Chapter 4 #2
I nearly rear back at that. “One-hundred percent, huh?”
Oh, Tillie. My sweet, sweet summer child…
“Yes,” she says strongly. I don’t miss the look she shoots Walt.
“These first few weeks—months—are going to be critical. Which is why we must take a proactive approach, to ease the transition as much as possible, and prevent any possible set-backs.” She pauses meaningfully.
“You’ve improved so much in the last year, Aston,” she goes on softly.
“It’s been so long since you’ve had an episode. ”
Memories surge forth, the images fractured and obscured like shards of dust-caked glass.
One…
Two…
Watching my finger circle the rim of my glass, I murmur, “And if I am…bad?
There’s a creak—like the sound of a door opening. Like the sound of mattress springs giving way. Like the sound of body shifting in a chair.
I sneak a look up through my lashes just in time to catch her easygoing expression faltering.
There it is…
Dipping my gaze, I watch her throat work with a swallow, and I see it. Feel it. If only for a second. That fear. That deep, ingrained knowing.
My pulse speeds up.
The air grows thinner.
Blackness tinges the edges of my vision.
That…thing inside me. That thing that isn’t right.
It yawns to life.
It…purrs—
A figure steps in behind her, hands coming down on her shoulders.
I expect her to flinch.
She doesn’t.
She slumps…like she’s relieved.
I frown and look up to find Walt watching me with narrowed eyes. I never heard him get up. “You’ll be meeting with the school psychologist once a week,” he tells me matter-of-factly. “He’s to keep us, as well as Headmaster Locke, informed of any…trouble adjusting. The second you step out of line—”
Tillie reaches a hand up to squeeze his, cutting off his words.
Gone is that brief flash of fear I saw. And back in place is that usual steely, determined optimism I’ve come to associate with her.
It’s fascinating. Almost as if her instincts are something to conquer—a problem to solve—and not her body’s way of saying, Run.
Whether it’s out of sheer stubbornness or sheer stupidity, I don’t know. And I’ll probably never have the balls to ask. What with Walt looming over us, watching me like a hawk.
But I can’t deny that isn’t…tempting…to see how far she’ll take it.
What do I have to do to get her to break?
What do I have to do to get her to give up on me?
“This is your only chance,” she says, drawing my attention once more to the conversation.
There’s an unmistakable gravity to her words, and a pointedness to her gaze, almost like she’s warning me.
Like perhaps she’s not as naive as she makes herself out to be.
“You understand that, right? You get that this is it?”
And I know that Tillie’s no longer just talking about high school anymore, but my future in general.
Because I’m no longer just some severely malnourished, traumatized no-name kid who finally snapped after years of prolonged abuse—a tragic tale you’d hear about on the 11 o’clock news, and tut your tongue at. What a shame…that poor boy…
In the eyes of the law, I’m an adult now. One with a pretty gnarly history, even if most of my questionable behavior—save for that night—happened behind the barred windows of a mental institute.
Lose your shit once, shame on them.
Lose your shit again…
And again…
And again…
Shame on you, cupcake.
Chills spiral down my spine, shards of memories prickling at my awareness once more. Ones filled with sticky warmth and vacant dishwater-colored eyes and flashing red and blue lights. And the relief I felt… the vindictive pride…
No, I don’t need a psychiatrist or a courtroom to tell me I’m dangerous.
I know I am. I know what I’m capable of.
I know what lives inside me.
“So, what do you say, Aston?” Tillie says.
I flit my gaze around the table, from her kind, trusting face to Walt’s pinched, untrusting one…to Eden, who’s still watching me curiously.
You’re gonna fail, a voice sings, one that sounds suspiciously a lot like mine.
Its promise settles inside me like a boulder, and yet…
Glancing down at my plate, I feel a small smile creep up my face. “It depends…”
Everyone tenses.
“Do you think they’ll let me join Drama Club?”
I peek through my lashes to find her blinking, gaping at me, clearly not having expected that.
But then she throws her head back against her husband’s chest, letting out that twinkling laugh of hers that never fails to make me feel all gooey. Softening up all the sharp things inside me.
Tilting my head, I watch the way the tendons in her neck stand out, as if begging for my fingers to crush them. Just like the itty-bitty bodies of my butterflies.
