Except Me
Adrian
16 Years Old
“I’m not feeling well,” Her voice sounds higher than usual. It’s the voice she uses when she’s lying and thinks I don’t know, “I’m just going to call it a night and go to bed. We can see each other at school tomorrow!”
Too high, too cheery.
I’m on my bed, wearing a towel around my waist. I showered when I got home from hockey, but our plans to go to Ronan’s house party have apparently gone out the window, so I didn’t get dressed. My entire body hurts after the endless drills the coach put us through today. I knead my knuckles into my quad, trying to release some of the tension.
“Okay?” she asks.
I sigh, “What am I supposed to say, Claire? You were so excited for this party. I’m excited for the party. Are you sure you’re not feeling up to it?”
“I swear, baby. I’m so tired.”
She doesn’t sound tired. She sounds wound up. I like it when she’s wound up. The thought makes my dick jump, the towel bumping up. A smile spreads across my face.
“You sure? Really sure? Maybe I could come wake you up…” My tone is suggestive, and she lets out that sweet little giggle that drives me crazy.
I can picture her lying on her bed, blonde hair fanned out around her, that bubble gum lip gloss she wears making them extra pouty and sweet, wearing that little silk nighty she wore when she slept here a few weeks ago. My parents went out of town; it was the perfect opportunity to fuck her without the usual need to also silence her. She’s so tiny, and I’d picked her up off the couch whenever I got bored with playing house and wanted to have her again. We’d fucked everywhere; my bed, the sofa, the kitchen table, the pool table, and last but not least, my parents’ bed. It was so fucked up and so fucking hot. She breathes into the receiver of the phone, and I move my hand from my quad to my cock, stroking the length of it.
“I could come over just to tuck you in.” I offer.
She giggles again. G od damn—I love that sound.
“You can’t come here. My mom and aunt are drinking wine downstairs. Plus, I really don’t feel good. I’m getting my period.”
Her voice dropped at the end, similar to how I do it when I call my dad to ask to take a sick day. I make a face, not because her period bothers me; it doesn’t. But because it’s the excuse she uses to get out of sex when she doesn’t want it. I’m not winning tonight, and it eats me alive. I grind my teeth and bite back the urge to fight her harder on this.
“Okay, okay. I hope you feel better. I’ll pick you up for school in the morning.”
The lightness is back in her tone when she replies, “Okay! Love you!”
“Yeah, me too.”
She hangs up without pushing me to say it back— something is definitely up with her.
I drop my phone beside me, my hand still moving up and down my hard dick. I decide to jerk off when my phone rings, and I rush to answer. Maybe she changed her mind.
As soon as I pick it up, I hear the music and noise on the other end. Not Claire. Ronan yells into the phone, “Yo! When are you guys getting here? It’s already getting out of control!”
“We’re not. She’s not feeling well, and I’m not in the mood.”
There is a pause before he laughs.
“Aww, feeling rejected, Libby?”
People in the background laugh, and great—I’ve lost my hard-on.
“Fuck off, Ronan.”
I disconnect the call and stand. My insides churn—the call with Claire, the call from Ronan. Both left me feeling on edge. Add to that how turned on I was while talking to her, and I feel like a hurricane is inside my chest. I pull on some sweatpants and a T-shirt. In the last six months, I’ve put on about 30 lbs of muscle, and my once-loose sweat pants cling to my muscular legs. I turn to my mirror and take in my newly developed body—what a trip. A year ago, I barely tipped the scale to 160 lbs. Today, I’m nearing 200 lbs at the same height. My chest is broad; my shoulders are wide. My sweat pants sit low on my hips, displaying that v shape that Claire loses her mind over. My dick, mostly soft now, is visible through the gray sweats.
My stomach growls, and what better way to deal with not getting fucking laid than to make something to eat. I head out my bedroom door and down the stairs. The house is dark and silent. Dad is at work; Mom is at a friend’s house. I’m heating leftover lasagna when the phone rings again. I reach into my pocket and fish it out, tucking it between my shoulder and ear. The sounds of the party greets me again.
