27. Chapter 27
Hunter
The pressure at the base of my spine coils tighter with every stroke, building in my balls, spreading into my groin. My cock is so hard the veins are standing out, throbbing against my fingers with every heartbeat.
“Fuck.”
I twist at the head, my thumb catching the slit, and my hips snap forward, fucking into my fist as my grip tightens until it hurts.
But that's how I need it.
Rough. Angry. Punishing.
My abs contract, thighs tense as I jerk myself faster, the muscles in my forearm burning from the pace. But I don’t slow down. Can’t slow down.
“Fuck. Fuck. Atlas .”
My orgasm rips through me hard enough that my knees buckle. I watch as cum pulses from my cock in thick ropes, and I keep stroking from root to tip, dragging the last of it out until I’m empty, oversensitive, and shaking.
I sag forward, forehead pressing against the wall, trying to catch my breath.
Need to stop doing this.
It’s the third time this week.
Since the haunted mansion, I can’t keep my best friend out of my head when my hand is on my cock.
Grunting, I grab toilet paper to clean myself, then flush it. Someone walks in just as I tuck myself back into my jeans. After tossing my bookbag over my shoulder, I exit the stall and walk to the sink to wash my hands.
A few more students walk in as I’m drying my hands.
Time to get out of here.
My phone buzzes as I step into the hallway to make my way to class. I pull it from my pocket and unlock the screen.
Garrett: Talked to Natalie. Not sure about the parole hearing
Garrett: But I’ll write a statement. Keeps me involved without being in the same room as him
A statement is better than nothing. But it’s not enough.
Me: You need to be there
Garrett: Hunt, I don’t know if I can
Me: Think about it
Garrett: Yeah, sure
Garrett: How's everything
Me: Same. Walking into class
Garrett: Okay. Talk soon
I pocket my phone and weave through students without slowing down, making it to Whitmore’s class with three minutes to spare. Not that it matters. She doesn’t care if people are late as long as they don’t interrupt her class.
Reyes is already here. He nods as I make my way over. “Came by Saturday. No one answered.”
I set my bag on the floor, then drop into the seat next to him. “We were out.”
“With your boyfriend?”
I nod.
He leans closer. “Shin's guy checks out.”
I flex my fingers, tracking Professor Whitmore as she walks into class. “So, we’re hunting? When?”
“Next weekend. Gives us enough time to prepare.”
“Got plans.”
“Change them.”
I swivel toward him. “I’m fine.”
“Mira este, se cree la última Coca-Cola en el desierto,” Reyes mutters, flipping to a new page in his notebook. “You're a lot of things, Kincaid. Fine isn't one of them.”
Professor Whitmore makes her way up to our row, passing back the tests from last week. When she gets to me, she holds mine out, smiling. “Good job, Hunter.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
Reyes whistles. “Ninety-three. Not bad.”
I shove the test under my notebook. All I care about is that I passed because it keeps me eligible to play. Anything more is just noise.
Reyes taps his pen on my desk to get my attention. “You need to hunt. Same with Calix. Keep pushing it off, and you’re gonna lose control.”
My jaw clenches. He’s not wrong. This past weekend, I nearly snapped that scare actor’s neck because he was too close to Cody. Touched my boyfriend.
Boyfriend.
The word still hits wrong. Not bad. Just new.
Mine was easier. Mine made sense.
Cody claiming me back doesn’t.
But I like it. More than I should.
Reyes stares at me, a hard expression on his face. “Not going to do Trembley much good if you end up behind bars.”
My upper lip twitches, fingernails scratching the puckered skin on my forearm. “We’ll talk later.”
At the front of the room, Professor Whitmore loads the first slide. “Goffman's dramaturgy. It’s just a fancy term for something you already do every day.” She turns and scans the room. “How many of you act exactly the same around your parents as you do around your friends?”
Nobody raises a hand.
“Right. Because you're performing. Goffman argues we're all on stage, all the time.
You've got your front stage—the version of you that shows up in public, in class, on a first date.
And your backstage, the version that exists when nobody's watching.
The one who eats cereal at midnight in underwear and doesn't judge themselves for it.”
The corner of my mouth ticks up. “Atlas does that shit.”
Reyes snorts. “Rua literally fished out a piece of food that fell into his belly button and ate it.”
“Expected that from Shaw.”
He quirks a brow. “Try the three-second rule if shit falls on the floor. And if you try to pick it up, Calix throws that fucking knife of his into it. Nearly took off my finger last week.”
Whitmore clicks to the next slide. “How many of you have cleaned your room specifically because someone was coming over? That's staging. You're setting the scene for the version of yourself you want them to meet.”
Except if you're Atlas.
The material today lands in a way that most of her lectures don't. By the end of class, I’ve taken more notes than I ever have. And for once, I’m not looking to rush out.
My phone buzzes.
Atlas: Heading to Crestwood
Me: I’ll meet you in the lot in twenty
Atlas: Already on my way there. See you in a bit
I read the last text again.
Atlas doesn't go anywhere alone. Not since my uncle abducted him. If I'm not with him, someone else is. That's how it's been for five years.
My breathing becomes shallow. I want to leave, to catch up to him.
But this is his choice.
He’s going by himself.
For Cody.
I set my phone face down beside my notebook and force myself to stay in the chair, doing my best to ignore the prickling building under my skin.