My mouth waters at the thought, at the images playing out in my head. My heart pounds, fingers trembling as I dig my nails into my palms, imagining it’s her skin breaking open for me. It’s just…so…pure looking.
Something so flawless is just begging to be destroyed.
But I quickly shove it down—the weird intruding thoughts, these impulses…
Down, down, all the way down, where no one will find them. Until I can almost believe I’ve squashed them completely.
Tillie’s good, I remind myself, remind that thing inside me, the thing that isn’t right.
We like Tillie. We want to keep her. Just like this.
She can’t laugh until she’s crying if she’s dead.
Nor would she be able to provide a roof over your head… a different, more practical voice points out.
A throat clears, and I meet Walt’s hard, knowing gaze. I give him an innocent smile. “What can I say? I’ve always wanted to be a star.” A glance at Eden shows him staring at me, and I toss him a wink.
He flushes, glares, and abruptly stands up to take his dishes to the sink. Fleeing the room before anyone can stop him.
Oh well. He’ll come around.
I meet Tillie’s gaze and give her a sympathetic smile. “He had a long day. Don’t take it personally.”
Later that night, I’m flopped down on my stomach in bed, feet kicked up in the air, scribbling in my diary as “These Dreams” by Heart plays from the old Boombox I found in the basement.
Who knows?
Maybe high school is just what I need.
A fresh start.
A chance at normalcy.
I lift the gel pen, nibbling on the end. My gaze drifts to the gray butterfly taped to the top of the page, wings splayed.
“Well shucks, little guy,” I whisper. “Maybe I’ll even get voted Prom Queen.”
Stranger things have happened…
Like the mother of all plot twists that is running into my estranged foster brother a whole two hours away from where we were placed together years ago. At a high school football game of all things.
If it’s even him, that is.
Now that the shock is starting to wear off, the doubts are quick to rush in to try and support Eden’s logic.
You see, I’d already been staring at him—watching him from afar—when recognition decided to make a whore of me and pimp-smack me across the face.
The sexy football player who’d caught my eye and stopped me in my tracks… He was impossible to miss—tall and domineering in a way that drew my ravenous gaze like a moth to a flame.
Dark tousled hair.
The broody kind of pout only those naturally miserable can pull off.
A body just begging to be climbed and rubbed up on.
The heavens might as well have opened up and shined a light down on the most perfect specimen ever conjured up. The man of my dreams, created just for moi.
So perhaps I did just imagine it—saw something I wanted to see, for whatever crazy reason. Felt something I only wanted to feel.
A change in the air.
A shift in the course of my future.
A sinking knowing…
A terrible wanting…
An aching missing…
Those eyes…
Dark and fathomless. Watchful, and yet somehow blank even after all these years. Scouring the stands, the crowd, like he was searching for something.
Searching for someone.
I couldn’t believe it.
Vale DuPont.
The boy who saved me.
The boy who wrecked my life.
The boy I never thought I’d see again.
The boy who grew up to be a god.
Could it really just be a freaky coincidence?
After all, other than his eyes, it’s near-impossible to reconcile the six-foot hunk with the bulging biceps and granite-cut jawline, and an ass I could bounce quarters off of, with the quiet, mousy little boy I once called brother.
But his name…
Eden mumbles something I don’t catch.
“What was that?”
“I said… he moved here five years ago.”
I perk up at that, my doubts disintegrating as quickly as they’d formed. “From where?”
“Don’t know. Aside from that and the whole jock-football thing, all I know is he was held back a year, he’s gay, and he’s dating the captain of the debate team.” He shrugs.
My face bunches “Well, that’s unexpected.”
“Him being gay?”
Shaking my head, I say, “No, him dating such a loser. Aren’t jocks supposed to date cheerleaders?”
“He’s gay.”
“Yeah, and boys cheer too. You’ve seen Bring It On, haven’t you?”
“No.”
Ignoring that, I turn away, and begin pacing, wondering how this happened—what it could mean…
To think, I didn’t even really want to come tonight.
Not that I was totally unwilling, unlike Eden who had to be bribed to tag along.
I’m just not really into the whole sports thing, you know?
It makes people crazy. Men especially. I have a feeling Eden’s of the similar opinion, given some of the mumbled commentary about fucking jocks I’d picked up here and there since we met.
