Chapter 17
CHAPTER 17
HENDRIX AVERY
“Snap out of it, man!” Something smacks my cheek. Hard. “What is wrong with you?”
I blink once. Twice. Rub my face. “Did you just slap me?”
“He speaks!” Micah shouts victoriously. “I thought you had taken one too many hits to the helmet.”
“No, I . . .” I shake my head, trying to clear it, but just like the last few days, it doesn’t work. I’m back in that truck bed again, then by the pool, both encounters weighing so heavily on my mind that nothing else can get through. And yesterday’s football game had been the same way. I missed the ball more often than I caught it, and Coach pulled me after halftime. All the while, Tahegin watched me with those bright sapphire-blue eyes, biting his full bottom lip to keep himself from asking what was wrong. How would I have even answered? Probably with the same thought that has been echoing in my head since Halloween, then screaming since Thanksgiving. “I leaned in.”
Micah stares at me as if I have grown two heads and a pair of tits. “You . . . leaned in? To what?”
Burying my face in my hands, I let out a wail of despair. The sound is so unlike me that Micah stands, takes a step toward me, then fumbles. He stills, not sure how to help since he and I haven’t ever been the type to comfort each other. Hugs are few and far, far between and usually initiated by me when he gets super stressed. The last time we hugged was probably after his breakup over a year ago. “Not what,” I mumble into my hands. “ Who .”
“You leaned into someone,” he repeats slowly, as if trying to verify what I am—poorly—telling him. “For . . .”
“Micah.” Standing, I cross his living room to grab his thin shoulders, even more dwarfed by my large hands. His caramel-brown eyes meet mine, as wide as they can go, probably because I am willingly touching him.
I came over tonight on a whim. He hadn’t even invited me. When I got here, he and Aleks had been . . . doing something that involved them being shirtless. Micah took one look at me, rain-soaked and depressed, and he kicked Aleks to the curb, throwing his shirt out after him as an afterthought. We had been sitting in silence for the last however-long until Micah slapped me partially out of my thoughts.
“You can’t tell anyone,” I blurt. “Especially Aleks.”
“And what, exactly, am I not telling him?”
“I leaned in,” I whisper, shaking him slightly.
His face drops into a sarcastic deadpan. Didn’t know that could even be a thing, but okay. “So I have gathered.”
Think, Rix. Think. You leaned in when Tahegin got close on Halloween, and it made your lips brush, but only a little bit. Hardly anything at all, really, but you couldn’t stop thinking about it. So, because your brain is totally fucked right now, you tried to do it again on Thanksgiving. Then, you wimped out and said some shit about his birth parents. And now, you’re regretting not going through with it.
Okay, but is it only a Tahegin thing, or was it simply because the opportunity presented itself?
My gaze flicks south of Micah’s eyes—to his lips. I have an opportunity here, don’t I? Maybe he can help me . . . “Can I kiss you?”
To his credit, he only looks curious as he shrugs. “Sure.”
I pause, stunned. “Why are you so okay with it?”
“It’s just a kiss. I’m more concerned about where you are going with this and why I can’t tell Zeke—oh. Oh ! You almost kissed Tahegin, didn’t you? Oh my God, Rix. This is great! Are you queer now? I always thought there was a bit?—”
Unable to cipher through all of that , I pull him in and lay my lips on his, fully devoting myself so as not to skew the results. I need to know if it is all men or just Tahegin. Fuck, I don’t even know if I want more than a kiss—I can’t think that far ahead yet. And honestly, I’m scared to think more about it.
Micah makes a noise and melts into me. He’s going all in, too, which I appreciate, and I can acknowledge the fact that he is a decent kisser. I’m the one to deepen it, sliding my tongue between his lips to caress his. Micah sighs and falls more into me, his hips pressing against mine with an unfamiliar—yet eerily familiar—hardness that . . .
I push him away, gasping for air. “Dude, are you?—”
Pink blossoms across his pale cheeks, making his magenta hair seem even brighter. “You’re a good kisser, and you interrupted Aleks and me earlier! It’s not all from you, okay?”
“Hmph.”
“Don’t you— Oh, whatever. Did it work? Did that answer your question?” Micah slams his hands onto his hips, trying his best to appear less frazzled than he actually is.
Did it? I take a second to think it over and . . . “I still want to kiss him, I think.”
He studies me, head tilted to the side inquisitively, as if I am an unknown specimen. “Can I ask what happened to make you ‘lean in’?”
We both take a seat once more, and I sigh heavily because I have a pretty good idea of what his reaction will be when I say, “I told him about my birth parents.”
“You what?” And, yep. There he goes, climbing up the arm of the couch, then putting an arm and a leg on the back to get even higher. I gave him a look, and he relents, staying perched there, not going any further. “But you haven’t even told me about your birth parents.”
