CHAPTER 12 #2
I imagine Carey on his knees, his lips swollen from sucking my cock until his jaw aches. He pulls back to lap at the head, his eyes burning up at me; all challenge, no fear. Waiting for me to grab the back of his head and shove him down, to fuck into his mouth like I own it—
But then it’s me at his feet, face pressed to his stomach, my mouth open and desperate against the barbell in his navel. I want to bite it. I want him to grab me by the hair and force my tongue lower. I want him to push me into the depths of the humiliation I’ve spent my whole life running from.
My brain can't pick a goddamn lane.
The only thing it knows is that it wants Carey.
On me.
Near me.
Beneath me.
I need to taste him.
Feel him.
I want to hear him moan.
I want to see him come.
I want it brutal.
I need this ache in my gut to condense into something I can exorcise out of my body, because for the first time in thirty-four years I don’t know if I want to fuck, or be fucked.
I want to pin Carey down and watch him squirm under me.
I want to see that sunshine smile morph into a depraved moan of my name.
But also, I want to feel helpless beneath him.
I want to taste sweat, and spit, and surrender.
I want him over me, grinding down on my face.
The confusion makes my skin buzz like a chemical reaction.
I twist my nipple hard with my other hand just to fight the urge to scream his name.
My pumps are fast and filthy.
The head of my cock is purple, angry, and leaking all over my knuckles.
I piston into my fist.
My balls are high, and tight.
I see Carey straddling my lap, arms around my neck.
I’m throbbing—right at the edge.
I stare into the mirror, jaw clenched, watching the muscles in my neck and chest tense as I stroke so hard my vision blurs.
I think of his voice; that low, obscenely faux naive tone he slips into when he starts talking sexually at the shop.
“Is this what you want, Tek?” I can hear him, clear as if he was pressed against my fucking ear. “You want to see me ruin you?”
“Yes,” I beg, trying to lean in.
But then he pulls away, spits in my face, calls me a filthy old man—and I choke on how much I want it to be true.
I want him to ruin me.
I want him to wring me out like a rag and throw me away.
The first spasm hits, my knees nearly giving out.
Then I hear my mother’s voice echoing through the floorboards.
I fight to keep standing, hand locked tight as I come with the force of my inflated ego; ribbons of white streaking up the side of the basin.
I can’t breathe…
For a long time I just stand, hunched over, my lungs desperate for air like I’ve run a marathon.
I study my face in the mirror, trying to memorize the look of disgust and regret so I never do this again.
But even as I wash my hands and wipe down the sink I know it’s a fucking lie.
I’m already too far gone. This desire I have for him will continue to fester under the surface, just deep enough that he doesn’t know, because no one can know.
It would destroy everything I’ve built. My business, my closest friendship, and the already strained relationship with my parents.
“You’re a fucking mess,” I whisper, and my reflection agrees.
When I finally make it out of the bathroom the den is empty.
The lights are on, but there’s no sign of him.
I follow the sound of voices upstairs and find my mother pouring out a row of soju shots on the kitchen bench with Carey perched on the granite counter beside her.
His arm is around her shoulders, his head lolling into her neck as he laughs in time with her cackle like they’re best friends.
Like she wouldn’t slap me clear across the face for treating an elder of mine—especially one I just met—the exact same way.
But she always treated Eden like her favorite son, so why would his brother be any different?
My father has a stool pulled up on the far side of the island.
Between them the Uno cards are fanned out.
A fresh coaster and paper napkin are positioned in front of four of the six kitchen stools, and my mother places a shot glass onto each of them.
Her flower-print Hanbok has been replaced with a black Michael Kors tracksuit, and her hair is down.
She looks ten years younger like this. Softer. Less formal.
“Tek-ah,” she laughs. “Are you going to play, or are you worried that Carey will beat you at this, too?”
“I thought we were playing downstairs?”
“Carey said you left him, and he came up stairs. Then your abeoji showed his face too, so now we are playing here.”
My eyes meet Carey’s and he looks at me with a glint that tells me he knows exactly what I was just doing. Reaching below his t-shirt, he scratches his stomach, and I know it’s a targeted attack.
Sliding down from beside my mother, he walks slowly to the stool between my father and I so he has to pass me, his eyes still locked on mine, his smile holding a fake innocence like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth.
But I remember all the suggestive things he’s been saying to me for the past two weeks, then there’s a flash of him wearing the same smile, his face splattered in my cum—like a glitch—then it flickers away.
I quickly take a seat.
My mother gathers up the deck and deals, fast as a machine. The snap-snap-snap of the cards gives me something to focus on other than Carey’s gaze burning into the side of my head.
The game starts and my mother plays with no mercy, just like she lives her life.
My father shows no emotion. He’s just there on the sidelines to back her up when needed, then he shuts his mouth again.
We’re part way through the third game when thunder rolls so deep and low that the windows groan in their frames. Then, within seconds, there’s a crack so shrewd it cuts through us all.
“Storm’s started,” my mother says without looking up from her hand.
“Blizzard,” I correct her.
She smiles. “So pedantic, Tek-ha.” Then looks at Carey. “You’re lucky you stayed. No one should be driving in this. It’s perfect accident weather."
Carey laughs and says something back, but I’m not listening. My chest is cinched so tight I can barely breathe. Like an elephant is sitting on me, the weight just hangs there.
Flashing lights.
Sirens.
Glass turned to dust all around us.
Two voices crying out. A third silent.
We were so happy until all the sound disappeared and time folded in on itself.
I try to shake it off but the taste of blood and bile fill my mouth.
My hand is shaking but I clench around the shot glass before anyone notices.
Someone calls Uno.
My mother deals another round. “Tek-ah, are you listening?” she asks.
I nod, but my ears are ringing.
Carey nudges my foot under the table. “You good?”
I shoot him a look that says obviously not, but you can’t help.
His head drops, but I’m not his fucking carer.
My life was fucked up long before he ever came into it.