Chapter 4
ISAK
It’s Saturday night, after my trip to the tattoo parlor, and my shoulder is bandaged to protect my brand-new ink, although it’s not sore.
I keep trying to look at it in the mirror, but all I see is a blobby mess through the clear bandage, so I need to trust and be patient.
But I’ve got a perma-grin from how cool it will be: a monster escaping from my skin, bright eyes showing in the dark ink.
Lachlan’s room is lit up, and his curtains are pulled back. My bedroom window faces his, and I can see in there like it’s a television set just for me. A bed with dark blue sheets is pressed up against blue striped wallpaper.
A figure moves, and of course it’s my hot jock neighbor. I wonder why he’s home tonight. No party to go to?
He rips off his shirt, and oh, shit, now I’m staring at a half-naked Lachlan Doyle.
He’s got a pissed off look on his face—one I never see at school.
He’s so beautiful and always the life of the party.
But every time he smiles, it stirs something inside me, because he’s doing his best to prove to the world he’s okay when he’s really not. How could he be?
He can’t hide from me, though, and that’s probably why he doesn’t talk to me, even though we used to be best friends. Nowadays, lifting our chins in acknowledgment is the extent of our communication.
I miss him.
Lachlan shakes his head like he’s ridding his brain of thoughts and then stretches, making his abs pop. Does he even realize he’s an absolute show?
I pull out the vape I got from Zanita’s older brother and suck on it.
The first time I tried it, I felt nothing.
The second time, I felt sick. I was about to throw it away, but the third time I used it, I felt like I’d been sitting in a warm bath and then stood up too quickly.
Trippy. I like it, even though it’s bad for me.
Same as watching him. I blush and scratch at my cheeks. It’s wrong for me to get my own little strip show. I should turn away. That would be the right thing to do.
Instead, I sit in the dark, kind of buzzed, watching my hot neighbor run his hand down his face, then to his chest, and then lower. Into his royal blue athletic shorts. Shit. My own dick twitches, as if he were caressing me. Blood rushes down there.
Lachlan’s expression morphs into a small smile. He walks over to the desk and picks up his phone, then scrolls with one hand while his other moves up and down over his shorts, and oh, shit, he’s looking for porn. I know he is.
My hand drifts to my own jeans.
This is bad. I’m watching him without his consent.
Except … if he really wanted to be private, he’d close his curtains. Right?
Lachlan must find something he wants to watch, because he sets the phone up against his desk lamp. He leans an elbow on the desk, eyes glued to his phone, while his other hand is stroking his cock.
A cock I desperately want to see.
He shifts, shoving his pants down to his thighs, and though the angle keeps me from getting full frontal, I drink in the sight of his bare hip, his thigh, and his arm moving.
God bless America.
He’s got some kind of ink on his left hip, along the V-line of muscle.
Did he get a tattoo for his birthday, too? Or did he have it already? Maybe his mom consented before he turned eighteen, because it doesn’t look like it has a bandage on it. Maybe he and I are more alike than appearances would suggest.
Come on, sexy. Won’t you turn this way? Let me see.
My hand is gripping, pulling, fondling, and my own cock responds.
He jerks harder, faster. What kind of porn does Lachlan Doyle watch? He could get any girl to go to bed with him. What gets him off?
I hastily shove my own jeans down and match my strokes to his. Faster, faster—fuck, he’s hot.
I know it’s bad of me to watch him. Which only makes me like it even more.
He bows his head, and oh, god, I want to hold that ass of his. It’s so sexy to see the muscle flex as he comes into his hand.
I come, too, hot wetness pulsing over my fingers as I peak seconds after him.
His head stays down, his chest heaving as he recovers from his high.
Fuck, I’m a goddamned pervert.
And I love every second of it.
I just wish this weren’t as close as I’ll ever get to being with Lachlan.
“Annnd, touchdown, Royce High!” the announcer calls over the loudspeaker the following Friday night.
The crowd below us surges to its feet, screaming and yelling, stomping on the metal bleachers.
The members of the marching band, wearing red polo shirts, black pants, and black baseball caps, start playing the same victory song they play every time we score—which has been three times so far tonight.
Cheerleaders in pristine white-and-red uniforms race down to the end zone and make a complicated formation to, I guess, raise drama for the extra point.
There’s less than a minute before halftime.
I grin at Zanita. “Fuck yes.”
