Chapter 8
DREW
It’s almost noon, and here I am, barricaded in my room with the comforter pulled up to my chin like some kid who’s convinced there’s a monster in the closet. Except there is no boogeyman out to get me, just everyone’s batshit assumptions about my nonexistent relationship with Jackson Monroe.
My phone screen burns my retinas as I scroll through post after post.
Spotted: Drew Larney and Jackson Monroe holding hands outside The Brew! When’s the wedding???
“We weren’t holding hands, you delusional fucks. He was pulling me away from the crowd.”
Can confirm they’re together! Saw them spooning at the Polar Bear Plunge!
“Preventing hypothermia is not spooning!”
Drew hasn’t hooked up with anyone in weeks. Jackson Monroe must have a tight ass. Or a big dick. Or maybe even both!
“I hooked up with someone three days ago, but go off, I guess,” I grumble.
Each one makes my eyes twitch harder. Not because I hate the idea of dating Jackson—fuck, that’s the problem. I hate it because every single one of these posts describes exactly what I want but can’t have. They’re writing fanfiction about my deepest desires and calling it news.
My phone pings with another notification. Someone’s tagged me in a photo compilation titled “Drackson Through the Years.” It’s a slideshow of every moment when Jackson and I were within five feet of each other, set to “Thinking Out Loud” by Ed Sheeran. Kill me now.
The worst part? By studying these photos, I get why people think we’re together.
There’s one from last year’s Halloween party where I’m sucking on his finger, and he has a boner beneath his toga.
There’s another from a hockey game where he’s flushed—from yelling, obviously.
One from last month shows us laughing at something.
My hand is on his shoulder, except the way I’m touching him is less bro pat and more I want to climb you like a tree.
My phone vibrates on the nightstand. The caller ID makes my stomach drop. Patrick. My baby brother.
Fuck.
I consider letting it go to voicemail, but he’ll keep calling. The kid’s more persistent than a finger on my prostate.
“What’s up, little man?” I answer, aiming for casual and probably overshooting into manic.
“Don’t ‘little man’ me, asshole.” Patrick’s voice cracks on ‘asshole’ because puberty’s still kicking his ass. “Is it true?”
“Is what true?”
“You know what! It’s all over the internet. My brother is allegedly dating Jackson Monroe, the quarterback at BSU.”
“Since when do you follow BSU gossip pages?”
“Since my big brother became half of the most talked-about couple on campus!” He pauses. “So? Is it true? Did you finally stop slutting around and settle down?”
I choke on air. “Excuse me? Slutting around?”
“Oh, please. I’m not stupid, Drew. I know you’ve been with half of New England. Remember when you brought that guy home for Thanksgiving, and he kept calling you ‘Daddy’ at dinner? Mom almost had a stroke.”
Heat floods my face. That was a mistake. Calvin had promised to behave, then made bedroom eyes at me over the mashed potatoes while my mother tried to pretend she was anywhere else.
“First of all, I have not been with half of New England. More like…a third. Second, Jackson and I aren’t dating.”
“But you want to be.”
The certainty in his voice makes me freeze. “What?”
“Dude, you talk about him constantly. It’s always ‘Jackson this’ and ‘Jackson that’ and ‘Jackson’s hilarious’ and ‘Jackson scored a touchdown.’”
Fuck. Have I really been that obvious?
“We’re friends,” I insist, even though the words taste sour. “Everyone’s got it wrong.”
Patrick snorts. “Right. And I’m sure sharing a blanket with him had nothing to do with wanting to get up close and personal with his dick.”
“We were cold!”
“You were cuddling.”
“It was survival!”
“It was gay.”
“I am gay! Well, bi, but—that’s not the point!”
“You’re right. The point is you want him, and you’re too chicken to do anything about it.” Patrick’s voice goes soft, which is somehow worse than the teasing. “Drew, why don’t you tell him?”