“I know,” I whisper, hanging my head. “I’m not sure why, but Tahegin is different. We’re friends, but the things I’ve told him . . . I haven’t told you a lot of that stuff. At least, not intentionally, and not so soon after we met. And the way we . . . But I should have realized before.”
“The way you what?”
I meet his inquiring eyes, refusing to be embarrassed or nervous. “Tahegin and I have been—well, we said it was teaching me to accept more contact from my teammates, like high fives and hugs and shit—but what we have been doing? I think it’s . . . cuddling.” The last word is nearly inaudible, but Micah can read lips just fine.
His jaw drops so low it’s uncomfortable to look at. “You have been cuddling Tahegin Ellingsworth—a man, your roommate at away games, your teammate, a famous football player, a man ?—”
I cut him off with a palm over his mouth. “Yes.”
He says something entirely unintelligible, so I remove my hand and gesture for him to repeat. “How did the cuddling and talking about your parents lead to this ‘leaning in’ moment?”
“The cuddling led to more contact between us, and the time we spent together naturally had us talking more, confessing things. The night of the Halloween party, after you and Aleks went to his room, Tahegin and I went and got veggie burgers. We ate them together in the back of his truck, one thing led to another, I told him about my birth parents, and he started to comfort me. He grabbed my head and pulled us close, telling me . . . things—nice things. We were nose to nose while he spoke, and I just . . .” I make a helpless motion with my hands, not meeting Micah’s eyes. “Leaned in. Our mouths touched.”
Micah teeters on the edge of the couch as he waits for more. “And then?” he demands when I don’t continue.
I shrug. “And then he pulled back without saying anything, and we kept talking as if it didn’t happen. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Then, at Willow’s birthday party?—”
“I knew something happened by the pool! You were acting weird . . . er than normal.”
“Thanks,” I deadpan before continuing. “Anyway, I wanted to try to kiss him or ask if I could, or something, I don’t know. We got close, but I chickened out and told him I’d be there if he ever wanted to talk about his birth parents.”
He sucks on his teeth. “Ooh, mood killer.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Well.” He draws out the word in his “I have an opinion” voice. Or maybe it’s the “I have gossip” voice. “Maybe that is for the best.”
I eye him suspiciously. “Why do you say that? What do you know that I don’t?”
“You do know, but maybe you forgot. Remember that first Rubies game I went to where I ended up sitting with the Ellingsworths? Willow told me that I looked like one of Tahegin’s ex-boyfriends. That I’m?—”
“His type,” I finish, suddenly remembering.
“Yeah, and . . .” Micah gestures to himself—his petite frame, thin build, pretty face, and perfect hair. “Usually, guys who like twinks don’t go for jocks, too.”
My mouth forms a silent “oh.” Yeah, that makes sense. Kind of like how a man who prefers thicker women won’t usually try to pick up a size zero—nothing on the girl, it’s just his preference. I haven’t ever been one to pick and choose, but I understand that some people do. “Right. Yeah.” I had mentioned that conversation to Tahegin, too, and he hadn’t corrected me, so his sister must have been telling the truth.
Micah makes a face, clearly sympathetic to my situation. “We can go to an inclusive club if you want to see if any guys catch your eye there?—”
“No, no.” I hold my hand up to stop him, trying not to grimace. “I appreciate the offer, but I think it’s just a fluke. I was probably vulnerable from telling him about my past. I’m sure it’ll go away.”
He doesn’t look as if he believes me. “Okay, but I’m here if you want to talk.”
“I know, Micah. Thank you.”
The silence that follows quickly becomes awkward, so I ask how he’s been, what’s going on in his life, how things are with Aleks—literally anything. It’s more of an effort than I usually make, and I think he realizes that because he tells me why more than I ask for. We’re both grateful for the change of subject.
Micah tells me all about Aleks, their hookups, and even how they’ve been on a few not-dates. Since neither is interested in a relationship, they aren’t labeling whatever it is they are doing. It’s cute how much they like each other—though I will never say that to his face—but I am glad they are taking things slow. Micah has had his delicate little heart broken too many times already.
“And I have a job interview in January,” he gushes excitedly. “I wouldn’t begin working—if I even get the job, that is—until around August next year, but I’m excited to put myself out there.”
“Shit, for real? Congrats, man. What job is it?”
He mimes zipping his lips. “Huh-uh, can’t jinx it. But I was referred to them by—” He breaks off, gulping.
I raise an eyebrow. “By who?”
“Erm, Tahegin.”
There goes taking my mind off him.
“Hey.” Micah touches my arm, wobbling slightly on his perch. “You know, I could ask Aleks about him. Test the waters a bit. Though, he might think I’m interested in Tahegin.” He frowns at that.