“I’m beginning to understand why we’ve been to every home game this year,” the Queen of Darkness says as she sticks her talons in a bag of kettle corn.
She and I are sitting at the very top of the stands, far away from all the families and students down below.
I’m slouching, my heavy Dr. Martens propped on the seat next to me as I sip a Coke.
Just her and me tonight; our other friends couldn’t come because of Hamlet.
She’s in it, too, of course, but she isn’t in the scenes they’re rehearsing.
Royce High Theater should charge Isak Hammond admission to perform and pay people to watch him act.
I blow out a noisy breath. “Oh? Why is that?”
The kicker launches the ball high between the uprights. “And the extra point is gooood!” the announcer yells.
“You have a crush on someone,” Zanita singsongs. It’s a warm night, and she’s wearing a thin black hoodie, a black lace skirt, and purple platform boots. Her eyes are more heavily lined than mine.
I feign ignorance. “Who?”
“The quarterback.”
I scoff. “Do not.”
I so do. Bubbles pop along my spine just thinking about him.
Zanita gives me a look like she knows I’m lying. “You can’t stop staring at him.”
“How do you know which player I’m looking at? Maybe I want a cheerleader.”
She flicks her eyes up. “Even when you were dating other people, you had a crush on him. You’ve been into him the entire time I’ve known you.”
Even longer. “Well, he’s straight, so it’s not like I should get my hopes up.”
“How do you know he’s straight?” Zanita asks, curious little Goth Elmo that she is. “Maybe he’s secretly pining after you.”
That makes me snort my soda up my nose. Ow. “Have you ever seen him with a guy?”
“No. But that doesn’t mean anything.”
“With him, yeah, it does. All those jocks are unbearably homophobic. There’s no way he’d ever be with a guy. Plus, you know who his uncle is, with his horrible two-faced politics.”
Zanita hums. “I dunno. I bet it’s not all those jocks. Lach’s very flirtatious with everyone. Maybe he’s not as straight as you think.”
He’s definitely as straight as I think.
I huff. “Can we change the subject?”
“Sure! Sorry, Isak. I just want you to get together with your crush.” I give her an exasperated look. “Okay, okay, changing the subject.” She casts around. “So, um, are you looking forward to the senior retreat?”
“Five whole days that we don’t have to go to class? I’m good with that.”
“Yeah, me, too. What are you bringing to wear? Do you know where we’ll be sleeping?”
“I talked with Jody. Their brother went last year. I guess there are a bunch of cabins, and they put four people in each. As for clothing, I’m bringing half my wardrobe.”
“It sounds like fun.” Zanita munches more kettle corn.
“Yeah, I guess,” I say. “I’d like it better if only people I liked were coming. Or if we could pick our roommates.”
“Maybe we can.”
I shake my head. “I don’t think that’s the way it works. But it’d be nice.”
In our school there are cliques, like probably everywhere else. The jocks hang with the jocks. The smart kids stick together. The band kids spend their time with other band kids, and the stoners hang with the stoners.
My group? We’re drama kids—though for me it’s in name only. I haven’t performed since the second semester of sophomore year.
Isak’s acting skills are worse than a trained dog in a pet food commercial.
But since everyone I know is involved in the productions, I help out as crew and end up going to all the performances.
You won’t get me onstage again, though. That’s one thing to count on.
At the end of the night, we’ve won by forty points. We all stand up to leave, but my eyes seek out the quarterback. Of course.
Sophia, one of the cheerleaders, races over to Lachlan as he goes to the bench to gather his gear.
He takes his helmet off, and she wraps her arms around his waist in a hug.
He’s covered with grass stains and still has on all his padding, but she doesn’t seem to mind.
His messy, sweaty golden hair contrasts with her neat, brunette ponytail anchored with a huge red-and-white bow.
I keep looking at his ass in those tight white football pants.
Why the fuck does he have to be straight? Why can’t I have a crush on someone who’d like me back?
She takes his face in both of her hands, and now they’re kissing.
My teeth clench, and I cross my arms in front of my chest.
Are they dating? I didn’t think he was going out with anyone. But with that PDA, it’s like he doesn’t even care who sees.
There’s a burning sensation in my chest, and I kick at the bleachers, then stomp out, following Zanita.
I know I’m being ridiculous, but Lachlan is mine. He’s been mine since we were ten years old. Earlier, even.
I only wish he knew that, too.