise or its volume. He doesn’t even move like he’s going to turn it off.
It’s like he’s unfazed by it. Well, not aloof. I’m staring at the evidence of his appreciation.
Why am I staring?
My cheeks heat, and I jerk my chin toward the door.
He’s not embarrassed by it.
“You should try jerking off.”
My jaw unhinges from my face. My eyes go wide. “Excuse me?”
“Chill, I don’t mean right this second.” He gives an exacerbated sound and shifts back a couple of steps, still holding his cock through his sweats. “Don’t want you having a heart attack or anything.” He chuckles as if thinking about me doing just that. Jerking off right here, right now, in front of him.
My entire body flushes, and my fucking knees wobble.
“Nope,” he continues, “wouldn’t want your brain to explode, prude.”
“I’m not a prude,” I growl.
“Mm-hmm.” He looks down his nose at me, unconvinced.
“I’m not.”
His hands go up and palm out in surrender, but his damn mouth doesn’t get the memo. “I’m just saying, you need to find an outlet before you spontaneously combust. I don’t want to die in a dorm fire. It’d be bad for my funeral. This.” He puts a hand under his face as though displaying it. “Needs to be seen.”
“Something is wrong with you.”
“Yep,” he agrees. “It’s not the same thing that’s wrong with you.”
“Be thankful.” My voice vibrates with vehemence.
“I am.”
He nods and then heads for the door. The woman in his video screams out her orgasm.
My balls draw tight.
“Happy jerking.” His smile disappears behind the door. He closes it, and I’m left confused and horny as fuck.
Surprisingly, I find I hate myself for it a little less. Maybe this is natural.
It was natural before I moved to hell. Jerking off, not getting a semi from looking at dudes. Well, not dudes. Just one guy in particular. Stroking it was natural before the unnatural beat every innate urge out of me.