CHAPTER 12
The den is always colder than the rest of the house, no matter how many bodies are packed into it or if the heater's turned on.
I used to think my parents designed it that way on purpose to force us out of the basement and into the sights of their ever watching eyes.
But it never stopped me from seeking refuge here.
Carey stands on the other side of the pool table, cue in hand, his pupils blown out so much from being drunk that they almost eclipse the freakshow blue and grey of his irises.
He lines up a shot, tongue out, left eye squinting.
He misses. The cue scrapes along the felt and the cue ball skips off the table to thud against the bottom of the bar.
"Shit," he snorts, nearly dropping the stick. "Foul?"
I reach down to pick up the ball. "There's no way you're getting a do over," I say, trying to act sober, but I've had so much soju my lips feel numb.
Carey takes a step back, wobbles, then shuffles forward to steady himself against the table. "You're gonna miss."
"You're talking shit again, kid," I tell him and place the cue ball into position. Leaning over, I take my shot. The purple four cracks hard, but it veers right, missing the pocket by an inch.
Carey howls, "Told you," and throws his head back, his hair taking on a mind of its own.
He's radiant in the shittiest way possible. His cheeks are blotchy, he's slurring his words, and he's stripped down to only a t-shirt and jeans like alcohol makes him allergic to clothes. He looks like the morning after a frat party personified, except there's no one here but me to see it.
"Your turn," I grunt.
He steps into position, squares his hips, lines up the shot—then pauses, blinks, and looks up at me through his eyelashes. "Does it sting to keep losing to a kid?"
"Just hurry up. I've got a whole night of fuck all to get through." I shoot back, pretending to hate the banter.
Carey lines up the twelve and sends it home. Then the thirteen in quick succession like he didn't just trip over his own feet. He could clear the table in a few more shots if he wanted to, but he loses focus and starts humming the same mystery tune he does in the shop.
I take my next go and sink the four, then the five by accident; playing it off like it was skill but knowing I'll probably lose this game too.
Carey comes near to take a shot, and he smells like soju and that same beachy scent he carries everywhere.
I try to keep my eyes on the game, but it's impossible. He's a goddamn spectacle, full of energy and movement; every reaction bigger than it needs to be. It's not just the liquor, he's always like this. Like his body can't contain the energy inside it.
By some miracle I clear the last two solids and set myself up for the eighth. "You ready to lose, Novak?"
"You can't psych me out. I'm immune."
I shoot. The eight ball circles the rim, hangs for a heartbeat, then drops.
Carey claps, twice, slow and sarcastic. “Wow. Impressive. Old man finally gets it done.”
“You need to respect your elders.”
He cocks an eyebrow. “I will when you deserve it.”
I ignore him and rack up the balls for another round.
Carey pulls himself up to sit on the bar, legs swinging as he watches me. “Did you ever think this is what you’d be doing on Thanksgiving?”
I pause, cue in hand. “What, babysitting my best friend’s little brother in my parent's basement?”
He shrugs. “I guess… Your mom's a ball breaker, but at least she looks you in the eye when she's talking.” He says it lightly, but I know there's pain there.
“Sorry your parents suck,” I offer, because it’s all I’ve got. It's not like I've had the happiest of home lives either.
Carey grins and jumps down from the bar. "It's nice to hear you apologize." He picks up a wayward empty bottle of soju and stacks it with the others. "We should play for stakes. Make it interesting."
"I'm not playing strip pool."
"You scared?"
"Hardly," I mutter, but the idea lingers. And I hate myself for not hating it more.
We play a few more rounds. I get drunker. He gets closer.
At some point he leans in to line up a tricky shot and his shirt lifts, exposing a slash of golden skin over his hip bone. I catch it out of the corner of my eye and like a moth to a flame I'm locked in on it with no hope of escape.
My insides stutter.
I try to look away but I can't.
Then he really leans in, stretching over the table, and this time his shirt rides up so high I see his entire stomach; lean and cut. And just above his navel there's a glint of metal.
At first my brain doesn't compute, then—
He's got a fucking belly bar.
Carey makes the shot, straightens out, and notices me looking. He dips his head to the side, his mouth slack as he studies me.
Then, like he reached inside of my head and fingered my brain, he takes the hem of his t-shirt and lifts it back up. Higher. Exposing even more skin than before.
"Are you staring at this?" he asks, brushing his fingers over the silver bar.
