41. Dylan
FORTY-ONE
DYLAN
I fucked up.
I fucked up so bad.
I fucked up epically.
I wait by the fire the morning after, tense and somber, like a man waiting for his execution.
The canvas of the life raft rustles when Adrian climbs out of it. My whole body tenses even more.
Cards on the table, if this had happened while we were in civilization, I would’ve already booked my ticket to somewhere far, far away.
Maybe entered witness protection if I could’ve swung it.
I might’ve had to witness a mob boss offing somebody first to get that ball rolling, but I would’ve put in the effort to make that happen for sure.
But we’re on a motherfucking island with no other people around. Where the fuck am I gonna go here? The answer is nowhere. So I’m forced to face the music.
This is the “win stupid prizes” part of our “play stupid games” bonanza.
Adrian sits down next to me.
Neither of us says anything, and it. Is. Awkward. As. Fuck.
I’ve never wanted to turn back time as much as I do right now. What the fuck was I thinking?
Well, I mean, I know what I was thinking.
Fuck this shit, I’ll take anything I can get. Let the world burn.
That about sums it up.
Now I’m standing on top of a heap of ashes and just sort of kind of thinking that wasn’t the best way to go about things. The bright light of the morning has sobered me up real good, real fast.
Adrian fidgets with the hem of his T-shirt and refuses to look at me.
Eventually, since he’s clearly the more mature one of our fucked up duo, he clears his throat.
“Breakfast?” he says hoarsely.
Okay.
So we’re ignoring the huge, sparkling elephant in the room.
I should be relieved.
That’s the outcome I was sort of hoping for.
Only I’m immediately more annoyed than relieved.
Why exactly am I annoyed?
Fuck knows.
I don’t want to discuss what happened. But just pretending it never happened also feels like a no-go.
I’m even more fucked up than I thought.
“I’m good,” I say tightly. “Not hungry. You should eat, though.”
“We should both eat,” Adrian says, admittedly reasonably. “It’s not like either of us can afford to lose calories here.”
His voice is very even, and that annoys me too.
“I’m not going to starve to death from a few skipped coconuts,” I grumble, very much unreasonably.
“It’s a bit of a slippery slope, that one.”
I snap my head around, fully intending to glare. It doesn’t work out quite as well as I hoped. Turns out I have issues with the way his white T-shirt, the fabric all soft and worn from a year of continuous use, clings to his wide shoulders. I can see the outline of his chest through it.
Yeah, I have issues with it.
My issue is that it makes my dick hard.
Goddamn it!
Talk about not learning my lesson.
“You’re pissed,” he says.
“I’m not.” Turns out vehemently denying it through gritted teeth isn’t very convincing.
He quirks his brow at me, still nothing but cool, calm, and collected to my annoyed, terrified, and fucked up.
But that’s Adrian, isn’t it? Always has been. Cool under pressure. Easygoing. Calm.
Not last night, though .
The little whisper in my head makes my heartbeat pick up.
No, not last night.
Last night he was desperate.
Last night, I got to hear what he sounds like when he’s panting and turned on. The image of him coming is seared into my brain.
He moves and there’s a slight wince.
And only then do I remember.
“How’s your shoulder?” I mutter, and my cheeks heat. Leave it to me to wrestle a sling off somebody with a recently dislocated shoulder because I want in their pants.
“It’s fine,” he says.
“You don’t have to downplay it. How the fuck are we supposed to figure out if it’s healing correctly if you hide when it hurts?”
He sends me an exasperated look. “I will tell you. Can you please calm down? I’m not dying.”
“Look who’s all cavalier about death all of a sudden,” I mutter.
He glares at me. “Really?”
My chest goes hot from pure, unadulterated shame, and I desperately want to take those words back, but there’s no way for me to do that.
He gets up and storms away from me.
“Adrian,” I call after him.
“Fuck you!” he snaps without turning around.
I blow out a long breath. I’m shaky and still overheating with shame and more miserable than I’ve ever been.
It’s good that he’s angry at me, though.
That way he’ll stay away from me.
Because I don’t think I can do the same. After having a taste of him, I want him more than ever.