30. Marcus
MARCUS
When I was young, Mom and the grown-ups always marveled at how intelligent and mature I was.
Collected. Drama-free. An adult in a child’s body.
Those are some of the terms they used.
Not sure how it started or why. Mom once mentioned that I was like my father in a sense. She said “smart” so as not to say “cold.”
But I guess I am my father’s son in that way.
I like my ability to find solutions to problems by spotting patterns and dealing with the source of the issue. It’s how I function, fix cars, and play hockey.
It’s what makes me who I am.
However, I’m having a slight hiccup with this lethal man who’s draped all over me.
It’s morning now, and Preston’s arms are still wrapped around my waist in a prison-like grip, his head buried in the slope of my neck, and his leg thrown over mine.
He had a nightmare a couple of hours ago, shaking uncontrollably and mumbling words like, Don’t…, Mommy…, and Daddy…
His voice was stripped and raw and slightly choked as if he couldn’t breathe. Moisture clung to his lashes, and his lips quivered as he kept calling for his parents.
My chest felt like it was being split in half.
I’ve never heard Preston speak in that completely broken tone before, and the fact that I couldn’t put an end to his misery left me shaken in a deep, harrowing way.
For the first time, I couldn’t find a solution to the source of the issue. Couldn’t reach into his dreams and murder whatever demons lurked there.
All I could do was stroke his hair and his shoulder, being careful not to wake him up, since that seems to tick him off.
This time, I patted his back through it, whispering, “I’m here.”
Even if he didn’t hear me, even if he’d been taken by another force, I wanted him to know I was there for him.
For a while, he only got worse, growling and looking like he was being cut open, but then, slowly, little by little, he relaxed and fell back into a deep sleep.
I’ve been awake ever since.
I’ve spent the entire time stroking his soft, golden hair with one hand and going through his phone with the other.
What?
This is the only way I might be able to learn more about him. Yes, I initially thought I’d wait for him to open up, but if last night—or early this morning—is any indication, that won’t work.
Preston can open up but just destructively. He told me about his mental issues fully expecting me to be disgusted and drop him. So if I try to push him down that path again, he’ll just use the chance to make himself seem like irritating high maintenance.
He’ll belittle his brain, paint himself as an annoyance, and do everything in his power to make me hate him.
Abandon him.
Leave him to flounder in the intricate mess of his own mind.
Not that it would work—there’s nothing Preston could do or say that will make me hate him.
It’s always been that way, even when he was an antagonizing prick during the games. Sure, I put him in his place, but it was rivalry, not hate.
And maybe, even then, a part of me just wanted to be noticed by the fairy prince of my childhood.
Utterly ridiculous, I know.
Now, I don’t want him to go into the self-criticizing, self-deprecating, self-hating mode masked with dark humor. I saw a glimpse of it, and I’m not a fan.
He was clearly in pain, clearly holding on to the last bits of his sanity with blood-soaked fingers, clearly…lost.
And I won’t put him in that position again.
But I do need to figure out the root cause, and his phone is the best place to start.
I’ve seen him enter his password a few times after grumbling about how it doesn’t recognize his “gorgeous face.”
Naturally, though, the first thing I look for is my text exchanges with him.
And I kid you not, he has me saved as Regrettably Hot.
It’s shocking how adorable he can be without even trying.
Hey, at least he finds me hot. I’ll ignore the regret.
Then I go to his notes, select them all and email them to myself so I can go through them in depth on my own time. After I delete the trace of the email I sent myself, I go to his texts again.
There are a few from girls that I narrow my eyes on. Some of them, he’s blocked, and others, he just leaves on Read or rejects.
I start to notice a pattern. The rejection, blocking, and ignoring the girls, started since…the game after which I planted myself in his life.
I go through the history of his conversations with them because I’m in the mood to torture myself, apparently.
It’s irrational how much fire grips my chest at the way he talks to them. He has this flirty, funny combo that he’s perfected. One he’s never used with me, obviously, since he’s been fighting this tooth and nail.
I shouldn’t be jealous of some girls who had him before, especially considering my own track record, but tell that to my burning chest.
With a groan, I scroll back up to where he yaps all the time—in the group chat with Kane and Jude. He’s definitely the one who named it, considering the title is Preston’s Fan Club.
Apparently, he does this naming thing most of the time, because the history shows: The Preston Appreciation Committee, Vipers, but Make It Hot, and Prestonverse.
