43. FORTY-THREE
FORTY-THREE
My roots are so overgrown that my scalp constantly looks greasy. As I rub my fingertips over the patchy stubble I’ve been too lazy to shave, I wonder how Hunter ever wants to kiss me.
Well, he’s done significantly less of that, too, as of late.
For the past three weeks, I have been busy on the laptop, studying, and failing practice tests for my GED, and he gets progressively more stressed.
We hit more than a few roadblocks trying to get my birth certificate and social security card, but his assistant, Alex , was able to track down the originals that had been ‘lost’.
We went and picked them up last week and I've got them safely stashed in my new wallet.
I guess the CPS people had my name filed wrong in their system. Parkers, instead of Parker.
Some shit, right?
When my head starts to hurt from studying—who the fuck even uses algebra—I end up drawing until my fingers cramp. I haven’t touched the spray paint he bought me—I don’t have anywhere to use it—and now I’m staring at myself, realizing just how unnattractive I am.
All this food he feeds me has significant weight forming. I’ve got a stomach now, when it used to be malnourished and flat. My chest is filling out. I’ve got a pimple on the tip of my nose, which my septum ring only accentuates.
Most of the clothes he’d gotten me when we first met are getting snug, too. And when the hell did my forehead get so big? Has it always been that way?
I lean forward, examining my pimple in the mirror, and run my tongue ring over my teeth.
I just can’t figure out why we aren’t moving forward.
Hunter usually comes home from work, takes a shower, tosses back a glass or two of whiskey, then asks me if I’m ready for bed the second we eat dinner.
Because this distance bothers me, I've been rewatching my mom's favorite movies at night, having made Hunter drag the TV from the guestroom into his.
I don't know that he pays attention to them because he usually falls asleep within ten minutes of spooning me.
He doesn’t laugh.
We don’t get to know each other anymore.
And a few mornings ago, I heard him whispering on the phone when he was getting ready for work, talking to what I can only assume was his dad.
Something has to give.
Frustrated, I rip open the cabinet under the bathroom sink, find the clippers, and plug the cord into the outlet.
I’m not a barber, but I try my best to trim my hair and clean up the wild fuzz at the base of my neck.
I shave my face, pop the pimple on my nose, and then shower.
While I’m in there, I take extra time to groom everything.
But all of that is done in like…twenty minutes. Hunter won’t be home for another six hours.
I don’t know how to get him back.
This crap with Xavier has pushed the rift between us so wide that I can’t see the other side of it. I know he’s scared—I get it. And I did agree to this shit. At any point, I could leave. Just walk out that door and never look back.
I’m not ready, though.
To be honest, I’m way too comfortable here, even with this fucking distance between me and the person I want.
There’s a terrible idea bubbling in my brain—one that’s surely to land me in some shit—but hopefully it’ll…
do something. Make Hunter snap out of this dreary funk.
Not that he was ever the most riveting person to be around, all that stoicness is kind of his personality, but I’ve seen through the cracks.
He’s shown me his nerdy, gooey center, and I want back in.
I want him to let me in.
Barreling down the stairs, I find the needed bags and head out back.
It takes a whole two minutes to set up my things, and then I get to work.
The smell hits me hard, reminding me why I usually cover my nose, so I whip my shirt off and tie it around my nose and mouth.
Drawing by hand slowly returns to me, but I do my best with paints.
The boundaries of lines are nonexistent, and I have always known I don’t belong within them.
I let the colors guide me, and I let my hopes and dreams fuel the speed at which I work through the piece. In the worst-case scenario, he hates it, and then this is all for nothing.
Maybe he’ll even get mad again—an emotion he’s hiding well as of late.
How could he not be mad? Some rich druglord comes into his office and threatens to take away everything he has…
I’d hoped that by now, that problem would be resolved.
Hunter hasn’t had much to say about it, except Xavier's rescheduling. And then two nights ago, Hunter informed me he’d be going to Olympia for some hearing that his dad needs to attend.
None of that made any sense to me. But that’s Monday, and today is Wednesday.
I’ve got to get him feeling good before he has to deal with all of that.
So, while I lose myself in my task at hand, hours tick by at warp speed, it’s like I blinked and the sun set, taking its light with it.
The last can runs out, and I frown deeply, seeing my piece half finished.
I’m tempted to steal the curtains from inside and tape them over this wall, regretting my decision to vandalize Hunter’s house.