I can't answer. My mouth is dry and all the words are gone. All I can do is nod like a fucking idiot.
He smirks. "Bull's-eye, old man."
I grip the pool cue so tight my knuckles turn white.
I don't know what to say, what to do, or what I want.
The piercing is stupid, but also, it's not.
It's hot.
It's so fucking hot and it really shouldn't be.
His stomach.
The jewelry.
It's like every woman I've ever wanted to fuck, but it's him.
It's Carey. One of the few people in the world I'm not meant to look at this way.
I try to muster up some snarky remark, but all that comes out is a half-strangled; "Since when?"
"Got it in Bali. But I can't say I ever thought you'd notice it."
“I noticed,” I say like a fool.
Carey slides over, his shirt still up, his hip bumping the table. "Wanna touch it?"
He says it as a joke, but the pull he has on me is radioactive.
I can't breathe.
I want to say no, but I want it more than anything right now.
I want to reach out and run my thumb over the faint lines of his abs.
I want to feel the metal under my fingertips.
I want to push him down onto the table and see what other secrets he's hiding.
I step back.
I force myself to look away. "You're drunk, Carey."
He dips his chin to his chest as a laugh ripples through him. And a few seconds later, when he looks back at me, it's with a lidded glare that makes my guts twist. "I know I am. But the offer still stands."
My skin feels like it's on fire.
I hear the sound of footsteps above.
My mother's voice calls down; "Tek-ah, Carey! Uno! I'll be down in five minutes!"
Carey whines and rolls his eyes. "If I lose, I'm blaming you," he says, digging his finger into my chest. It lingers, then he drags it down several inches before losing contact.
He tugs down his shirt and walks past me, so close I can feel the heat coming off of his skin.
But what fully unravels me, is the brush of his hand over my hip as he squeezes by.
"You coming?" he asks before flopping onto the couch.
I nod, but what I mean is not right now.
I can't.
I'm out.
I don't trust my voice.
I leave the den and lock myself in the bathroom.
I look at my blotchy red complexion in the mirror.
I tear off my shirt because it's too hot in here.
I grip my dick through my sweats.
I'm so painfully hard and I can't fucking stand it.
What the hell am I doing?
I don't fuck guys.
I don't even look at guys. Like, ever.
I've shared girls with Eden, I've seen Reeze and Austin naked, and there was never so much as a twinge unless a woman was there, too. So why the fuck do I wanna pinch that piercing between my teeth?
I splash water on my face and tell myself it was just a drunken joke.
He was baiting me.
It doesn't mean anything.
But it doesn't work.
The image is burned into my brain. That glint of silver on his golden stomach. It's my entire life's purpose now to feel it against my tongue. To look up at him as he towers over me. To be on my knees for him.
I want his hand in my hair.
I want acid words on his tongue as he puts me in my place.
I want him to push me, force me over the edge, because I won't be able to do it on my own.
I honestly don't recognize myself, but that doesn't stop me from pumping some of the designer lotion my mother keeps beside the sink into my palm.
I close my fist, the white cream spreading and squeezing out between my fingers.
This is the point of no return. I've resisted since last week. Since he first raised his voice to me.
My whole life it's been drilled into me to respect my elders. To show reverence and act politely, but that doesn't mean anything to Carey Novak. He treats everyone the same. His respect is earned. But he will also show you unrelenting kindness until you give him a reason to take it away.
I gave him a reason.
I spoke to him like he was worthless and he still showed up to help. He put up with my mood time and time again until it became too much for him and he snapped.
And fuck me for wanting to keep pushing him.
For my desperate need to have him look at me with anger in his eyes.
With power.
With dominance.
With strength that I don't have, because even though he doesn't have a compelling reason to keep smiling, he always does.
I open my hand and watch as the warmed lotion webs between my fingers.
With my free hand I tug down my sweats.
I grip my shaft and my whole body shudders.
There's no going back.
This is who I am now.
A man who wants to fuck another man.
His best friend's brother.
Bright, witty, sexy, and fucking perfect with those mismatched eyes.
I stroke hard and fast from the start.
I want to punish myself, to squeeze out the shame and regret.
My grip is verging on painful but I don’t let up.
I can’t.
I want to come so hard I forget this suffocating guilt.
I turn around and lean back against the cold marble of the bathroom countertop. I stroke up, squeezing, letting the head of my dick throb between my fingers before sliding back down to the base.