I have to scroll through pages and pages of Preston being so dramatic and Jude and Kane either calling him out or threatening him. That seems to result in him being more dramatic and threatening them back.
Oh, and he talked about me—well, mostly after he burned my bike, to which Kane and Jude said it was a bad idea. It was. Because they’re right. I targeted him even harder after that and got him exactly where I wanted him.
In my arms.
The group chat only gives me bits and pieces.
Kane and Jude are clearly overprotective of him.
They keep checking whether or not he took his meds.
Even late last night, they were both texting to check in about his whereabouts, and Jude was asking, “What the fuck was that in the parking lot? Answer me, Pres. Are you okay?”
He grumbled for a bit, then told them he was fine and spending the night at his dad’s.
Liar.
Jude and Kane mention the word “spiraling” a lot. Which I suppose he tends to do.
His chat with Jude is mostly about meds, food, training, and general annoying details, considering their cohabitation.
That has to end as soon as possible.
If he needs someone to keep him in check, that will be me, not Jude.
And no, I don’t give a fuck about their “besties” status. I don’t like another man babying what’s mine.
That’s my job.
I scroll to his exchanges with his father, since that’s obviously a wound he refuses to treat.
Dad (Aka Daddy Issues)—as Preston saved him—is what I’d expect from the leader of the Armstrong family.
Terse, austere, marginally out of his depth with Preston’s over-the-top humor and ironclad deflection methods.
The moment his dad turns serious, which is most of the time, Preston comes up with the most random replies.
Dad
We need to discuss your behavior yesterday.
Or you can have someone handle me
What?
Sure, Dad. Let’s pretend *someone* doesn’t exist. Makes both our lives easier.
Preston. Who is someone?
Right. Right. We’re doing this. Gaslighting King
And another one.
Dad
The Armstrong Gala is in two weeks. Attend. Presentable. Sober.
Define “sober.”
Not injured or drunk.
So that means I can be high on Julian’s drugs or nah?
Then another.
Dad
Why did the trainer say you have bruises again? Are you fighting?
Fighting my demons, sure thing, Dad. Love the gaslighting, makes me feel all the fatherly love.
Preston, can you drop the sass and talk like a normal human being?
Sorry, I can’t speak robot. Do they offer classes in your native language?
And another.
Dad
Stop skipping your appointments with your doctor. You need consistency.
You picking a fight or something? I DO go to therapy. I literally went today.
Where?
The doctor’s living room. She made tea. We talked about boundaries and daddy issues.
Which “she” are you talking about?
Wow, you sound just like her. Are you two in cahoots or something?
The last conversation, earlier today, leaves me gripping the phone tighter, my fingers halting in his hair.
Dad
You’re not yourself lately.
Haven’t been myself my entire life, Dad. Thanks for noticing, though. Better late than never.
If something is wrong, I need to know.
Bold of you to assume I know what “wrong” feels like.
What does that mean?
Relax. Dr. Fenwick explained it to me. Apparently, I’m “malfunctioning.” Julian must’ve told you, no? Displaying signs of psychosis and all that crazy-people bullshit I won’t bore you with. Might get rid of me sooner than you think. Congrats, Dad. Aren’t I a good son? Finally, am I right?
This is not funny.
Never said it was. Just mentioned it was happening. You know like what happened when I was a kid. Shit just happens, and I can’t stop it.
That was not your fault, son. You know that, right?
Why are you calling me son? It’s creeping me out. Literal chills and not the good kind.
You are my son.
But I wasn’t your son when I needed you the most, when Mom needed you the most, and now, I just don’t need you anymore, Dad.
A low grunt against my neck pulls my attention from his phone, and I exit the texts and throw it against the pillow where he left it.
Preston’s arms are still wrapped securely around me as he pulls back to stare at me.
And fuck. He looks so beautifully boyish with his bedhead and sleepy face. There’s a softness to him I’ve never witnessed before, something so delicate and barely stitched together that I want to protect.
“What time is it?” The rumble of his hoarse, sleepy voice goes straight to my dick.
He’s a very simple dick—he hears or feels Preston, and he’s ready to roll.
“Around eight thirty,” I say, laying my hand on his waist, the other still stroking his hair.
Preston seems kind of distracted by what I said and doesn’t focus on how my palm is roaming up his body, along the scales of the serpent on his side.
The sheet is somewhere at the foot of the bed after Preston kicked it away, and I just left it there.