Chapter 16 – Braxton #4
Now that I'm home, lying in my own bed with nothing but the hum of the air conditioner, I can't stop thinking about one particular hole.
Pookie's hole. I check the alarm clock to find that it's a little after four in the morning.
I should be fast asleep right now, having a wet dream or something.
Instead, I'm awake with a full-ass erection poking through the fabric of my boxers and making a fort in the sheets.
I wager that Pookie is most likely awake, too. After all, he's just had a very eventful day.
"I should check on him," I whisper to myself, and as noble as I'd like my intentions to be, there's no denying I have ulterior motives.
Regardless, I throw the covers from my body and climb out of bed, my erection wobbling in my plaid boxers.
I sneak across the hall to find Pookie's door is cracked open, and even though I should know better, I can't bring myself to care.
I push the door open, and the light that filters in through the nightlight in the hall paints a crease over Pookie's face, highlighting his dark eyes that are wide awake.
He doesn't say anything. Doesn't tell me to leave or ask that I come in, so I wait at the door a little longer in an awkward silence.
Just fucking do it.
I exhale a soft release of air and tiptoe inside. He watches me intently until I take a seat on the edge of the bed. "I'm sorry for punching Cameron."
He purses his lips in reserved contemplation before settling on a quiet, "It's okay. He deserved it."
"Yeah, I know." I chuckle and cock my head over my shoulder. "Still, I should have thought about the consequences."
He sits up, the sheets coiled around his waist. "Is that why you came into my room at four in the morning?"
"Yeah," I lie through my teeth, but something tells me he sees right through it. "No."
He shifts sideways, towards the other side of the bed, and pats his hand over the sheets. It's an invitation to join him.
Mission accomplished, I guess. I roll onto my back, taking up half of the bed. I stare up at the ceiling where a fan turns in fast circles, whirring through the awkward silence. I glance at him out of the corner of my eyes and notice a hickey has formed on the side of his neck. Oops.
He lays down on his side, holding up his head with one hand. "What's on your mind?"
I force myself to look away, look at anything but him. I settle on a photo of the beach hung on the wall that's only barely visible through the darkness. The words come up like vomit—pained and jagged. "I'm scared."
"About what?"
"I'm not good at expressing things, so forgive me if this comes out wrong.
" I chew on my bottom lip. Vulnerability is hard.
I've coded my entire existence to avoid it at all costs because it's uncomfortable.
I've fucked my way through life, avoiding feelings.
Still, as I work on the confession that's been brewing for longer than I care to admit, I can't bring myself to look at him.
"I think I have a crush on you, and I'm straight, but when I'm with you, I don't feel very straight. It's like I'm gay for you."
He laughs quietly. "That's not a thing."
I turn to him with a furrowed brow. "A crush?"
"Gay for you isn't a real thing." He rolls his eyes playfully. "You can't just be gay for one person."
"Maybe something else then..."
"Bi or pan, or—"
I let out a huff, cutting him off. Too much talking. Too much vulnerability. Labels suck. Feelings bad. "I don't really want to talk about it."
"Then what do you want to do?"
I swallow nervously, unsure of how to phrase the question I so desperately want to ask. That I need to ask. Fuckkkk.I drag my palms over my face and whisper, "Can you just roll over?"
He gives up with much less of a fight than I expected, immediately turning onto his side with his back to me. I shift onto my side, throw an arm around his chest, and scoot close. And even though I can't hide the raging boner in my boxers, sex isn't what this is about.
I scoot closer still, nudging my hardness against his cheeks and gripping his bare chest tighter. His heart beats erratically in his chest, but as the seconds tick by, it steadies itself.
This feels right. Feels comfortable. If I wasn't thinking so hard about it, I don't think I'd even be processing the fact that I'm spooning with a dude right now. That's the tricky part, though. A mind that doesn't stop turning, doesn't stop thinking. Always running on adrenaline and chaos.
Pookie offers the chance for something quieter.
I close my eyes and breathe against the back of his neck, feeling the weight of sleep approaching. What was impossible in my own bed is now imminent.
And as I drift off to sleep, I think there's no way I'm gay or bi, or whatever. I'm twenty-three years old. I'd know by now. I've surrounded myself with gay men my whole life, and I never once thought, hmmm, let me give that a try.
Until him.
Until Pookster.
And now, I don't know what I believe, but I know I'm not straight.
Who the fuck am I, and what if it isn't Pookie who needs saving?