Shaking my head, I thank him but kindly decline. “I think I’m just going to forget all about it . I’m sure this crazy feeling will go away.”
He shrugs. “If you say so— Oh! Did you hear about Kit?”
“. . . No? Should I have?”
Micah slides onto the couch beside me, nervously fiddling with his colorful fingernails. “Well . . . no, I guess not. It’s supposed to be a secret, but Aleks told me. He’ll probably tell Tahegin, too. Maybe. So I can tell you, right?”
I stare blankly at him. Either he’ll tell me, or he won’t. He has to make that decision himself.
“Don’t look at me like that!”
I am literally not looking at him in any type of way.
“Aleks told me not to tell anyone.”
Okay, so he won’t tell me.
“But you’re not just anyone. You’re my other brain cell.”
I’m what?
“My brother. My twin.” He peels off one of his stick-on nails, then moves to the next, completely unconscious of his nervous actions. “My?—”
“Dude.”
“Kit’s dating a referee!” Micah shouts in a rush and claps his hands over his mouth as if he didn’t mean to tell me.
Too late.
But then his words register, and . . . “He’s what?”
Micah nods from behind his hands, only opening them to squeak, “Larson,” before closing them again.
Larson . . . the name rings a bell. I shuffle through my memories, trying to pinpoint a face to go with the name. It comes to me slowly because— “Larson isn’t a ref. He’s a judge.”
His hands fall as he tilts his head in confusion. “Huh?”
“There’s only one referee in a game, the one in the white hat who calls the penalties. The rest are judges or the replay official or the umpire.”
“. . . Do they all wear the black-and-white-striped shirts?”
“Yeah.”
He stares at me, not blinking for a long time. When he does move, it’s to grab a couch pillow, which he uses to whack me with repeatedly. “Hendrix Rosetta Avery!”
“Ow! Not my middle name!”
“To us plebeians, they are all refs! Every. Single. One.” He hits me with each staccato word. “You knew what I meant.”
“Okay. Okay. Micah, seriously. I’m still sore from the game last night.”
“How? You were benched,” he hisses like a little gremlin.
I point my finger in his face, tone serious. “Hey.”
He deflates. “Sorry.”
Back to the matter at hand . . . “Isn’t Larson, like, hella old?”
“He’s forty-three.”
I shoot him a look that asks, “Why the fuck do you know that?”
“I googled him. He’s attractive, not gonna lie. The salt-and-pepper look fits him well.”
“But Kit is . . .”
“Twenty-two,” he supplies when I can’t recall. “I googled him, too. He’s a running back.”
I roll my lips between my teeth, nodding in what I hope comes across as supportive. “Yes, Mike. Good job.”
He narrows his eyes at me. “Don’t patronize me.”
Raising my hands in surrender, I steer him back to the gossip. “So, a twenty-one?—”
“A twenty-one-year age difference! Can you believe it?”
“It’s . . . something,” I acknowledge.
“And that has to be a conflict of interest, no?”
“Home field advantage?”
Micah gasps and swats my shoulder. “ No .”
Laughter bubbles out of my chest, surprising me, but I let it burst free. I’m not sure when the last time I laughed in front of Micah was, though his face says it has been a long fucking time. It doesn’t seem that long to me. Perhaps because I laugh so often with Tahegin, it’s becoming a normal thing. I guess I haven’t been spending as much time with Micah as I should, if this is the first.
“The NFL has been good for you,” he notes.
“Tahegin has been good for me,” I correct without thinking.
Hiding a grin, Micah falls back against the couch and tips his head to stare at the ceiling. We’re quiet for a moment, him watching nothing and me watching him. Eventually, he gives a thoughtful hum. “I always wondered why they call Kit ‘Baby Boy.’”
“Why?”
“Doesn’t it make sense?” He rolls his head to look at me. “We call him baby boy, and he’s dating a significantly older man—a daddy, if you will.”
I feel my eyes widen in shock at the implication. “Micah!”
“I’m just saying!”
“Well, don’t. It isn’t any of our business.”
The doorbell rings, most likely our takeout arriving, so Micah excuses himself to go handle it. He returns with his arms full of the vegan Chinese cuisine that Tahegin introduced me to. Micah isn’t thrilled about it, but it’s nice of him to try. I had told him we could order pizza or something, and he’d shot me down in favor of this place—he said I’ve been mooning over it since the first time I tasted it.
We eat in silence, save for the TV softly playing in the background, until Micah looks at me, the gears in his head turning loud enough to catch my attention. I pause with a bite of eggplant stir-fry almost to my mouth and quirk a questioning eyebrow.
“Will you tell me—about your parents? It’s just, you told Tahegin, even though you haven’t known him nearly as long as we’ve known each other.”