Sudden nerves pierce through me, and I am shitting myself when the garage door opens, signaling he’s here.
Oh, fuck.
He’s home and I’ve done…this.
After throwing on my shirt, I gather all the empty cans, dropping a few and cursing.
My body is moving too fast, and the clinking against the concrete is so loud that I’m sure he’ll hear it.
Eventually, I give up and kick them all underneath one of his lounge chairs.
And that’s the exact moment he steps through the slider.
I’m covered in paint, my eyes are wide, and my mouth won’t cooperate to explain what I’ve done.
Hunter’s suit is perfectly in place, his expression unreadable as he meanders to the wall. I chew my thumb mercilessly, sweat gathering in my armpits. “Is that… a plane? ”
He hates it. He hates it.
“Y-Yeah,” I wheeze before resuming my gnawing.
He slides his hands in his pockets, tips his head from side to side, and leaves me in this fucked up state of panic. “I don’t tell you enough how talented you are, Gray,” he says softly.
“I thought you’d…well, that it’d make you happy. And it’s in the back, so no one but us will see it. And—”
“I love it.” He faces me, those dimples popping in his cheeks and his eyes crinkling with how big he’s smiling.
“It’s so fucking cool,” he gushes and crosses the space.
Arms wrap around me, and warm lips find my sweaty forehead.
“I love that it’s blue,” he coos, squeezing me harder.
“I was wondering when you’d use the paints. ”
I’m honestly shocked into silence. My lips flap, but nothing comes out for about ten seconds. “You…you like it? Really?”
Another big cheesy grin explodes off his cheeks as he cups my face. “It’s so cool! It’s like a F-15 Eagle mixed with a Hawker 800XP! How did you know that one is my favorite?”
I might’ve seen his bookmarked pages and discovered he’s looking to buy one. “A good guess?” I offer a smirk.
He shakes his head, laughing, and kisses me.
Relief is so strong it nearly crushes me from the inside out as I cling to him, no doubt ruining his suit with all the wet paint on my clothes.
I chase his lips, urging for more, needing more.
His thumbs brush over my freshly shaven face while he nibbles and sucks my bottom lip.
I don’t think he realizes how pent-up I am.
Whatever stupid reason he’s keeping around to justify protecting this line in the sand needs to go away.
I don’t want to wait anymore. And he’s happy now, happy because of me. I can tell by the way he’s touching me and how his lips reverently kiss me. It’s time, damn it.
I trace the seam of his lips with my tongue, begging for access. When he doesn’t open, I whine in protest, shoving it in anyway. Hunter groans, tasting me, wedging his leg between mine, and I bite his tongue. Hard.
“Ow!” He rips his head back, and I dig my fingers into his hips.
“Do not make me come in my pants. Don’t do it. I want more than that, and you know it.”
Shocked, he gingerly touches the tip of his tongue, inspecting his finger for blood. Frustrated, I reach between us and cup him. “Gray,” he sighs, trying to push my wrist away, but I don’t let go. Instead, I trace the outline of his growing cock, and give a few hard tugs. “ Damn it .”
It’s the first time I’ve had my hand here, and even through the clothes, I’m a bit surprised to find…well…a perfectly average sized dick. Another rush of want has me dropping to my knees, and Hunter’s jaw tics. Those pretty hazels stare down at me as I lean forward and kiss him through his slacks.
“Not out here,” he insists, but doesn’t stop me as I reach for his belt buckle, dragging my tongue over the head of his dick. He shudders, running his fingers through my hair. “You cut it?”
I nod, undoing the buckle and flicking the button open on his slacks. “Does it look okay?” The zip of his zipper feels so much louder than I know it is.
“You’re beautiful,” he whispers.
His soft, black boxer briefs are revealed to me, and I slip my hand inside the waistband to find his cock.
As soon as I touch the satiny skin, finding no sign of pubic hair, I bite my lip and pull him out.
Trapped by the tight elastic, the flushed pink head of his cock points up, staining the hem of his button-down with precum.
I hurry to lick it up before he changes his mind.
As soon as the salty taste hits my tongue, I latch onto his cockhead and suck.
“Not out here,” he groans, gently pulling my face off him. “Not like this.”
I’m lifted to my feet, and he stares into my soul.
Dramatic, sure, but that’s how it feels. Longing and resistance churn in his eyes, all the while he caresses my face and neck. My hands land on his chest, waiting for the moment.
My fucking movie moment.