Because Jackson’s straight. Because I don’t do feelings. Because the last time I let someone matter, Dad walked out, Mom broke down, and I had to hold everything together with my tiny six-year-old hands.
“It’s complicated,” I say instead.
“You’re complicated. And exhausting. He seems pretty simple. Also, he’s hot.”
“You’re fifteen!”
“I have eyes! And the internet is saying the same thing!”
“I’m hanging up now.”
“Drew, wait—” His voice catches. “Are you happy?”
The question gives me pause. Am I happy? I’m Drew fucking Larney. I’m always happy. I’m the life of every party, the guy with the easy smile and easier conquests. Happy is my brand.
But Patrick knows better. He’s seen me at three in the morning, home for Christmas break, staring at my phone and waiting for Jackson to text back. He’s caught me rewatching Jackson’s game highlights with an expression that borders on lovesick puppy.
“I’m fine,” I lie.
“That’s not what I asked.”
“Patrick—”
“Just think about it, okay? Maybe everyone assuming you’re together is the universe giving you a push.”
“The universe can fuck off.”
He laughs. “Love you too, bro. And Drew? For what it’s worth, I think you guys would be good together.”
He hangs up before I can respond, leaving me alone with my thoughts and a phone full of notifications about a relationship that’s not true.
I toss the harbinger of doom aside and flop back on my bed. My dick presses uncomfortably against my jeans because, unfortunately, thinking about Jackson for any extended period makes me harder than steel.
Maybe jerking off will help. Clear my head, release some tension. I can think about anyone except Jackson Monroe and his stupid, perfect face and his stupid, perfect ass in a bathing suit.
I unbutton my jeans and pull up Pornhub on my laptop. My usual search history appears—a mix of everything, because I’m an equal-opportunity horndog. But today, my traitorous fingers type “football jock” into the search bar.
The first video that loads features a man who bears no resemblance to Jackson. Wrong hair, wrong build, wrong everything. But when he turns around, and the camera focuses on his ass in tight football pants, I realize that my hand is not enough.
My eyes dart around my bedroom, landing on my dresser.
A thrill runs through me as I haul myself off my bed and shuffle across the room, my jeans around my ankles threatening to trip me.
My erect cock wags with the movement, leaving a trail of precome like a horny Hansel, but I can’t bring myself to care.
I yank open my dresser drawer and scrounge around until I find what I’m looking for—my other best friend, the one I call Purple D. Because it is, in fact, a purple dildo. Eight inches of silicone salvation that has gotten me through more lonely nights than I care to admit.
“Hey there, buddy,” I mutter, grabbing the bottle of lube from the same drawer. “Missed you.”
I hurry back to my bed, throw my legs up in the air, and promptly coat my fingers in lube.
The cool gel makes me shiver as I reach down, circling my entrance before pressing one finger inside.
Then two. I scissor them, stretching myself open with practiced efficiency.
My cock throbs against my stomach, demanding attention I refuse to give it yet.
Once I’m ready, I slather Purple D in lube until he’s glistening. I line him up and press.
The first inch inside makes me gasp at the intrusion. Purple D is thick and long—the way I imagine Jackson’s would be.
Fuck. No. Bad Drew. We’re not thinking about Jackson.
But my brain has other plans. As I push in another inch, all I can see is Jackson’s face, his brown eyes dark with want, his lips parted as he watches me take him.
My fingers slip on the end of the dildo, hitting the button at the base.
The vibration kicks in at full power.
“FUCK!”
The scream rips out of me as Purple D buzzes directly against my prostate. Every nerve ending in my body ignites. My back arches off the bed, and I grab fistfuls of sheets in order to anchor myself to this plane of existence.
Suddenly, all my rules fly out the window. Don’t think about Jackson. Don’t imagine his hands on your hips. Don’t picture him whispering filthy things in your ear while he pounds into you. All gone until the next time.
Wait…next time?
“Jackson,” I moan.