Setting my food on the table, I take in his sincere expression and the nervous fumbling of his chopsticks. “I wasn’t aware you wanted to know. I mean, you haven’t asked . . .” Except that one time shortly after we were paired as roommates in college, and I had?—
“You kind of snapped my head off the one time I did ask, so I never mentioned it again. I thought you would tell me when you were ready.”
“You’re right,” I agree. “I should have told you before now. If you want to listen, I’m ready to talk.”
Eyes wide, Micah nods, and I tell him everything. I tell him about my awful, negligent parents and the unstable home—usually a motel—where I was raised. The drugs and alcohol, the way they either ignored me or yelled at me, and everything that happened leading up to that day they took me to the family services building. I was clueless as to what was happening until they asked the receptionist, “So, do we just leave him here with you?” It was the Alpha-Gal, I think, that ultimately led to them abandoning me. It was a lot to handle—trust me, I’ve been dealing with it for years. And, yes, it has been long enough that I could try red meat again, but I like my diet the way it is, even if other people think it’s weird.
I tell Micah about foster care and the horrible homes I stayed in. Not all of them were awful, but none of them were great. The rules were strict, their funds were low, and there were usually too many kids to keep track of—always coming and going and being moved to another home just as you began making friends. It wasn’t fun, especially when there was little hope of me being adopted.
By the time I’m done, Micah is softly crying, and when I open my arms, he falls into me.
“That wasn’t meant to make you cry,” I say as his tears soak into my shirt.
“I know. I’m just a baby.” He sniffs. “Thank you for telling me, Rix.”
I squeeze him tighter. “Thank you for listening.”
? ? ?
Later that night, alone in my bed, I recall the kiss between Micah and me. Despite both of us giving it our all, I feel nothing as I think about his lips moving against mine, the heat of his body against me, his soft hair between my fingers.
I feel nothing because I don’t want Micah or his thin lips . . . But plumper ones? Yes, I can imagine kissing thick, pillowy lips and pressing myself against a tall body hardened by athleticism. Tahegin’s mouth, hot on my own. My tongue tracing the seam, pushing in.
“Fuuuck,” I breathe as my hand slips into my boxers. One long pull has me fully erect in an instant. I had already been well on my way there anyway.
In the safety and privacy of my dark bedroom, I let myself want .
I want to taste Tahegin, his mouth, his skin. I want to touch him in ways we haven’t before—my palm on the back of his neck pulling him close. My thumb tracing his cheekbone, jaw, and lips. My hand sliding down his firm chest, bumping over the barbell in his nipple. My fingers tracing the hard edges of his abdomen, grasping his hips, hard, yanking him roughly against me.
He’s taller than Micah. His hardness wouldn’t hit my thigh—no, it would line up nearly perfectly with mine, hard length to hard length, rubbing directly against each other.
With a groan, I release my shaft and ball my fist before running the hard edge of my knuckles along the sensitive underside of my cock, imagining it is Tahegin’s against me. My knuckle catches the underside of my glans, a jolt of pleasure running from my dick to my toes to my fingers.
“God, T, you drive me crazy,” I hiss into the darkness, and then I flip over, shoving a pillow beneath my hips to rut against it.
Jerking off has always been perfunctory for me—fast strokes to an even faster release. Not like this. Never like this.
“Fuck me,” I groan, my hips rolling, my cock dragging against the fabric, seeking friction as my entire body buzzes on the precipice. Rubbing haphazardly like this is the exact opposite of quick. It’s a tease, a slow torture, each drive pulling me higher and higher with delicious pleasure. My balls ache, drawing tight to me. I gnash my teeth, wanting to bite into the muscle of Tahegin’s shoulder.
I’m thrusting against Tahegin in my mind. Earlier, his cock; now, his well-cushioned, muscular ass. I want it—more than I have ever wanted anyone in my life. I don’t usually spend two minutes jerking off, much less creating an imaginary scenario with one subject in mind.
Except now, as I tighten every already sore muscle to fuck against my pillow—my goddamn pillow like a teenager. I’m lost in a fantasy, refusing to let myself think about how impossible this is to ever truly happen. For now, I can let myself imagine.
“Fuck, yeah. Make me come, T—” I break off with a gasp that morphs into a low groan. I flood my sheets with my release, my cock pulsing and spurting violently with a nearly painful orgasm—arguably the best I’ve had in a long time. My toes curl so tight my calf threatens to cramp, but I don’t let up. I rut and rut and rut as pleasure racks my body limb by limb, drawing it out, until I eventually collapse.
I fall to my back on the clean side of the bed, panting and flushed and sweaty. My heart rate takes too damn long to calm to a normal rhythm, and by the time it does, I am well on my way to sleep.
I’ll deal with the aftermath of my actions tomorrow.