Gabe
Isit on my bed in nothing but loose, flannel boxers and a camo baseball cap, shading an image of Mechagodzilla on my phone. Jason left and didn’t come back, and the way he looked at me in the backyard has plagued my mind all day.
It was so sweet—like before.
Then he snapped out of it and ran away like a chicken-shit asshole.
The image I’m using as inspiration is something I found while scrolling on my phone, which is currently propped up by a pillow, giving me the perfect view of it. I wanted to draw a robot—something made of metal—because that’s what I need: a steel shell to protect me now that Jason is back.
As I add the line details to its scorpion-like tail, I hear the front door screech open.
Jason stumbles into the trailer, nearly falling over, but catches himself before actually tumbling.
Shit.
I can already tell he’s drunk. How drunk, I don’t know, but from the way he’s walking and his red face, I can definitely tell he’s been drinking.
Our eyes meet.
It’s a clear view from him to me, and neither of us can look away.
He’s a mess—his clothes are dirty and his hair’s disheveled. He probably stole a forty from somewhere and just drank in the woods all day.
That was something he used to do when we were kids.
I drop the pencil and pad as he approaches and brace myself for the attack.
This is drunk Jason, which is a different kind of chaos.
He stops just outside the bedroom and looks at me with an unreadable expression.
The trailer lights highlight his cheekbones, still raw from the fight we had.
He licks his lips as he watches me, and I get flashbacks from the night before.
His eyes trail down to the sketch pad resting on my lap. “Can I see?” he asks.
I tense up, afraid he’ll say something shitty about it just to be a dick and almost give him the middle finger, but I stop myself.
Because I look at his face.
Even though he’s drunk, I can see the boy who used to love watching me draw. There was something so intimate about it—feeling his gaze locked on me while I worked. The appreciation he’d show once I was done would melt my whole heart.
I can’t help it.
I slowly reveal the metal monster I’ve spent the last two hours drawing.
He cocks his head to the side, studying it for a few beats before saying, “Sick.”
My cheeks are red.
I know it.
They’re too hot not to be.
God, I hate myself.
He said my drawing is sick, and I’m blushing.
Blushing.
I avert my eyes, flipping the pad and pretending like I’m studying the drawing. It’s pretty much done; I don’t need to add anything, but I do anyway. I start adding little unnecessary details because if I make eye contact with him again, I don’t know what I’ll do.
Jason takes a seat at the foot of the bed.
I don’t look.
I can’t.
I can feel him watching me, studying my every move.
Just like before.
And it feels so good.
My skin tingles, feeling his gaze locked on me, and the warmth on my cheeks slowly covers my whole body.
I feel like I’m on fire.
I glance at him again, and he’s still watching me while biting his lower lip.
Oh god. This is it. Do it, Gabe.
I slowly bend my right leg, creating an angle that makes the boxers fall, revealing my thigh.
My hands are shaky.
The lines are sloppy, and my breathing is heavy.
I glance at him again.
He’s not looking at my face or my hands scribbling on this sketch pad.
He stares directly at my exposed thigh.
The lights are warm, which makes his skin look like honey. He’s tan—always has been, whereas I’m white as a ghost no matter what. If I spend an hour in the sun, I just fry.
That warm feeling from before erupts. I’m not just on fire anymore—
I’m a fucking phoenix.
He’s so close—
I stop drawing, and my hands loosen, allowing the pad and pencil to fall beside me as I stare at him.
Our eyes meet.
His face cracks, and he takes a deep breath.
My arms fall to the side. It’s a subtle gesture, but he catches the movement.
I’m lying on the bed, half-naked, and my arms are beside me, exposing myself.
No—opening myself up to him.
My leg is bent, and the bottom of my asscheek peeks out.
His Adam's apple bobs as his eyes drink me in.
There’s a shiner perfectly positioned right on his cheekbone, and the light catches it.
He needs ice. I could get it for him.
I could take care of him.
I gasp because he moves—crawling up the bed toward me until we’re just inches apart.
He draws a little closer, his lips right against my ear, and whispers, “Put your ass back in your pants, slut.”
My breath hitches, and a cold, stabbing feeling cuts open my heart. The hurt morphs into rage as my trembling arm swings at him, but he backs away just in time.
“I ain’t staying here much longer. When I get a job, I’m out. So, put your fucking clothes on and steer clear of me.”
I growl—the only sound I can make at this moment—grab a glass of water sitting on my bedside table, and throw it at him. He ducks, and it shatters against the wall.
Then he charges out of the room, slamming the door behind him.
Fuck him!
Whatever I thought might happen between us is done.
I despise that motherfucker.