Chapter 4
Dane
There are two different Connors. There’s Connor when my dad or sister are around, and there’s Connor when they’re not.
Both Connors look identical and act nearly the same, but one is far less safe than the other.
One of them gets under my skin and half-convinces me I could tell him my whole life story and he wouldn’t bat a single blond eyelash.
The other is a traitor. If not now, then someday.
After fishing his ass out of the Pacific before he could drown, I drive him around the city, showing him the good parts of San Diego.
Not just the fancy-pants parts, but the blocks with culture and the spots with the best views.
I take him to my favorite skate park and watch him photograph the boarders and BMXers.
I promise to teach him how to swim as payment for helping me with my game, and the way he smiles with all his teeth makes me flush with heart-pulsing jitters.
But then we get home, and he disappears into his bedroom with Thalia.
I leave for practice, and when I come back, they’re still in there, chuckling together with the TV on.
They don’t even show their faces at dinner.
Pissed off and pent up, I dip to hook up with my go-to friend-with-benefits, emphasis on the benefits.
It’s fun, but sucky in that I think about Connor the whole time, like a fucking lovesick loser.
I hate having crushes. They make me mopey and stupid on top of my usual recklessness. I hate having crushes so much that it makes me hate Connor a little for being so damn crushable.
Saturday, after coming home from another loss, Connor tries cheering me up with affirmations about how I didn’t play half-bad.
Says not to listen to Artie. Says I’ve “got what it takes,” and even though I brush him off, it’s a nice thing to hear.
The sort of shit I imagine a boyfriend would say if I had one.
Or like a brother would. If Connor ever marries Thalia, we’ll be brothers-in-law. Puke!
How would that even work? When my sister is a witch, and Connor is a cherub of a man, angel wings hidden beneath his Under Armour t-shirts and stardust in his blue irises?
How could the universe create my perfect man and give him to my sister?
Probably because I don’t deserve him. Like Thalia says, I’m a train wreck. If I had wings under my clothes, they’d be sinewy and taloned—something out of an Underworld movie. It’s depressing, and it makes me an asshole when I see Connor and Thalia together.
I can’t help it.
Sunday morning, I walk in on them in the kitchen giggling like fiends together over something on Connor’s phone. It’s fucking enraging. The heat under my skin ignites my heart into a frenzy that spins longing into anger.
“Hey, man,” Connor says, mid-chuckle.
“‘Sup, punk?” I march past him on my way to the fridge. Don’t even pay him a glance, mostly because I’m worried if I let my eyes linger on him long enough, I’ll go soft in front of Thalia. I hate that idea more than I hate the awkward silence I just created.
A chill gusts from the fridge to harden my nipples and wash my bare torso with goosebumps. I fish through Joss’s collection of ingredients for a vanilla pudding cup.
“Uh, are we still on for today?” Connor asks.
“Today?” I know full well what we have planned, but I can’t let on how badly I’m looking forward to it.
“We planned on training at your intramural field.”
When I find my pudding, I peel off the lid and lap at the excess on the back of the foil as I kick the fridge door shut. “Oh. Um, sure. Whatever.”
“There are spoons in the drawer, you know,” Thalia says, her voice like a cheese grater raking across my skull.
“Really?” I plunge two fingers into my creamy pudding, swirling them around until my nails go cold. I make a show of slurping my fingers dry, rolling my eyes and humming at the sweet, vanilla taste.
Thalia gags. “You’re disgusting.”
I slide my gooey fingers from my mouth with a lustful sigh and finally let my gaze drift to Connor. Part of me hopes he’s staring at his phone, scrolling for more dope ass memes to share with Sis. Nope. He’s staring right at me, quietly, dreamily, taking me in like I’m abstract wall art.
This is the shit that bugs me—that burrows under my skin to make it hot.
That Connor can profess to be straight and then look at me like this.
It’s not just my face he’ll stare at either.
I’ve caught him staring at my throat, my arms, my chest, and even low enough on my torso I thought for a second he was checking out my crotch.
Straight guys are fine and dandy, but in-denial guys are the bane of my existence. Especially when I have a major hard-on for them.
Elbows on the island countertop, I lean forward and squint at Connor. “Something on my face?”
“What?” He blinks like I just woke him from a trance, and it’s honest-to-goodness the most precious thing I’ve ever seen. Despite the tension in my muscles, my insides are a swarm of butterflies.
“You’re staring at me.”
In the most gut-wrenchingly casual tone imaginable, Connor answers, “Oh. Yeah, sorry. You have a scar on your forehead, on the left side.”