“What?”
“Hey, man.” Ronan sounds… different.
My tone remains flat, “Ronan.”
“So, uh, listen. I don’t know what’s going on…”
What the fuck?
“Okay, so why are you calling me?” My heart rate is accelerating, but I can’t tell him.
“Well…it’s…”
“Ronan, spit it the fuck out. What do you want?”
“Claire is here.”
My head snaps back as if I’ve been hit, and the phone falls from its spot. I fumble to grab it before it slams onto the tile floor and bring it back to my ear.
“Where? What do you mean?”
He hesitates, and it’s all I need. I move out of the kitchen, taking the stairs two at a time, reaching my room in under 15 seconds. I am pulling on jeans and a sweater when he finally answers.
“I don’t know, man. She walked in with Jordan Ellis about five minutes ago.”
I can hear it in his voice; he hates being the one to tell me this, but he likely also knows he’s the only person I would believe.
“Ellis.” I repeat, “Guy from the Wolverines?”
“Yeah, man. Him. He walked in with his arm around her shoulders, looking like he fuckin’ owned the place. If he wasn’t with her, I would have thrown him out, but I figured you should see this first hand.”
My feet move on their own accord, and I drop into the driver seat of my old pickup before I realize I’ve even left the house.
“I’m on my way,” I grind out, “And Ronan, do not tell a fucking soul I’m coming there.”
I hang up and slam my fist into the dash of my truck.
“FUCK!”
The drive typically takes twenty minutes, but I make it in about nine, sliding it onto the front lawn. I don’t even think I turn it off before I storm for the front door. A small group of people smoking outside step back, except some fucking guy on the basketball team who steps forward and slams his hand on my shoulder
“Liberty! Didn’t think we were seeing you tonight.”
He’s being friendly, but all I want is destruction, and I shove him backward, his back hitting the railing before he flies over it, landing in the garden Ronan’s mother works on daily. I open the door, ignoring the curses that rain at me from the group.
I shoulder through the crowd of people, a mix of kids from school and our rival school, Weston Heights. The music is loud; the base vibrates my chest. I scan the room, looking for her, but she’s not there. More people call my name as I stalk down the hall toward the kitchen in the back of the house, where I find Ronan sitting on the counter, beer in hand. His eyes shift to mine—he looks guilty. He hops down and walks to me, holding out a beer.
I’m breathing hard; my chest feels full of dynamite. The heat of rage runs through every inch of me. Ronan shakes his head, but only enough for me to see it.
“Do not tear my fuckin’ house down, man. My parents will kill me.”
I lift the beer to my lips, draining it.
“Where is she?”
I’m going to kill someone.
His gaze shifts around the room before returning to me.
“I haven’t seen her since they walked in. Come on, let’s look around.”
He walks away, leading me toward the basement. Anyone who turns to say ‘hi’ immediately turns away when they see the look on my face. I’m significantly bigger than most of the other kids at school. Taller, stronger, and more muscular. Most of them have seen me fight on the ice and know what I can do. When we reach the basement, I push past Ronan and then through the group, opening doors and slamming them closed when she’s not there. After the last door, I turn to go upstairs when Ronan grabs me, forcing me to look his way.
“Stop. You gotta calm the fuck down, man.”
I shove him, using both hands on his chest, as hard as I can. He flies back into the crowd that’s stopped talking and is watching us with shock on their faces. I don’t wait for him to get his bearings. I’m not here to fight my best friend. I move for the stairs, then continue to the second set, heading for the top floor.
Every door up here is closed. I start for Ronan’s bedroom but think better of it, pivoting and walking to his parents’ bedroom door. I push it open and see the outline of two people in it. I squint in the dark, but it’s hard to see. I see the guy and spot his hair; it’s short and shaved on the sides. That’s not him; Ellis has a mop of hockey hair. I step back and start to close the door when I hear it. I hear that breathy giggle that drives me fucking wild. I freeze, straining my ears and hearing her soft moans. My eyes adjust to the dark, and I see her legs around his waist, her fingers tangled in his hair as he hammers into her with no particular finesse or rhythm.