But apparently, football is like this huuggeee deal around here. And for reasons I didn’t really pay attention to, tonight’s game in particular is a big one. Unmissable.
So, Tillie was nothing if not determined to make a family night of it. Said it was a rite of passage I couldn’t miss. Nor should Eden, who scowled at that and said, “Since when?”
I mean, yeah, those football pants are tight—it’s a glorious sight to behold and will provide much fodder for my fantasies—but it’s not like I find watching a bunch of jocks running back and forth across a field just to catch a ball as life-affirming as she made it out to be.
Or as the guys back at Ashwood did when they’d stomp and throw shit at the television.
But what do I know? My idea of affirming is seeing how far down my throat I can take a cock before I gag. We all have our priorities, I suppose.
A phone chirps. A moment later, Eden says, “It’s Mom. Game’s about to start. She’s wondering where we are.”
Nodding, and without a word, I start heading back the way we came. Eden grumbles under his breath as he jogs to catch up. In my periphery, he thumbs out a message before locking his phone and clutching it in his hand.
The marching band gathers into formation across the field, and just as we reach the bleachers, music explodes into the early evening. The crowd cheers. A deep voice sounds over the speaker, hyping everyone up.
Fortunately, Tillie and Walt were able to score enough space for the four of us halfway up the stands, smack-dab in the center. Finding our way over there is a journey and a half, but we finally make it. With Eden taking the lead, we squeeze past Tillie to sit between her and Walt.
“I thought you guys were getting food,” Tillie says.
Eden scowls, while I lie for both of us, “Line was too long. Got impatient.”
She eyes me curiously, like she’s debating whether or not to believe me, but ultimately lets it go. “That’s too bad. Try again in a little bit. I’m sure it’ll clear out now that the game’s started.”
I smile at the field. “I’m good.”
Who needs a hot dog when you’ve got a football player to fantasize nibbling on?
Eden huffs, and mutters, “I’m not.” Walt pats him on the shoulder and offers to go with him.
Whether or not they end up doing that, I have no idea. They could be snatched up by aliens, and dropped back later, butt-probed and brain-dead, and I’d be none the wiser.
Nothing—no one—exists, but him.
All throughout the opening ceremony, and then the game, I indulge myself on the visual feast that is Vale Riviera, #33, Grady Prep Archers’ star motherfucking quarterback.
Salivating over the way his muscles flex anytime he pulls his arm back and lets the football sail across the field.
The way his ass looks in those sinfully tight compression pants.
Hot. Damn.
I get it now.
I get why all the boys go ga-ga for this sport.
Yes, baby, do that again. Do what that announcer guy said—penetrate that hole.
Gnawing on my lip, I bounce my knee, impatient for…something. Answers. Confirmation.
I need to know.
Is it him?
Is it my Vale?
Nerves swirl with dread, intermingling with a lust so forceful—a lust and want unlike anything I’ve ever felt before—it’s a wonder I haven’t cleared out the bleachers with the amount of pheromones wafting off me.
It’s fucked up—twisted—given who he is to me.
Or rather was…
If it is in fact him.
And yet it does nothing to rein in my smile anytime #33 takes the field.
Or the hungry hearts blooming from my eyes whenever he jogs back over to the bench, removes his helmet, and shakes the sweat from his thick, dark hair like a porno come to life.
Or the bulge in my jeans I hide under my crossed legs whenever he bends over, drawing my gaze to that bitable tush of his.
If anything, the wariness poking through my desire—the warning bells going off somewhere in the back of my mind—only heightens the thrill of this new development. Providing fuel for the fire licking my blood and setting my nerve-endings ablaze.
A secret grin inches up my face.
Come out, come out, wherever you are, little mouse…
A whistle blares. Cheers rise.
The game ends.
Below, jogging once more toward the sidelines, Vale whips off the helmet. Even from up here, I can make out the droplets of sweat gleaming under the lights when he slicks his hair back. His gaze lifts to the erupting stands as his teammates swarm him in celebration.
And through a rippling, clashing sea of burgundy and black—signs and foam arrows jutting out into the night, waving in the breeze—those fiercely cold midnight eyes home right in on mine.
As if he knew exactly where to look.
Where to find me.
Like he’s known all along.
Found you.