What the fuck?
“I know.”
“So, is four o’clock still cool? I can drive.”
“Whatever.” I round the island, heading for my room, when I hear Connor tell Thalia, “Your brother saved my life the other day.”
Shit.
“Yeah?” Thalia asks, clearly amused.
“At the beach. I almost drowned, but Dane helped me out of the water.”
Switching around, I tell Connor’s back, “You’re mistaking me for someone else. Any dude that’s dumb enough to go into the ocean without knowing how to swim deserves to be naturally-selected out of society.”
The lovebirds both send me looks over their shoulders, but I’m too flustered to meet Connor’s eyes, so I meet Thalia’s instead.
“You’re such a jerk,” she says, and I just laugh, because isn’t that the whole damn point?!
I take my pudding back to my bedroom to catch up on some messy reality television. I should work on school shit, but right now, I’d rather forget about my diagnosed Train Wreck Syndrome by watching people who’ve got it even worse than I do.
At four, I hop into the passenger seat of Connor’s SUV and try like hell to ignore how sexy he looks in his muscle tank, guns out.
When he’d stripped his torso bare at the beach on Friday, my dick was so enthralled it nearly hardened despite the frigid water I submerged it in.
He’s not meaty or particularly cut. Connor’s muscles are unimposing slopes and bulges that harden supple flesh just enough that when I gripped his biceps, they felt like firm cushions under my fingers.
Makes me wonder if his ass feels the same, but those are unsafe thoughts to have when I’m wearing flimsy workout shorts.
Trying not to stare at the lovely tan line dividing Connor’s upper arm in half, I buckle up and start fiddling with his stereo until I find a halfway decent pop station.
“Are you mad at me?” Connor’s delightfully bashful tone asks when we’re halfway to my school.
“Why would you think I’m mad at you?”
“Uh,” he chuckles awkwardly as he makes a left turn onto the main thoroughfare, “because you were acting super weird this morning.”
“Was I?”
“You called me a punk and said I should die via natural selection.”
“Did I?” My voice goes high as my face winces. When he lays it out like that, I guess I was being sort of hostile.
“You gonna answer my question or keep playing dumb?”
Damn, even annoyed-Connor is intoxicating. The slight edge to his tone makes the peach fuzz behind my neck stand at attention.
“I kinda prefer playing dumb.” I flash him a winning smile that he only glances at through the corner of his eye. With a sigh, I slump back in my seat and spread my knees wide. “Sorry I was a dick. I don’t like being around my sister.”
“Why not?” Dude actually sounds puzzled, which means he’s either super obtuse, or Thalia hasn’t told him what all went down when we were kids.
“You ever have a sister?” I ask him.
“No.”
“Ever have a brother?”
“No.”
“Ever have to share Mommy’s love with a rescue dog?”
He laughs. “We used to cat-sit for my aunt a lot. She was a nightmare. Was always clawing my legs and puking up hairballs in my sneakers. Couldn’t wait for my aunt to take her back home.”
“Well, I’m the puking cat in my family.”
He sobers. “I’m sure that’s not true.”
Oh, sweet Connor…
“Yeah? You’re sure?”
“I mean, your dad’s a piece of work, but if you and Thal just sat down and talked, I bet you’d find common ground. Plus, your mom is awesome. She’s always been super kind to me. Not a judgmental bone in her body, as far as I can tell. I know she wouldn’t care that you’re gay—”
“Connor,” I bite air sharp enough to shut Connor up, and he flinches a glance my way. “Never speak about my mother, or we’ll have a real problem. Got it?”
“Sorry,” he mutters. The rest of the drive, his eyes stay on the windshield, and his teeth do a number on his bottom lip.
I’m fuming. Mostly pissed at myself, though, for being so fragile about a person I shouldn’t give a shit about anymore.
Connor strikes me as a mama’s boy. If he is, I envy him.
I think I was a mama’s boy once, a long time ago.
Sometimes, I can still feel her arms around me like a residual fragment of the only real love I’ve ever known.
Makes me weepy sometimes, but not now, because crying in front of Connor would only salt the wound.
As he pulls into the parking lot, I temper myself and change the subject. “You got your camera?”
His throat clears, teeth finally freeing his pink lip. “I have one in the back.”
“Bring it. I know how much you like taking my picture, stalker.”
His soft chuckle eases the tension in the front seat as he turns into a parking spot. “It’s not my fault you’re bizarrely photogenic, and I need the practice.”