The vibrations pulse through me in relentless waves, and now I’m thinking about his cock stretching me open. His fingers digging into my thighs. His breath hot against my neck as he tells me how good I feel, how tight, how perfect.
I thrust Purple D deeper, chasing the fantasy. My free hand wraps around my cock, stroking in time with each push. Precome leaks over my fingers, making everything slick and messy and fucking incredible.
“Fuck, oh my God, holy hell—”
The pressure builds at the base of my spine. My balls draw up tight. I’m so close, teetering on the edge of oblivion, and all I can think about is Jackson’s stupid smile and stupid laugh and stupid beautiful face.
I spin the dildo inside me, and it makes my toes curl in my fuzzy socks. “Ohhhh…yessss…my goddddd.”
My body sinks into the bed as I get more turned on. I know I sound like a porn star, but I’m too far gone to be embarrassed.
In my mind, Jackson stands before me, our eyes meeting from across the room. There’s heat there—the same want within me reflected. He doesn’t look away, doesn’t crack a joke to break the tension. Instead, he stands there, allowing me to take in his naked body. He gets hard under my gaze.
He crooks a finger at me while his other hand takes hold of his erection and lazily strokes it. That’s all it takes—seeing him pleasure himself for my benefit—to have me jamming Purple D all the way inside me and hurtling over the edge of great bliss.
“Jackson—oh, shit! You’re gonna…I think I’m—fuck!” My eyes widen in surprise as the most intense orgasm of my life tears through my body. “Oh my God!” I shout as the first rope of cum shoots out at me faster than the speed of light.
I dodge it at the last second and hear the faint splat as it lands on my pillow. More quickly follows, coating my neck and chest.
“Ungh…fuck…holy…it’s…can’t…ack!” I can’t string a sentence together because my brain has melted.
I don’t know whether to laugh or cry about being completely covered in my spunk. All I can do is enjoy the ride. And what a fucking amazing one it is. I breathe heavily, blissed out and enjoying the warmest tingle that radiates from the tip of my cock to the tips of my toes.
My hand continues to slide up and down my shaft at a rapid pace, hoping to make the sensation last forever.
My eyes roll back as Jackson’s lopsided smile appears before me, a vision from God.
I buck into my fist and freeze with my back arched off the bed and legs shaking so hard that the bedframe rattles. “Ohhh, shittt,” I slur out.
I can’t come anymore, but I think I’m experiencing a second orgasm. A mind orgasm.
Or maybe it’s me meeting my maker. Either way, when I finally come to my senses, I’m sweating profusely.
Purple D keeps vibrating, sending jolts of overstimulation through my sensitive prostate until I finally manage to fumble for the off button.
My hand is sticky, my pillowcase is ruined, and I’ve officially jerked off while fucking myself with a purple dildo and thinking about Jackson. I can’t let this become a habit. It will only lead to disaster.
Silence. Heavy breathing. The distant sound of someone in the Hockey House yelling about missing pizza.
I grab a towel from the floor and clean myself up the best I can. My shirt goes right into the trash; no amount of Tide is going to get the smell of semen out of that one. I grimace at the bedsheet where an ass sweat stain has formed. And then I grin because, well, it’s big.
A few minutes later, as I’m wiping off my dildo and wondering if I can make it downstairs to clean it properly without being caught, the post-orgasm clarity hits. And, oh, is it a motherfucker.
My phone buzzes. Another notification about “Drackson.” Another reminder that everyone sees what I’ve been trying to hide, even from myself.
Patrick’s wrong. The universe isn’t giving me a push. It’s playing a cruel joke by dangling what I want most right in front of me in the form of a campus-wide delusion.
Because here’s the truth I can’t say out loud: I’m in love with Jackson Monroe. Not crushing. Not lusting. Fucking in love. The real deal, butterflies-in-my-stomach, can’t-stop-thinking-about-him, would-give-up-casual-sex-forever-if-he-asked kind of love.
And he’ll never feel the same way.