My body goes ice cold and fiery all at once. My hand, still on the doorknob, tightens before I step inside and slowly push it closed. At the last second, I throw my weight into it, letting it slam, and Claire shrieks. I hear a shuffle on the bed. I can make out the movement, but I see it all when he reaches over and turns on the nightstand lamp.
Stepping toward the bed, I see the clothes littered across the floor. Her skirt, his jeans, his T-shirt, and my fucking team hoodie that she begged and pleaded with me to have. My eyes snap up; her eyes are wide, her hair is wild, her cheeks are flushed, and her perfect little tits rise and fall with her rapid breaths.
“Adrian, it’s not what you think…” She pleads.
The statement brings a smile to my lips.
“Not what I think, Claire?” My tone is so even. “And what do you think I think is happening here?”
Jordan is still over her, twisted around to look at me.
“Jordan, you think you could get your dick out of my fucking girlfriend for me?”
I watch him shift, watch her react to the feeling of him pulling out of her. Jordan slides off the bed, grabs his pants, and pulls them on, leaving them undone. Then, he grabs his T-shirt and pulls it over his head. My eyes shift, looking at how his shirt sits bunched against the open zipper on his pants, then back up to his face.
“Listen, man, I didn’t—”
Before he can lie to me about knowing she is my fucking girl, I slam my fist into the side of his head with everything I have. The music downstairs still pounds, but nothing could drown out the sound. I’ll give him credit; he doesn’t immediately go down. He doesn’t try to fight back. He tries to talk his way out of this. It’s no use; that first hit opened the floodgates, and I slam my fists into his face and chest again and again.
That’s when the screaming starts. It sounds like it’s miles away, and I keep swinging. When Jordan hits the ground, I stoop down, fisting his shirt and lifting his head to keep feeding him savage blows.
I register the door behind me opening, and kick it closed, dropping Jordan to spin around and lock it. The screaming continues.
Jordan’s face is covered in blood when I look back at him, but it doesn’t ease the overwhelming desire to drive my fist into him. I feel a weight on my back, light slaps to the back of my head, and more screaming. I throw my elbow back, attempting to get what feels like a kitten off of me, hearing the thud of it hitting the dresser. The screaming quiets into sobs, and the bedroom door is kicked open.
Strong hands pull me backward, and I try to knock whoever it is away again, but I’m spun. The force has me dropping Jordan, who flops back onto the carpet, not moving. My vision has blurred, and as it slowly clears, I see my best friend staring at me. He’s never looked so angry.
“Someone call 911!” The crying voice screams.
I turn to look over my shoulder, and Claire is on her knees beside Jordan, makeup and tears mixed with the blood seeping out of her nose.
Fuck, did I do that?
I look at Jordan. His face is unrecognizable. The gravity of the situation hits me as the party rushes into the room. People crowd over him, and someone is on the phone with 911, answering questions about his condition. I look back at Ronan. His expression has shifted from fury to terror. That look…that look turns my stomach. I hear the sirens seconds before someone downstairs screams, “COPS!”
It’s pandemonium in the house.
Everyone runs except Jordan, Claire, and Ronan.
And me.
Is he dead?
Claire shakes him violently, and he suddenly turns, coughing blood all over the already destroyed carpet.
There’s a ringing in my ears, and Ronan grabs me by my shoulders.
“Adrian, you gotta run!” His eyes are full of panic, but I can’t move.
He’s still begging me to run when the cops run into the room, three of them. They look around; they see the guy on the ground, barely alive. They see Claire on her knees, sobbing, bleeding.
They see me, completely untouched, the only damage on my hands, which are swollen, cut, and covered in blood that’s not my own.
Fuck.
I register the shit storm too late. It’s too late to run. Too late to calm down. Too late to apologize.
“ON THE GROUND, NOW!” Each of them screams.
Claire turns, crying harder.
I hold her stare as they force me down, painfully pulling my arms behind me and cuffing me. They don’t need to be so rough; I’m not fighting.
I don’t have any fight left in me.